Voegelin Recollected: Conversations on a Life

Voegelin Recollected

7

The Eric Voegelin Institute Series in Political Philosophy The Constitutionalism of American States, edited by George E. Connor and Christopher W. Hammons The American Way of Peace: An Interpretation, by Jan Prybyla Faith and Political Philosophy: The Correspondence between Leo Strauss and Eric Voegelin, 1934-1964, edited by Peter Emberley and Barry Cooper New Political Religions, or an Analysis of Modern Terrorism, by Barry Cooper Art and Intellect in the Philosophy of Étienne Gilson, by Francesca Aran Murphy Robert B. Heilman and Eric Voegelin: A Friendship in Letters, 1944-1984, edited by Charles R. Embry Voegelin, Schelling, and the Philosophy of Historical Existence, by Jerry Day Transcendence and History: The Search for Ultimacy from Ancient Societies to Postmodernity, by Glenn Hughes Eros, Wisdom, and Silence: Plato’s Erotic Dialogues, by James M. Rhodes The Narrow Path of Freedom and Other Essays, by Eugene Davidson Hans Jonas: The Integrity of Thinking, by David J. Levy A Government of Laws: Political Theory, Religion, and the American Founding, by Ellis Sandoz Augustine and Politics as Longing in the World, by John von Heyking Lonergan and the Philosophy of Historical Existence, by Thomas J. McPartland

The Eric Voegelin Institute Series in Political Philosophy: Studies in Religion and Politics Christian Metaphysics and Neoplatonism, by Albert Camus; translated with an introduction by Ronald D. Srigley Voegelin and the Problem of Christian Political Order, by Jeffrey C. Herndon Republicanism, Religion, and the Soul of America, by Ellis Sandoz Michael Oakeshott on Religion, Aesthetics, and Politics, by Elizabeth Campbell Corey Jesus and the Gospel Movement: Not Afraid to Be Partners, by William Thompson-Uberuaga The Religious Foundations of Francis Bacon’s Thought, by Stephen A. McKnight

Voegelin Recollected Conversations on a Life

7 E D I T E D B Y B A R RY C O O P E R A N D J O D I B RU H N

Copyright ©2008 by The Curators of the University of Missouri University of Missouri Press, Columbia, Missouri 65201 Printed and bound in the United States of America All rights reserved 5 4 3 2 1 12 11 10 09 08 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Voegelin recollected : conversations on a life / edited by Barry Cooper and Jodi Bruhn. p. cm. — (Eric Voegelin Institute series in political philosophy) Summary: “Personal recollections of Eric Voegelin by his wife, his closest friends, and his first-generation students reveal new aspects of the philosopher's personality. Reflections of people such as Paul Caringella, Bruno Schlesinger, and Heinz Barazon capture Voegelin's greatness and shortcomings alike and shed new light on his philosophical quest for truth”—Provided by publisher. Includes index. ISBN 978-0-8262-1765-3 (alk. paper) 1. Voegelin, Eric, 1901–1985—Political and social views. I. Cooper, Barry, 1943– II. Bruhn, Jodi. JC263.V632V64 2008 320.092—dc22 [B] 2007037347

This paper meets the requirements of the American National Standard for Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, Z39.48, 1984. Jacket Designer: Kristie Lee Text Designer: Stephanie Foley Typesetter: FoleyDesign Printer and binder: Thomson-Shore, Inc. Typeface: Minion Publication of this book has been assisted by a contribution from the Eric Voegelin Institute, which gratefully acknowledges the generous support provided for the series by the Earhart Foundation and the Sidney Richards Moore Memorial Fund.

Contents

7 Acknowledgments vii

1.

Introduction 1

2.

Palo Alto 11

3. Munich 4.

Notre Dame 119

5.

Baton Rouge 160

6. 7.

58

Vienna 220

Enigma: Variations 254 Chronology 279 Contributors 283 Index 293

v

Acknowledgments

7

F

irst, thanks must go to the many people identified in the appendix who agreed to discuss their recollections of Voegelin with either us or John von Heyking, whom we pressed into service on a few occasions. We owe a special thanks to Brian Boyer, who generously shared the transcript of his interview with Hiawatha Moore. Apologies must go to those who, though brimming with memories of Voegelin, were overlooked or not contacted. Our excuse—if it is an excuse—is “ignorance, sheer ignorance,” as Dr. Johnson said on a similar occasion. A different mode of thanks must be extended to the Earhart Foundation, the German Academic Exchange Service (DAAD), and the Social Science and Humanities Research Council of Canada (SSHRCC), for support they provided beginning in . The later support of James B. C. Doak was essential to the project’s completion. Carolyn Andres, Lawna Hurl, and Mirja van Herk transcribed taped conversations in English into several thousand pages of transcript. Sean Steel made an initial attempt at organizing them by topic. Jodi Cockerill, as she then was, translated and transcribed the German interviews she had conducted. Mirja van Herk processed several versions of the edited results, and Julie Schorfheide undertook the final copyediting. Hedda Herwig, Fritz Wagner, Robert Chihak, Klaus Vondung, and Jo Scurria generously shared their personal photographs of Voegelin. Without the cooperation and help of everyone involved, this collection could not have been produced. Without the encouragement of Bev Jarrett, it would not have seen the light of day. vii

Voegelin Recollected

7

1 Introduction

7

A

rguably the most important political scientist of the twentieth century, Eric Voegelin (–) wrote some fifteen books and nearly a hundred articles in his lifetime. He taught and lectured at several of the great universities of the world and corresponded with the outstanding minds of his generation. Voegelin was honored with two Festschriften, one on his sixtieth birthday and a second twenty years later. The Eric Voegelin Society, founded in , meets annually in conjunction with the American Political Science Association. The Eric Voegelin Institute has been established at Louisiana State University, where he taught for many years; and the University of Missouri Press soon will have published his Collected Works in thirty-four volumes. Yet Voegelin’s influence extends well beyond the borders of North America. In Europe, the Eric-Voegelin-Archiv has been established along the lines of the Max-Weber-Archiv at the University of Munich. The Voegelin-Bibliothek is housed at the University of Erlangen; the Center for Voegelin Studies is located at the University of Manchester. Over the past decade, the secondary literature on Voegelin has grown at a tremendous pace. The first systematic, classified bibliography of Voegelin’s work, published in  by the late Geoffrey Price, contained seventy pages of secondary and tertiary literature on Voegelin and his work; a second collection some six years later nearly doubled the number of entries. With the publication of the Collected Works, this industrial production—of uneven quality, to be sure—is unlikely to diminish. Yet one category of analysis is bound to disappear relatively soon. Owing to the transitoriness of human 1

2

Voegelin Recollected

life, as distinct from the longevity of texts, the direct recollection of Voegelin and his life necessarily fades with the passing years. The present volume seeks to capture such recollection on the page while this is still possible. A few reminiscences of Voegelin already exist. Observing that “each text is the death-mask of its creation,” former student and assistant Tilo Schabert set about describing the workshop where Voegelin’s texts were constructed. Schabert recounts how Voegelin would receive with glee a new citation or angrily respond to an otherwise useful volume that had been marred by its ideological language; he discusses Voegelin’s daily routine, his daily production of words and what he meant them to say, as well as the place of Lissy Voegelin in his life and work. A decade earlier, Robert Heilman, Voegelin’s friend for more than forty years, wrote his “reminiscences” of Voegelin for the Southern Review. He recalled Eric and Lissy Voegelin’s adjustment to life in Baton Rouge; Voegelin’s formality, friendliness, prodigious intellectual power; and the resentment he provoked among the less intelligent academics with whom he was compelled to socialize. Finally, Heilman recalled his own role as a “native informant” whose task it was to explain to Voegelin the style of academic philosophy and literature and history in American universities. Both Schabert the German pupil and Heilman the American colleague—indeed, most of the people whose recollections are assembled here—would have agreed with an observation Heilman made in a letter to Cooper of September , : “it’s only once in a lifetime that one has a sense of having close contact with a person of whom one unhesitatingly thinks as ‘great’.” This attitude emerges even from those who had serious disagreements with Voegelin. It is, moreover, the chief—or at least the most respectable—reason for compiling a collection of this kind. As will be evident soon enough, the collection is not hagiography so much as a Greek remembrance of a mortal, of a life-story that emerges from biological life to distinguish itself by its erga, its works and deeds. The greatness Heilman noted stems from Voegelin’s works and deeds, the almost nonperishable traces of which he left behind. Heraclitus distinguishes between the truly human, “the best,” who prove themselves as the best by preferring immortal glory among mortals to mortal things (B). The others are content with filling themselves like cattle. As Voegelin himself remarked of this 1. Tilo Schabert, “El Taller de Eric Voegelin,” Revista de Estudios Politicos 131 (2006): 5-21. 2. Robert Heilman, “Eric Voegelin: Reminiscences,” Southern Review 32 (1996): 147-65. See also Hans Maier, “Eric Voegelin and German Political Science,” trans. and ed. Jodi Cockerill, Review of Politics 62, no. 4 (2000): 701-25.

Introduction

3

passage, life becomes an “arena for struggle” between those who seek to understand reality—“the best”—and those who do not, even when they are taught about it (B). Voegelin referred again to Heraclitus in a letter to Heilman dated June , . He wrote from Munich to explain his most recent publication, Anamnesis. As Schabert has observed, this letter presented not only a description and commentary on the finished ergon but also a “self-portrait of Eric Voegelin at work.” Because it bears on the justification for the present project, it is worth considering at some length. He wrote the book, Voegelin said, because no one in Germany had read his books in English and because, as a professor of political science and the director of a political science institute, “I had to publish a book in German sometime as a sort of public obligation.” In addition, he had to work through a number of problems before he could complete Order and History, the fourth volume of which would not appear for another eight years. And “most important, I wanted to experiment with a new literary form in philosophy”—one, Voegelin explained, that would be appropriate to expressing his philosophy of consciousness. In describing the new form he sought, Voegelin again referred to Heraclitus, “the first thinker to identify philosophy as an exploration of the psyche,” or consciousness. That exploratory mode of exegesis, which is personal without being arbitrarily subjective or idiosyncratic, has remained central to philosophy ever since—although it has been “overlaid” by a secondary  and derivative mode “communicating the results” of the exploration. The results have tended toward the literary form of dogmatic summary, which then could be systematized and exposited discursively in light of the “given” (and thus unexamined) premises. “Original exegesis of consciousness,” by contrast, demands direct observation and a meditative, personal “tracing of the structure of the psyche.” For its part, the psyche’s structure is not a given to be described by means of propositions, but a process of the psyche itself that has to find its language symbols as it proceeds. And 3. See Voegelin, The Collected Works of Eric Voegelin, vol. 15, Order and History, vol. II, The World of the Polis, ed. Athanasious Moulakis (Columbia: University of Missouri Press, 2000), 309-10. 4. Voegelin, Anamnesis: Zur Theorie der Geschichte und Politik (Munich: Piper, 1966). The letter is reproduced in Robert B. Heilman and Eric Voegelin: A Friendship in Letters, 1944-1984, ed. Charles R. Embry with a foreword by Champlin B. Heilman (Columbia: University of Missouri Press, 2004), 240-44. Subsequent quotations in the text will be from this source. 5. Michael Polanyi’s Personal Knowledge: Towards a Post-Critical Philosophy (New York: Harper, 1964) provides the most thorough analysis of the distinction between personal knowledge and subjective opinion.

4

Voegelin Recollected finally, the self-interpretation of consciousness cannot be done once for all, but is a process in the life-time of a human being. From these peculiarities stem the literary problems.

Voegelin went on to describe how various philosophers solved or grappled with the “literary problems” and how his own approach was complicated by the “debris of opaque symbols” obstructing the recovering or recollecting of “the human condition revealing itself in consciousness.” The task of recovery, thus, was historical in the sense that the actual configuration of “debris” would be contingent upon the accidental contents of the “opaque symbols” and dogmas. But it would not simply be historical: any concrete recovery could not simply reappropriate Heraclitian aphorisms, for instance, without thereby becoming abstracted from the actual or “direct” exploration of consciousness. Voegelin then explained the structure of the book, Anamnesis, as consisting of two meditative explorations—one at the beginning of the book dating from  and the second at the end dating from . In between were eight historical studies of political order that would lead to, or culminate in, the closing meditative explorations. “Hence,” he concluded, the whole book is held together by a double movement of empiricism: (1) the movement that runs from the historical phenomena of order to the structure of consciousness in which they originate; and (2) the movement that runs from the analysis of consciousness to the phenomena of order inasmuch as the structure of consciousness is the instrument of interpretation for the historical phenomena.

Following his “In Memoriam Alfred Schütz” were three chapters in the first section called “Recollections.” Voegelin characterized these chapters as a “meditative unity.” The central text in terms of chronology was “Anamnesis,” consisting of twenty recollections that, Voegelin said, amount to his intellectual autobiography to age ten. But why would such an autobiography be warranted? Voegelin had justified the project much earlier, in a letter he wrote to the editor of the Sewanee Review in  responding to a request that he publish something in that journal:

6. Voegelin, Anamnesis, 17. An English version is available in The Collected Works of Eric Voegelin, vol. 6, Anamnesis: On the Theory of History and Politics, trans. M. J. Hanak, ed. David Walsh (Columbia: University of Missouri Press, 2002), 41.

Introduction

5

The crazy thing originated in a correspondence with a friend [i.e., Alfred Schütz] on the question whether the Cartesian type of meditation is a legitimate approach to a philosophy of the mind. I denied the legitimacy on the ground that the life of spirit and intellect is historical in the strict sense, and that the determinants of mature philosophical speculation have to be sought in the mythical formation of the mind in experiences of early youth. In order to prove my point, I made anamnetic experiments on myself and collected twenty-odd such early experiences which determined my later metaphysical attitudes. The thing is of objective importance; the autobiographical element is of little relevance. There is, however, one hitch to it. The myths of childhood are fragile, and I used for the description the only language instrument which I master myself and that is German. I would not dare to translate these pieces into English myself. But if you have somebody at hand who knows a little German and a lot of English, you can have it for translation and publication.7

Palmer did not publish the collection, and thus “Anamnesis” did not see the light of day until it was published twenty years later. The meditative unity about which Voegelin wrote concerned above all the persistence of the fragile myths of childhood into the mature philosophical explorations of consciousness. This is why the strictly autobiographical elements were accidental compared to Voegelin’s chief concern at the time— namely, the structure of consciousness. Yet, the balance between what is relevant and what is trivial in terms of “objective importance” depends at least in part on the analyst’s concern. This brings us to our present one. We know Voegelin’s concern in Anamnesis; thus, we also know why he placed or found importance strictly in analyzing the structure of consciousness as it had been illustrated by the autobiographical elements. But if one’s concern were precisely those elements—necessarily now biographical rather than autobiographical—then the relative weight of the constituents might change. The way Voegelin appeared to people who were no longer children (and so not particularly enchanted by the fragile myths of childhood) though also not perhaps fully mature philosophers (at least if Voegelin’s “greatness” embodied the measure of a spoudaios, a mature person) might have a significance of its own. That, at least, was the somewhat inchoate hypothesis we reached after reexamining 7. Voegelin to J. E. Palmer, November 5, 1946, in Hoover Institution, Voegelin Papers, box 36, folder 8.

6

Voegelin Recollected

the first part of Anamnesis in light of the “Voegelin Recollected” project, the results of which are recorded in the present volume. The project’s genesis was shot through with contingencies so diffuse that their sum could hardly be called a hypothesis at all. In the spring of , Barry Cooper and his wife, Denise Guichon, visited Lissy Voegelin at the home she had shared with Eric on Sonoma Terrace just off the Stanford campus. As they drove back to San Francisco, reflecting on the pleasant conversation just concluded, Denise submitted that Cooper should compile a series of interviews that would focus on what she called Voegelin’s “human side.” In July of the same year, the University of Manchester hosted a conference on Voegelin’s work. At the conclusion of the conference, participants were treated to an elegant reception in the English country garden of Professor and Mrs. Michael Gibbons. Several people began exchanging stories of Voegelin as a teacher in both Germany and America. “In America he was a European professor, a Mandarin. In Germany he was an American professor,” said Jürgen Gebhardt, who saw him in both places. Schabert said he once overheard Voegelin remark, “I steal from you just as you plagiarize me”—an early and provocative version of the kind of collaboration Schabert described in “Voegelin’s Workshop.” Stories were told of Voegelin’s family, of how his mother died at his feet and his father was a Nazi supporter and of their final angry meeting. Paul Caringella told of his death and of Lissy Voegelin’s fond remonstrance: “Eric, you are watching yourself die.” Such stories, certainly, dealt with Voegelin’s “human side.” Schabert then said that it would be good to have them written down, and Gebhardt indicated that Cooper should see to it. Thanks initially to the resources of the Earhart Foundation, SSHRCC, and DAAD, it was possible to collect interviews on tape and transcribe them into a form suitable for publication. As noted above Sean Steel, then a graduate student at the University of Calgary, made an initial attempt to organize the material. The project then lay fallow as other books were concluded and a few final interviews were conducted. From beginning to end, the enterprise remained something of an experiment. It reminded one of an image Seth Bernadete applied to thinking: akin to walking on an empty beach with the tide coming in, it was trackless ahead  and soon would be trackless behind. Once the people who knew Voegelin 8. Several of the papers were published in Politics, Order, and History: Essays on the Work of Eric Voegelin, ed. Glenn Hughes, Stephen A. McKnight, and Geoffrey L. Price (Sheffield: Academic Press, 2001). 9. Seth Bernadete, Encounters and Reflections: Conversations with Seth Bernadete, ed. Ronna Burger (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2002), x.

Introduction

7

were dead, the data would be gone irretrievably. Although such considerations did not reduce the urgency of the project, they did also did not ameliorate another consideration entirely: that the completed project might turn out not to be very interesting or important in any case. In terms of philosophy and even of its history, for example, it does not matter that Hegel had great disdain for chicory in his coffee. Yet this information does say something about Hegel’s personality. Stories similar in kind go back to the time of the Greeks. It is revealing of his personality, for example, that Plato is identified chiefly with Apollo rather than Dionysius or that Aristotle was said to be a Macedonian spy. Such tales are not meaningless, then; although no one could maintain that they are substitutes for studying the Laws or the Politics. Likewise, stories of Voegelin are at most ancillae to the study of his work; but to the extent they might prove revealing of his personality, of the consciousness that created that work, they become worth collecting and recording. In the course of conducting the interviews, Cooper mentioned the matter of Hegel and chicory to Paul Caringella, Voegelin’s last assistant during his  time in Palo Alto, California. Asked if he had anything similar to report, Caringella gave this response: I have this picture of Eric with a Christmas goose and a smile on his face. And that is the nearest equivalent, I think, of Hegel’s chicory. Or that he and Lissy liked to put sugar on top of their ice cream. He really had a sweet tooth. Every year Lissy would cook the goose, but he would carve it. He would go into the kitchen and bring it out, hold it up and display it to the guests with a big smile on his face. I have a technical question about the carving of the goose. There are several methods of carving a goose. One would be the standard American way of carving off the first slice of the breast, which has a great deal of skin on it so that later slices have less. Or the alternative is to slice it down the backbone and remove the whole breast and then cut it across the grain. Can you recall how he did it? I had the impression that he found a more Platonic methodos. I think it was described in the Phaedrus. So I think actually he cut it into smaller pieces first, at the joints. I have always followed that arduous way myself. But people could go on for hours with such stories and speculations about Eric. Such questions are endless; you said you have pages of them.

10. Italics are the interviewer’s contributions to the conversation. The other speakers are identified by name.

8

Voegelin Recollected Well, I have lists of topics. Wow. How many topics? I don’t know. Thousands. Read them really fast so that I can get a good stream of consciousness going. Stock market. Religious experiences. His relationship to Hegel. His view of scriptures in history and revelation. What about Plato and Aristotle? I could go on and on . . .

The next day Cooper spoke with Lissy Voegelin together with Caringella. L. Voegelin: Why are you interviewing people? Caringella: Yes, why are you doing this, Barry? L. Voegelin: I thought I knew that. It is because you are writing a book. But why would one want to write a book? That was the question, and the answer . . . is not easy to give. There are several different answers. Some of them are, I think, more significant than others. The most significant reason is to see how Voegelin thought and reflected and transmitted that to people who knew him. Everyone can read what he wrote; that’s not a problem. What is a problem is that the people who knew him directly have something to say that is not unimportant. Some of it may be trivial, like Hegel’s chicory, but that may be important too. It’s not as important as his work, but it is important because of the concreteness of specific occasions when you have an insight into something, and you get excited about it. For instance, the chapter on Vico in The History of Political Ideas was one of the turning points in his study of the history of political ideas. That was important for Voegelin. You could tell because he wrote about Vico in a way that was not just about the text, The New Science. It was not just about Vico’s words. To me, it was much warmer. It was as if it was Eric who had absorbed Vico and now was saying, “This is my experience; this is the way I see him.” And that, I think, apart from the more trivial things about his daily life, is important for science, for scholarship. But Voegelin indicated he thought otherwise. Caringella: He did. A few months before he died—we didn’t know that he was going to die, but only that something was wrong with him— he said, “When I am going to die, here are the files, all the research and things. Put them all here in the fireplace. Burn them and throw them away. They are of no interest to anybody. What is interesting about me,

Introduction

9

if there ever was anything interesting, is in my works.” And not in his letters—that’s what he meant. Why do you think he said that? L. Voegelin: I don’t know. That was Eric. Because it’s startling.

This was only one of the first startling stories the project brought to light and recorded.

7 Before turning to the stories themselves, a few words on the book’s organization. Because it includes a wide range of people expressing their memories of Voegelin, the subject matter is in some respects broad. That said, the number of people is still manageable, and their focus has been on personal encounters with him. The original thought was to organize the responses to questions by topic. Sean Steel was the first to put the interviews into form according to Voegelin’s work habits, his lecturing style, his favorite pastry, and so on. Yet this proved cumbersome and disjointed, not the least because the interviews were conversations rather than the administration of a survey. After considerable discussion, we hit upon the present order. Although we did not realize it then, Ellis Sandoz later indicated that the book’s order follows one of Voegelin’s anamnetic experiments. In number , Voegelin recalled “The Book of Realities” as having been his favorite schoolbook: apart from reading, arithmetic, and religion this book contained the entire curriculum of the first four grades of elementary school. Of great importance was “a most beautiful history,” the history of Prussia, mostly of the Prussian kings. “The most remarkable feature of this Prussian history was that it moved backward,” from William II into the past. As the stories receded, moving from William II toward Frederick the Great, the stature of the earlier monarchs grew until “way back there loomed the gigantic shadow of a prince who  because of his excellent qualities was named ‘The Bear.’” Moving backward from California through to the looming, gigantic shadow of Vienna, we adopted the model of Prussian history. That model has served the material well. As the recollections unfold, the reminiscences take on more starkly dramatic hues. Moving from dinner parties among blossoming camellia bushes at the Palo Alto villa through the 11. Voegelin, Anamnesis, 95.

10

Voegelin Recollected

spirited lecture-series on Hitler at the University of Munich, through amiable lunches at Notre Dame’s South Dining Hall and congenial library meetings at Louisiana State University, the tone of the memories darkens with the emigration experience and the Vienna period. Lissy Voegelin recalls having been taunted as a refugee and frightened by the great hurricane that swept up the New York coast on their arrival in ; she also recounts the story of the Gestapo arriving at the doorstep in Vienna. Bruno Schlesinger and Heinz Barazon recollect the brilliant young Privatdozent who possessed both the requisite courage and the biting irony to bait the National Socialist students in his Vienna lecture courses. As a constant throughout the chapters, key elements of Voegelin’s personality repeatedly emerge. Over and again, we encounter a philosopher of surprising optimism, personal integrity, and humility combined with an acute perception of the significance of his work. We witness the persistent and partly self-imposed communication problems, the impatience with administrative duties; at the same time, we see the fundamental respect for prudent political actors and public servants, and a genuine affection not only for his colleagues and best students, but also for diligent former secretaries and empathetic attending nurses. In our view, the various, sometimes conflicting, glimpses of this human being afforded by these recollections provide the ultimate justification for this book. We know now what we only surmised from the beginning: Voegelin was interesting, as a representative human being no less than as a thinker—to the extent it is even possible to dissociate the two. Yet there are also lighter reasons for publishing the results of this project. These are given by Plato near the end of the Phaedrus, where he notes that the record of a conversation is a way to accumulate a treasure of reminders of ourselves to guard against forgetfulness for others who follow that same path. That, at least, is our final apology for the present volume.

2 Palo Alto

7

Did he ever speak with you about how one ought to think about death, about what to make of the importance of death in the lives of philosophers? Thomas Hollweck: When he used the Platonic practice of death as the defi-

nition of philosophy—as he always did, regularly—he meant it in rather complicated terms. Here are the old immortalizing parts: that’s basically what life is. So, when you don’t believe in an afterlife—which he did not, you know—then the actual dying part at the end is a summary of the immortalizing that takes place. You know, “das Todeslicht.” That’s how he talked about it. We did not talk about it when he was really close to death, although I visited him just a few weeks before, and he was very weak. He was very resigned. We read the Upanishads quite a bit. Jürgen Gebhardt: Paul Caringella told me this story once. I don’t know whether he told you, but there was this Irish girl in Manchester who talked to Lissy. You know how these Irish always talk about faith and so on. And she asked Lissy whether she thought there was an afterlife or would have one or something like that. And Lissy, in her typical way, responded, “For heaven’s sake, no! I was married to Eric Voegelin!” That was the answer. It was the first time that I got from her an answer how he—or they, I should say—felt about it. That’s Socrates: we do not know, and there is no sense being afraid of it. “Immortality” is a symbol, and that’s all we know about it.

When did you first meet Eric Voegelin? 11

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Voegelin Recollected

Hiawatha Moore: I started helping Mr. Voegelin and Mrs. Voegelin when Mr.

Voegelin was pretty ill. Mrs. Voegelin was unable to do all of her shopping, so one of our friends asked me to come over and see if I could help. That was in . He was really down when I first came. I came in and helped him, mostly with his baths. I helped him get his clothes together and get them on. His socks and whatever were a little bit difficult for him at that time. How weak was he at that point, physically? Moore: He never did get really weak-weak. A couple of days before he passed, he was down in the study writing or reading. It was like the last couple of days, even at that minute, he was constantly reading or writing something all the time.

Would he ever talk about what he was working on? Moore: Well, it takes two people to keep up a conversation, and I’m not very good at asking questions or keeping conversation going, so most times we’d just talk about how he felt and how he looked. And I always admired him, and I’d always tell him how much better he looked. He was quite a guy—really a nice person to be around. He would always pat me and say, “Thank you, you’re so good.” He was very nice, very likeable. He didn’t do an awful lot of saying this, that, and the other, but he showed within himself that he appreciated people. You could tell from his reactions when you said or did something. And he was always pleasant, always pleasant.

What were the circumstances at the end? Moore: I’m not dead sure what the doctor had diagnosed, but I do know that

at the time he left here he was struggling for breath—breathing very, very hard. And every day when I would leave, I would tell Mrs. Voegelin, “Call me if you want me. Not if you need me, if you want me. I don’t care what time of day or what time of night.” That particular night, evidently, he had been sick all night long—sicker than usual. But she struggled with him by herself and didn’t call me until five or five-thirty in the morning. And it took me not too long to get over. When I got here, he was really breathing heavy. I sat down on the bed, put my arms across him, and sat there saying a prayer within myself for him. And all of a sudden, something said, “You know that little Bible, when you cleaned up? Take that.” I reached over and got this little Bible—just opened it with-

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out knowing what I was opening it to. That’s when I began to read to him. What did you open the Bible to? Moore: I opened the Bible to the th number of the Psalms. And I began to read and he was still breathing heavy. I read the seventeenth verse, which reads: “The troubles of my heart are enlarged. Oh, bring me out of my distress.” And I felt him make this one last, heavy breath. When I finished reading that, I realized that I wasn’t shaking; the bed wasn’t shaking, and he wasn’t breathing. Then I turned, only to find that he had just taken his last breath and I was sitting with my arms across him. I got up, went and called Mrs. Voegelin. She came immediately. That was about seven-thirty in the morning. That was the way he went. It was like he was waiting for permission to leave, you know? Like his heart was heavy, he was just stressed, but “How do I give this up?” And when I read it, it was like someone gave him permission. He accepted it and went on. It was a touching kind of thing. Ellis Sandoz: After he had been in the hospital with his terminal illness—he died of congestive heart failure—he decided he wanted to come home. I called over to wish him a happy birthday on January rd, . He died on the th, you know. So, I called to ask how he was and to wish him a happy birthday, and I got Lissy. “Well, how’s Professor Voegelin?” “Oh, he’s sitting around here like an old dead cow!” We talked for a while, and I said, “Why don’t you encourage him to dictate and tape record it if he doesn’t feel like writing?” Of course we didn’t know if he was going to die or recover or what he was going to do. During his last months, he was working on “Quod Deus Diciter” and his health was failing. He didn’t really feel like writing. He was going around the house saying, “At last, I understand Christianity.” Lissy said, “Yes, but Eric, if you don’t write it down, you’re going to take it with you!” Obviously, he had something on his mind, and he did want to do it. He was still dictating this fragment, “Quod Deus Dicitur,” the day before he died, January . He died around six o’clock in the morning January th. He was still correcting it, whispering it to Caringella, who was taking things down. So, we didn’t quite get there, so to speak. Paul Caringella: Lissy was chiding Eric for paying attention to his dying. “Du alter Gauner, you’re watching yourself die!” And he kind of just smiled and nodded. “And why would you want to do that? Because you’re not going to be able to tell anyone!” That seems to have been one of the reasons why he didn’t want to take any drugs: he wanted his mind to be clear. He would have taken some if he had been in terrible pain, but fortunately he was spared that.

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Lissy thinks more and more that he had a good death; he didn’t have to linger and waste away. She also felt that “Quod Deus Dicitur” was a kind of suicidal act on Eric’s part: that he knew that the energy he expended would hasten the end. But you might as well hasten the end through that means as through any other. He might as well die with his boots on—in action. How did you come to be and work with Voegelin in those last years? Caringella: Around  I suggested to him that he needed an assistant. He

hadn’t had an assistant in about five or six years. He said, “Oh no, no, I’ve got everything ready for Volume V; it will just take me another year to write Volume V.” After which he could turn to what he really loved. He wanted to do a book called The Drama of Humanity, which would bring archaeological, even Paleolithic, material into a book that would have included a lot of pictures—a big picture book of the story of humanity and its symbolisms of order. I was one of the people who said, “No, we need you to do Order and History!” He said, “Won’t you let me do something that I enjoy, at least?” He said this to a number of people—that after Volume V he would be allowed to do something that finally gave him some joy. So, in , he said no, he didn’t need an assistant. Then a year later, he was struck down by God. He got very ill in Ann Arbor, Michigan—a kind of Legionnaires’ Disease that infected all kinds of his internal organs. So, he came back to California and collapsed and was in the hospital. Mrs. Voegelin came by to tell me that the doctors had just left when she went in. And Eric looked at her, and in answer to her question about what the doctors had found, he said, “They have examined me from head to toe and they find me totally septic.” He said that with a smile on his face: he had achieved a state of perfection in one respect, at least! Lissy knew from that point on that he would get better. And he did. After he got out of the hospital, in late  or early , again I said, “You know, you need an assistant.”“Of course I do!” He knew now that he was much weaker, so I took advantage of his weakness when he said, “But who?” And I said, “Well, I would be very interested in being your assistant!” He then said that the Earhart Foundation had approached him and asked, “Is there anything we can do to help you finish Order and History?” He answered that paying for an assistant would be just the thing. So, in , I started working with him as his assistant. I worked with him the last six years of his life as he worked on Volume V of Order and History. He wrote the first sentence of the book on April Fools Day, .

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“Volume Zero” And the other book? Did he do any work on The Drama of Humanity with you? Caringella: Well, the only place where we all got involved in archeological

site work or looking at sites was very strange, because there was so little time and energy Eric was able to put into it. In fact, he picked up some bug that diminished the capacity of his lungs and his heart, so he really had to be treated when we got home. We left Rome a week early. It was a Sunday flight when we flew out, and [we] had to change planes in Boston. He was practically unconscious—not comatose, but really unconscious for the last ten or twelve hours. We went to the hospital right after we got back here in October. But on this trip, we went to the Holy Land in October of ’. Every afternoon, he would have enough energy to take a little field trip—like to Jericho. He couldn’t go up the hill to Jericho, or to Quram, so I would go look at the things and report to him. I went up to the top of Massada, where the Israelites made their Alamo, their last stand. He was very impressed by the countryside and especially the lack of amenities and the lack of irrigation in the landscape, by the starkness of the desert and the fortress-like quality of Jerusalem amid the solitude and harshness of the desert. Whether it was the Mount of Temptations or not, he said that it was a place where the devil could appear for a wrestling match. That let him see the harshness of much of what is in the Gospels. I think he especially enjoyed seeing the museum collections and talking to the young curators. He was especially interested in what some young person was doing at the forefront of discovery. A couple of young archaeologists really excited him with what they had found, and they in turn were excited to find this old fellow who was interested and had some intelligent questions to ask them! In the 1970s, Eric was very interested in Stone Age artifacts. Lissy Voegelin: Well, he talked about it a lot, and he showed me what to look

at. Sometimes we were on our hands and knees. It was not really a holiday. Really, you had to crawl around and around, you know? But Eric did it. What was his response to these artifacts? L. Voegelin: He thought they were beautiful, but he was really searching them

for clues or something like that. For history and order in history. There was a lecture somewhere, and he explained very clearly in one hour what he was

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really after. What he meant is, man, wherever he was, started something; it did not have to come from Egypt or from somewhere else. This is contrary to a lot of theories that say civilizations started somewhere and then spread. I was thinking about one of his comments about old Aristotle loving myth more than he did when he was younger. I was wondering whether something like that might be similar to Eric when he was older. I guess what puzzles me about his interest in the Stone Age materials in later life is whether they had a special appeal for him. Perhaps when he was older, he was able to see more in them than he could have when he was younger. To spend so much time and with such enthusiasm, he seems to have been much more enthusiastic about the Stone Age material than he was about the texts. L. Voegelin: Yes, that’s right! David Walsh: I first met Voegelin in September of . Voegelin was coming to Ireland for a working vacation, to visit the Neolithic monuments at Newgrange. We had heard about Voegelin but had read very little. Brendan Purcell was the first to make contact with him. He arranged to meet with him and accompany him. One thing led to another, and we brought him around to see some of those monuments. So, that was the first contact.

What was it like to travel around Ireland with Voegelin? Walsh: Well, for me it was rather an unusual experience. I had just finished an undergraduate degree in philosophy, and I didn’t think philosophers would have any interest in looking at Neolithic monuments and interpreting cosmological symbols and so on. It seemed a little unusual, to say the least! When you have been discussing Bertrand Russell and Wittgenstein and R. J. Hare, and things like this, two-and-a-half-thousand-year-old graves don’t seem to connect up immediately! But Voegelin was able to take these things and interpret them. They had a context, and he knew what it was. They weren’t just tourist items that you wander around and gaze at and don’t really know what they mean. That was the first thing that was really impressive about him: he clearly had a context for looking at the world. We fired all kinds of ignorant questions at him, which basically declared our complete lack of serious reading of what he was about. It was probably a little difficult for him. But to his credit, he really didn’t betray any hint of impatience with the whole thing. The funniest thing about that first meeting was that, after we had been talking all day and Voegelin had been referring to the divine and the divine

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ground and so on, I said, “Well, look, Professor Voegelin: don’t you have to prove the existence of God first?” I’ll never forget his response. He just turned around and said, “I don’t have to prove that at all!” And that was the end of it! It was a given of experience. You don’t prove experience, you prove other things in relation to experience! So, that was the kind of astonishing side of Voegelin: there were certain questions like that, ones you assumed were highly debatable, that he dismissed as pseudo-questions. Klaus Vondung: We took our trip into the Nevada desert in . It was the

year when Volume IV of Order and History came out, and Eric was very interested in prehistory at that time and in megalithic cultures. He took several trips in these years. He went to Turkey and saw these monuments in Çatal Hüyük and went to Malta and saw the megalithic monuments there and then to Ireland. And he was also in contact with a very interesting historian of the prehistoric cultures. Marie König had published a very interesting book criticizing the old view that Neolithic cave paintings were prehistoric “art.” Voegelin, of course, was also absolutely against this conventional view. So, with the assistance of the interpretations of Marie König, he was able to look for preliterate symbolism. He wanted to sustain his theory that the existential problems of human beings—man in society, the cosmos, and his relationship toward God—are always the same and are always expressed in similar symbols, be it in writing or in images. This is why he was interested in prehistoric culture. To a degree, there were speculations among his students that he would, before continuing Order and History Volume V, write a “Volume Zero” on prehistoric times, on megalithic culture. Around then he found out about bristle-cone pines, the oldest living things in the world, that grow in the White Mountains on the border between California and Nevada. By tree-ring dating, one could correct the carbon- method. If I remember correctly, one could prove that megalithic cultures were in fact older than had previously been thought. Anyway, he wanted to see the pines, even though it was a long and tiring trip. The last part was on dirt roads away up the White Mountains. Lissy and Eric always drove big American cars—that is to say, Lissy drove. Voegelin didn’t drive. When we made this trip, I drove. But it was still tiring; it was summer, and very hot, and we had to go eight thousand feet up. We stayed in Bishop in a small motel and then went into the mountains to look at the bristle-cone pines. It was not that spectacular; one had to use one’s imagination standing in front of these shriveled, small pine trees to tell oneself, “Well, this is really three thousand years old.” But he was very, very satisfied.

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Voegelin Recollected

Afterward, by accident, we also discovered Indian petroglyphs. We didn’t know how old they were, but it was very interesting. It was in a remote area, also reached by dirt roads. There was a little canyon with rock walls, and we saw these petroglyphs. I remember how he looked around when we saw them; there was also a normal human side to him. The petroglyphs gave him a certain feeling of awe standing in front of something that was so old. The pines were not man-made, but I expect he had the same feeling when he saw the petroglyphs in Çatal Hüyük or Malta: that perhaps they were trying to express experiences that he had searched for all his life. For five thousand years, these were the same central problems of human existence, the same things he was investigating; there is a connection between people who lived so many, many thousands of years ago and were entirely different in their everyday existence from our lives. But nonetheless, there is a connection, a continuity, and they are in a way brothers and sisters of ours, even though they lived five thousand years ago. This kind of feeling was important for him. Voegelin bought books on all of these things and did a lot of reading and research. Everyone who talked to him was fascinated and hoped in fact that he would write a book, be it “Volume Zero” or not, on the prehistoric symbolism of megalithic culture. But he never did. Did Voegelin ever talk to you about how his study of these materials related to his philosophy of consciousness and his philosophy of history? Vondung: He did talk to me about it, but he didn’t write anything substantial

about it. It was mostly in his head. He did a lot of reading and traveling, as I’ve said. Lissy still has the albums with a lot of photographs. In the long run, I think, the whole problem was a little too vague. It was not solid enough to deal with in terms of an article or even a book, so he left it. That’s my opinion. He talked a lot about it in these years, and I think the point of interest was the equivalence of experience and symbolization between these cultures, where symbols were expressed not in writing but in images: in petroglyphs or even in architecture. I think he hoped that he might really make a case that he could show that there is a continuity of experiences pertaining to the essentials of human existence—from prehistoric times. Not only from Israel and Greece on through the centuries up to our times, but from before these experiences were expressed in writing. Probably he came to the conclusion that the case was not strong enough and that it was still too open to interpretation. It occurred to me as you were talking about visiting these sites that it is evidence of his empiricism, an empiricism without texts, because there were no texts to

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refer to. So, in order to gain any kind of understanding at all, you have to go look and see because photographs are not always helpful. Just in terms of scale, you never know how big things are, unless you’re an archeologist. Vondung: I think that’s true. He had a very strong feeling for real evidence:

one has to be on the spot, one has really to look at things in order to make a fair judgment of what it’s all about and what is important. That would be a scholarly attitude, you know, similar to a solid bibliography. You have to have had every book in your hands. You can’t just take bibliographical information out of some other bibliography or catalogue or whatever. You really have to have it in your hand. Kathrin Sitzler: I was visiting Klaus for six weeks in Palo Alto when we all took that trip together. He [Voegelin] suggested the trip because he had heard that Klaus had driven with me to Yosemite Park. He suggested that we drive down there, because he knew the petroglyphs interested Klaus and me. I brought him a book about rock paintings—this book by Marie König with interpretations of the European cave drawings. What fascinated me was that it was three thousand meters above sea level. He was no longer young, so it was remarkable how he achieved this physically, how he did it, what with these long car rides. But he bore it well and was happy he could do it. He had an air about him like he was a young explorer. He was excited about seeing the trees and happy it had worked out and that Lissy hadn’t had to drive the car. The entire trip took five days, and with the exception of sleeping time, we were together all the time. At the beginning, I thought, “Oh God, five days together. We won’t be able to relax and enjoy it at all!” But he was completely relaxed. He never checked to see whether a restaurant was good, for example, or how the food was. There was no tension at all. One thing was very funny: in Nevada, not all eating establishments have a liquor license, but Lissy had a small flask of whiskey in her purse. And when the server went away, she took it out—we had ordered Coke or something— and everybody got a shot of schnapps! After we had looked at the petroglyphs in Bishop, we went to a rodeo. Voegelin wanted to go to this rodeo because he wanted to see the rodeo queen—he wanted to inspect the rodeo queen. As we were searching out the rodeo queen in Bishop, we went into the street and a woman came toward us. I said to him, “She was pretty.” Then he said, “You thought so?” I said, “Yes, she had nice eyes.” Then he said, “Yes, I noticed that too!” So, the two of us

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talked about women! I had seen that he had looked, so I looked too, and then I looked at him and we both laughed. He was very comfortable and relaxed, and Lissy enjoyed it too. She was happy that she wouldn’t have to drive so much. And she was very comfortable, very motherly, as with the schnapps. Helen Trimpi: When he came back from that trip I asked him in effect, “Why

did you drive all the way over there to see a pine tree? An old pine tree!” And that’s how I got a wonderful insight into his sense of the world. He wanted, first of all, to be sure that the pine tree was there because it was connected to the reliability of the carbon- dating system and whether it could be truly relied on. He said something to the effect that, “you can’t always be sure that someone isn’t lying.” His innate skepticism about so-called scientific evidence came out, which I read to reflect back on those years in Germany when biology, scientific biology, was twisted in certain directions. I mean, this was profound skepticism about human beings and what they might claim to be true. I found this just amazing. But that was an emblem of their life for me: the thought of him and Lissy being driven by Klaus through the desert to go up in the Northern Sierras, into the Nevada desert. All the way through. It was a long way to go. But he wasn’t put off by it. How would you characterize his concern with Stone Age materials? Hollweck: He really wanted to know that his interpretations—he would

share these with Marie König in his letters—corroborated his analysis of the structure of consciousness, and he seemed to have found the answer in the prehistoric symbols. In other words, the Whole doesn’t have parts, it has a structure, just as consciousness doesn’t have parts, but is a structure. You see the parallel here. As my Doktorvater Gregor Sebba would jokingly say in the days when Voegelin was preoccupied with prehistory: for somebody who was always telling us that the only thing you can trust is what has been written, this guy then goes out and looks at the unwritten history of man. It shows his seriousness! So, it’s not so much to prolong our history by pushing it further back, that’s not his concern. His concern was reflected at the time when he had discussions with [Adolf] Portmann, who confirmed what Eric had said about the evolution of consciousness: that it’s not sort of a gradual thing, but that something happens. What happens, we don’t know. We can speak because we’re walking erect. What comes first? Who knows? In other words, he really was sure that when people make symbols, they’re the same as you and I. The symbols ultimately show—showed him, at least—

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with some degree of certainty that his consciousness was the same. So, when you ask why didn’t he write more about it, it’s because that’s all he wanted to know! Once he had this question answered, he abandoned the matter. But that whole period came out of the possibility of writing this book called The Drama of Humanity. If he had written that book, he would probably have had a more full-scale discussion of these issues. But since he didn’t, it was never systematically written down. It would have probably done what The New Science did for The History of Political Ideas. The Drama of Humanity would have been a systematic approach to the things that had been said in various places in Order and History. The focus would have come back to man. Interestingly enough, that’s how he began, with the philosophical anthropologists: [Max] Scheler, [Alois] Dempf in the s, [Helmuth] Plessner. Meditative Inquiry Caringella: “The Beginning and the Beyond” and “Wisdom and the Magic

of the Extreme” both picked up the theme of meditation. So, both of them received the same subtitle: one was “A Meditation on Truth,” and the second was simply “A Meditation.” He began working on these essays right after writing the great introduction to Volume IV, which started him off much more consciously onto what I call the “third anamnesis” built around the symbols of “beginning” and “beyond.” It ended when he started this new work in ’ and ’, with the symbol and meaning of “vision” in Plato in his own work and, really, in philosophy as such. After he finished the introduction to Volume IV in , he wrote two essays that comprise in print about  pages. And then there is Volume V, which is ninety-five pages in print. You’ve got about two hundred pages in print after —and he stopped writing by about the end of . So, in an eight- or nine-year period, he writes two hundred pages, which then—if you divide that up—amounts to about two pages a month. Although he was giving lectures during this period, was doing some traveling, and doing some other things, there was a great deal of concentration on writing the Aquinas lecture, which became “The Beginning and the Beyond,” and writing the Eranos lecture, which was “Wisdom and the Magic of the Extreme.” Certainly he concentrated on writing Volume V. Some of the slowness of the production resulted from declining health in the ’s, especially with Volume V. But a great deal of the slowness has to do with the fact of meditation: that the work was being done meditatively.

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Did he meditate? L. Voegelin: All the time. Even when we were around other people! You could

see that he was thinking, you know. He would be talking to people and then . . . But sometimes, when he was so very quiet, I looked and wondered whether he was sleeping, but he was not. And one day, when he came home after a walk, he was very excited. He said, “Oh, I had a revelation!” I said, “What, what are you doing?” He said, “I have to go write it down!” There was a revelation in the backyard? Caringella: Not a mystic revelation, just a regular insight. L. Voegelin: Well, he told me all kinds of things. But he also needed some-

body to talk to. I called myself “die Wand” [the wall] sometimes, because he talked against me. I said, “I should get a tape recorder” and he said, “Don’t you dare do that!” It wouldn’t be possible anyway. Because I would have to reach down to turn it on and then he would stop saying anything at all. Vondung: We would talk quite frequently about the problems he was work-

ing on. He needed that. He had not many people who he could talk to: people who were familiar with his work where he really could exchange ideas. He would talk to me of course, and before me, to Tilo Schabert, and before Tilo, to Manfred Henningsen about the problems he had, the questions he had. He would call me at eight o’clock in the morning and say, “Well, I’ve read this book, do you know this book? I don’t know what this guy means, I think that he had some point, but I’m not sure whether I understand it.” And so, of course, I had to read the book too and then we would talk about it. So, that was the way he drew you into his own trains of thought. Let’s consider Volume V and some of the other late essays. He calls a couple of them meditations. He’s obviously not the first in the history of philosophy to do that. Why did he choose the meditation as a literary form? Hollweck: At the time, on both “The Beginning and the Beyond” and “The

Magic of the Extreme,” we discussed that question a lot. Occasionally I could see how they were growing page by page. “The Magic of the Extreme” was essentially a lecture or talk, so there are different literary problems when you are addressing an audience. But “The Beginning and the Beyond” is a purer form of meditation. When you talk about what problems it caused for Plato, in both the Parmenides and the Sophist, you know you can’t deal with problems argumentatively anymore. He was very concerned about that. That’s

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why he took so much care with the language of “The Beginning and the Beyond.” Every word is there for a reason. When he asked me to read it—at that point, I would not have had any major objections to anything he said!— we did in fact argue about every word. And . percent, even where it was a minor detail, he could make the case. He could make the case because it had come, linguistically, out of that kind of thought process: one that is not argumentative but grows as we think in a meditative rather than in a subjectobject kind of way. It was very important to him to point that out. Parts of “The Magic of the Extreme” are written in a similar way, especially the second half. These are two examples of a mystical way of writing. Large parts of Volume V are very difficult to translate into ordinary English. The language is very unconventional and the syntax, or not even the syntax—the imagery. Now, was this a consequence of the meditative process that Eric was undergoing? He wasn’t passive. It wasn’t something that simply happened to him; it was something that he was expressing, almost as if there were no other way to express that class of experiences. Hollweck: That’s what I would say. It is a tremendously complicated problem. These are major questions. After a few drinks late at night, I could ask questions like that and sit and listen to Voegelin. We would talk about the problems that came out in his later discussion of the Timaeus—the question of Creation and this whole problem. The Gnostics will ask, “Well, how does spirit get into matter?” Eric turned that around as a question and asked, “How do the things come into God?” That’s the problem in Plato. Ultimately, these things are not just trick questions but develop à propos this kind of process of reading, for instance.

How would he organize his day when he would be considering some of these meditative questions? Hollweck: The active meditation with the texts he was working on was pretty

late at night. I would come back from San Francisco sometimes at two in the morning and would sit in his study. He had some books on hand to read: the hard stuff. He wouldn’t type, because that would have woken up Lissy, so he had to type in the morning. But then he also had some time to settle down. This was not somebody who had to rush to the typewriter because he’s just had a brilliant idea! In fact, Einfall [inspiration, irruption] was a very important word for Eric, in its very clear psychological—and in that sense, ontological—meaning.

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Sandoz: When I was prying into his business and interviewing him for the

Autobiographical Reflections, I got no good answer about when he would write. So, I said, “Well then, do you take notes when you read?” “Oh no, I never take notes, that takes too long.” It became his great formula: “I read it, let it gel, then I write.” So, if you want to know Eric’s methodology, you’ve got it: read it, let it gel, then write it. I’m not sure that’s true, but that’s what he said. Lissy said that he would write two pages, then come in and show it to her as he wrote. And she would say, “I don’t quite understand it, this is not entirely clear.” Then he would get mad and go off and come back and the two pages would have become four. By then it was kind of intelligible, after he had loosened it up some and explained it—this kind of thing. I still don’t know when he did most of his writing; I don’t know whether he wrote at night or in the morning. He didn’t seem to use drafts, either. With The History of Political Ideas, for example, he had to turn out two hundred pages in two months. Now, turning out two hundred pages in two months is easier said than done! Especially this kind of stuff. He was very quick. And when it came, it was like his lectures; his lectures were not rambling at all, they were very tightly organized. And he was a great outliner. So, he was really very well organized and he had a way of drafting his work so it would come out finished in the first draft. He didn’t go back and make very many corrections. Reading his History of Political Ideas, I’m certain that I am reading first drafts. He hasn’t even bothered to catch a few typos. He had a way of formulating things in a comprehensive and focused way that didn’t require much revision. Did you get a sense of his routine in Palo Alto? Sandoz: His work habits were regular. Some people get up in the morning

and they’ll have a certain routine for doing their writing early in the morning when they’re fresh, but Eric would never think of doing that. Essentially from seven-thirty until after midnight, he was more or less doing his thing. And he apparently consumed these mystery novels along the way, like baseball players eat sunflower seeds. If he’d lose his concentration, he’d stop and read mystery novels. He was very quick, like a high-speed computer. He was very engaged, very concentrated, and spent not only long hours but very efficient long hours. He said that he more or less worked until midnight, then he would read Shakespeare. After midnight he would read Shakespeare! He tried to read all of Shakespeare’s plays every year—the whole cycle of Shakespeare’s plays. This was his relaxation. He would quit around : or : and go to

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bed. He had a little alcove adjacent to the study, and the boudoir belonged to Lissy. He had a little quasi-monastic cot, a single bed in a part of the house where some of his books were, so when he got tired he would go to bed and sleep there. He probably had trouble sleeping. Hollweck would pour him some kind of grappa or something from Germany that would help him sleep. It was difficult to shut his mind off for some rest. Entertaining Vondung: He wouldn’t work when there were dinner parties. He liked to entertain once in a while and have people over there. During the few years I was there, I met many of his friends; I met John Hallowell, for instance, at that time, when he came to Stanford and the Voegelins threw a dinner party. I was invited regularly, and so I met a lot of his old American acquaintances. Lissy liked to entertain. She was an excellent cook; drinks before, and a beautiful meal. They often liked to barbecue, but of course, they did not always barbecue. Lissy knew the old Viennese cuisine and especially these marvelous desserts. Eric liked sweets very much; but she watched him, and he was supposed to have one piece and not more—I don’t know, maybe a medical problem or something. But he wanted to have a second one, so he usually would induce me to have a second one so that he could have a second one too! “Wollen Sie noch ein zweites Stück?” [Would you like another piece?] And I would say, “Herr Professor, aber nur wenn Sie auch noch ein zweites nehmen.” [Herr Professor, but only if you also have a second.] And so, we had our meal. I would have a second piece, and he would have a second piece. Sitzler: As he aged, Voegelin became a little bit—fat, one could not say, but

a little bit fuller. So, Lissy always made sure that he didn’t eat too much. She would always say to Klaus, who was always very thin, “Sie kriegen noch was. Eric, du aber nicht!” [You get some more. But you, Eric, don’t!] So, one got another piece of cake from Mama and the other didn’t! These normal interpersonal and somehow touching forms of conduct showed that he was also a completely normal person with completely normal traits. This gave me a different perspective. When I knew him as a professor in Munich, he had been only this great mind for me: one who asked things that I could not immediately answer and who was disappointed when I couldn’t ask something intelligent. I was always a bit afraid of him at that time. But later, this other side came out. I think it also came with progressing age: he simply got older in his way of being and his character.

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H. Trimpi: We had him to dinner several times. I remember mostly that,

unlike many intellectuals—whoops, that’s a bad word, he hated that word!— unlike many scholars, he didn’t need liquor to fill the requirements of burning the night oil. He didn’t need it. In fact, I think he thought perhaps it would weaken him or something. He did like to light up a cigar. It seemed to me that at some point, he really began to think of home and would then go home and work. You know, dinner, relaxation, and then when everyone else was ready to go to bed, he would go to work. Wesley Trimpi: I met Eric because of our mutual friend, Donald Stanford,

who was the editor of the Southern Review. Eric had quite recently come west and had been at the Hoover, just for a short time—I frankly do not know the exact year. It was at the Faculty Club, which was noisy, and the tables keep you rather far apart. I had never talked to Eric before and he did have this accent. I couldn’t hear or understand what he said! But subsequently, I began on a fairly regular basis going over to his house, around four-thirty or five. We would talk over things that came up between us. A professor of English at Stanford, I was concerned with the general state or demise of literary studies. I found him not only a very good listener who understood the problems in a broader and more historical and philosophical sense than I did, but always extremely sympathetic and always very helpful in terms of suggesting past causation or various aspects of academia in Europe or various problems that were very parallel to mine at Stanford—not only here at Stanford but also particularly in English literary studies as a whole. Those occasions were always very informal. It is hard to characterize the particular topics because they were so wide-ranging. But they almost always came back to my concern with the corruption of literary studies and how one would return to the real study of literature. I profited enormously, particularly because, at this time, I was working on various historical connections between the emergence of neo-Platonic thought and the gradual loss of awareness, not just of literature, but of the entire conception of the logos as it had been established through the Socratic tradition and Platonic thought. A lot of people have said that he was more interested in the experiences and difficulties that younger people had than he was in listening to esteemed professors. And these younger scholars or apprentices were in touch with things that he was not, because of their differences in age. That certainly would be true even with people of your age or my age. Did he ever talk to you about why he was interested in speaking with younger people?

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W. Trimpi: Only because he always wanted to keep his hands—literally, keep

his hands—on the present phenomenal moment. That was reflected throughout his conversation; it was reflected in how he would attempt to, shall we say, untie the knots that people got themselves into. He knew that this is what you are going to face, and the causes are this, that, and the other thing, and he would make suggestions. This would in a sense untie the knot, just a little bit. But you ask why he would be so interested in the varying groups of varying ages? It was simply because he had this real compulsion for the phenomenal particular. That’s why young people, all people of all different ages, found talking with him so stimulating. One of the first times I had a long conversation with him, I had just come back from South Asia. He was very interested in that, and it was very specific. He just basically asked me to tell him what I knew. When he talked with your students, was there a kind of harmony, that they were engaged in a collective, cooperative enterprise? W. Trimpi: Oh yes, but it was quite social in the sense that he was very good

about putting people at their ease. He was putting me at my ease when I was in his study and we were doing more specific looking at books. But when I would come with a student, we would have a glass of wine, and he had a very easy way of bringing out what they were working on, what were the problems they were chiefly concerned about, where were the border lines of their areas of investigation. Caringella: He was a kind of magpie, so that if you were a student visiting

him, he would be extremely interested in what you were doing. He had this “vampire” quality about him; he would want to send a probe into your brain and suck it dry, especially if you were studying, if you really were serious and were learning something. When students asked him questions about what their dissertation should be, he would say, “Don’t do it on me!” He would say, “Look at the newspaper; look at the front page of the newspaper.” The experience is right there, that first-hand experience involves engagement in problems. So, if you are able to read between the lines and see what is really occupying people, what is present-day experience, then you look at the newspaper. Then you go where the question leads you. Did he ever talk to you about the distractions of the world that would be disruptive?

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Caringella: No. He would enjoy them. He would take them for what they’re

worth. No, no, but distracting him from his work? Caringella: Well, yes, he did complain about pests. But he liked to talk to

students too. I remember that I envied you because I only heard of you from his tale of it. “This young fellow came by, telling me these fascinating things about Pakistan and the Muslim salvation movements or Messianic or nationalistic or internationalistic movements of the Islamic area.” You had the opportunity to travel around the world and do this kind of research, pick up nuances and pick up women—things like that. Generosity Ken Quandt: I first met Voegelin when he had just returned from Munich. I

had found out about his work some ten years earlier when I was in high school. Then he came to Stanford, of all places. This all happened at about the same time that I was graduating from college and wanted to decide where to go to graduate school. So, I called the Hoover Institution and made an appointment to see Voegelin. We went out to lunch. I was, I guess, about twenty years old. And I had just been turned down for a Fulbright scholarship to Louvain, so I didn’t know where to go for graduate school, or what to do. And I thought I’d ask Voegelin. So, over lunch he explained the substance of his current work to me. I think he recognized that I was able to understand what he was talking about, so he decided to give me good advice instead of just crummy advice. The good advice consisted of listing possible people I might study with; it was pretty much a throwaway list of people. But at the end, what he said was, “Really, Mr. Quandt, you must just go and do your own work wherever you are, and the most important advice I can give you is this: don’t tell them what you are doing, because they will certainly kill you! Now, would you like some pie?” I was astounded! But I said yes. So, we had some pie. I had some pie; he didn’t have any pie. It was really something, really something. I mean, I was a young man and I was given a piece of pie just in case that was what I really wanted, and he had just told me that I could get killed if I told what I was really doing. It was kind of a strange experience! H. Trimpi: Voegelin was very, very generous about lecturing for anybody who

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asked him. In the ’s, our very dear friend Barbara Bundy arranged a wonderful symposium, an all-day symposium on the classical world at Dominican College, where she was president. She knew a good thing when she saw it, and she asked him if he would participate or give a lecture. He very kindly consented. And knowing that Classics was not at all a great field in a small Catholic college, he didn’t give a high-powered lecture. He gave a version of “Reason: The Classical Experience.” Undergraduates and, I assume, a few graduate students were there, and it made wonderful watching. He had a blackboard, and he stood at the blackboard and drew this chart of the soul in the world and so on. It was a wonderful lecture. That was a wonderful day for Dominican. He was extremely active during the early ’s. He was always off all over the place—sometimes to Europe too. Still: just giving, giving, giving of what he knew. Vondung: When I was at Stanford, I wrote a book. There were some problems

that needed fixing, theoretical problems, so I went to him and talked with him about it, and he helped me in a very concrete way. I told him what my problem was, and he really helped. Not just by saying, “Read this and you will get the idea, or read that article of mine and that will tell you what I think about it.” No, he helped in a very, very concrete way. Not that he would formulate what I should write, but he worked it through with me in discussion so that I could afterward go home and sit down and fix the problem. Are most German professors like that? That may be what a supervisor should do, but it doesn’t often happen. In North America, it happens rarely. Vondung: It happens rarely in Germany, too. Of course, it depends not just

on the character of the particular professor; it also depends on how many graduate students he has and on how familiar he is with the particular problem. But this concrete way Voegelin helped me, it’s unusual, I would say. Supervision by professors is usually more superficial. Walsh: After his visit to Ireland, I corresponded with him and visited for a

complete day that he very generously gave to me. I told him I was going to come down, and he said, “Fine.” So, we met in the morning and spent the morning together and had lunch. I think I left him alone for a couple of hours and came back and then we had dinner. In fact, I was thinking in terms of a topic for a dissertation, and I naturally asked him about it. He had been at that stage interested in hermeticism and its relationship to ideology, and he was quite enthusiastic about it and strongly recommended it as an area of

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study. It was an area I knew nothing about. But he pointed me toward it and said, “Here, here are the books.” Once I read the books, of course, I could see what he meant. After that, I corresponded with him occasionally, and he sent me a couple of letters that really indicated that he had read the Böhme material, which I wrote my dissertation on. And he had a very good sense of it. He really had an informed and very substantive judgment. Hollweck: You could use Voegelin’s ideas because they’re not his, they’re

ours. That’s been too little stressed: it is all ours. To me, that has been the spiritual impact that this man has had, the nonprofessorial side of him. When you were with this old man—well, in those days he seemed a bit older—you never had the feeling that you were with somebody who was exclusive about the care of his own ideas, as most older philosophers are. He believed that he had actually contributed to the state of the art, but not because “I wrote it.” He was very generous with his time, generous with people who were in need and whom he could directly help. He helped me a couple of times financially when I needed it, without asking a question. You say Voegelin gave you manuscripts as you were writing your book on his work. When he gave you his manuscripts was it for your critical response, or was he being generous? Eugene Webb: He was being generous, primarily. I don’t think he was expect-

ing me to make any substantive suggestions; he was basically keeping me informed on what he was doing, since I was engaged in the project of writing about him. He continued to give me his manuscripts as he wrote them. He was very generous in that way. But I have a former student—you probably know him, Chip Hughes—to whom Voegelin was much less generous, even downright nasty in his personal encounter with him. Did you ever hear this story? The Chastening of Chip Hughes Glenn (Chip) Hughes: In , I met Voegelin personally at Boston College. I

had a personal encounter with him over two days at a workshop, a weekend workshop at Boston College. By the time I arrived at Boston College, I had already been reading Voegelin and thinking about him for six years and was sure that I wanted to do a dissertation on him. I had begun by reading a couple of his short essays and “The Beginning and the Beyond” and “Wisdom and the Magic of the

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Extreme.” The reason I studied those first was that, soon after I took Tom McPartland’s course that introduced me to Voegelin’s thought, I became involved in a private seminar with Eugene Webb at his house. A small group of professors and graduate students had formed a kind of circle and were working through a range of material. There were about six of us. During this time, Gene was frequently down at Stanford, interviewing Voegelin for this book he was doing. That was in ’ and ’. So, it was in that period: the whole time we were working on Plato and all kinds of stuff, Gene was working on the Voegelin material. And we worked on two of Voegelin’s short essays as well. I must have begun looking at Order and History around the same time, but I guess the first intense encounter through Webb’s seminar was in  and . So by the time you went to Boston College, you were fairly well acquainted? Hughes: Yeah. During the time after  I was reading Voegelin, I was consci-

entiously living a life in kind of a rural atmosphere, so I was reading Voegelin a good deal. Then I got into Boston College with a full scholarship, so I went there. So yeah, I was primed! I went right to Fred Lawrence and said, “I want to do a dissertation on Eric Voegelin, and these are the topics I have in mind.” Fred organized a workshop on Bernard Lonergan, and this is how Voegelin came to the campus. It started on Friday and went to Saturday evening. There were three sessions on him—I can’t remember, maybe three or four sessions. When Voegelin was invited, he was already not in very good health. But he was fairly astute, sort of sardonic. I had one brief chance to chat with him between sessions on the Saturday. There was a half-hour break, and he was sitting at one of the tables there. So, I saw him sitting alone during the break and I sat myself across the table from him and asked him if there was a Kierkegaardian influence in his work. He got a big smile on his face—he was very friendly, very affable that day. He had this big smile on his face and said, “Oh yes, oh yes.” I don’t remember what else took place at the brief, maybe ten-minute interchange that day, but I took the occasion to get my courage up to ask Paul Caringella, who was running affairs for him, to ask for a longer meeting with him. There might be some time on Sunday, but this was still questionable, because he had planned to visit Lonergan, who was at that time retired and living at the Jesuit residence there. What eventually happened was that, at the last minute, it turned out that Lonergan was too ill to see Voegelin. Now, it was my understanding—although I can’t vouch for the certainty of this— that one of the reasons Voegelin was induced to come to Boston College and

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do this workshop at all was because it would give him an opportunity to talk with Lonergan. Voegelin was probably very disappointed that Lonergan was too ill to see him. This might explain the rather foul mood I found him in when, on the Sunday (I think, if my memory serves me), I was informed that I would be able in fact to have an audience with Voegelin. Because Lonergan had cancelled, he had this spare hour; he might as well fill it up with something. So, I got the call! This was on a Sunday. He had been so affable the previous afternoon. I sort of walked into a trap—I didn’t have any idea of this other side! Just to put this in perspective, I was a first-year graduate student. There was a kind of formality to serious academic work in this institution; I was trying to accommodate myself to this and to act responsibly. I had grown up as a decadent countercultural hippie, and it was a long time before I began to try to accommodate myself to respectable matters and institutions. It was very tough for me. When I got to Boston College, I thought, “I’d better really try and make a go of this in a way that leads to a successful career and income!” So, I went through this period when I tried really hard to dress properly and act courteously—all of this was going against the grain. It was a sort of forced phase, in a way, this way I was presenting myself. Because I was trying to develop other habits and be respectable and so on. So, I was trying to be neat and clean and fresh-scrubbed and polite and eager and sensitive. I took this bearing with me to this meeting with Voegelin. I wasn’t exactly in a Catholic frame of mind, but here I was, with face scrubbed bright, eager, a graduate student at a Jesuit university. And I had the misfortune as I was driving to this meeting to think, “What should I start with, what should I ask him about?” I had all sorts of questions. I had had the even greater misfortune a week earlier of becoming interested in the symbol of salvation. This was an intellectual exercise, the way I was thinking about it. Historically, literarily, and culturally—it is a complicated subject. It appears in so many different contexts and so many different beliefs, it’s fascinating! I’d never tried to think this through. So, I thought, “I’ll start with that!” Voegelin walked in; he was ushered into this room at Boston College that had been set aside for small conferences. It was a rather small room with large, high stained glass windows in front of which Voegelin sat. Sunlight was streaming down through the windows, shrouding him in this diffuse mist of glory. Paul Caringella sat on his right hand, and I sat on his left. Voegelin was of course puffing on a cigar, so that clouds of cigar smoke added to the experience of this presence behind clouds of mystery and shrouded by luminosity. There he sat, magisterially puffing his cigar while I tried to get my questions together.

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Both he and Paul were obviously irritated that they now had to waste time with this pesky graduate student instead of talking with Lonergan. The first mistake I made was to start with the question on salvation. The next one was that I had brought something along, also at the last minute. A friend in the department had a little portable tape recorder, and he suggested I take it. I thought, “I’ll ask him if I can turn on the tape recorder.” So, I came in and I sat down, blinded by this magus behind the smoke and the light, and said, “Do you mind if I tape record this?” Well, as Paul has told me since, he did mind very much. But he didn’t say, “No, you can’t do it.” He just got really irritable and said, “Go ahead!” So, I turned on my tape recorder and began asking my first question. It was this question about the symbol of salvation. What Voegelin saw was this eager, well-dressed Catholic graduate student asking about salvation. From my perspective later, Voegelin instantly interpreted my question as somebody trying to find validation for his own structure of belief. In phrasing the question about the symbol of salvation, I tried to fill in some of the background to ask this question. That turned into a long-winded sort of autobiographical speech about all sorts of people in whom Voegelin had no interest whatsoever. So finally, by the time I actually asked the question after five minutes of explaining who I am, I am asking the question about salvation in this tense context. He had already been irritable; now he just sort of snapped. And his first response was along the lines of “Your question doesn’t make any sense whatsoever. You have no question.” “Why are you wasting my time?” Hughes: “You have no question, your question is meaningless. Meaningless!

Unless you were asking how the question of salvation has been posed by a particular author under some kind of circumstances, then the question is meaningless.” Well, I understood the gist of his response. I had been reading him long enough to know perfectly well where he was coming from, but I couldn’t, because I had just formulated this question in the most general way, think of any particular concrete occurrence of asking about it. So, I just kind of kept repeating it in a number of different ways and he kept repeating his response, which was, “I can’t begin to answer your question because it’s meaningless, it’s meaningless!” This went on for about fifteen minutes, until I finally lost my temper. I could hardly see him because of the smoke and lighting, and I felt that no matter how I rephrased my question, I would receive this very simple and brutal put-down. Paul was sitting across the table from me, nodding in agreement—“What a waste of time, waste of time.” Finally, a sense of pride in the seriousness of

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my own inquiry overtook me, and I got a little heated and said something like, “You seem to be treating me like somebody who is antagonistic. But I’ve been reading your work for a good deal of time. I think I understand what you’re saying, but I’m on your side! And let me say something about where my question is coming from: I’m living in a society in which there are various forces of disorder and corruption in my experience. I’ve grown up in it and I’m trying to find a sort of existential way out of that disorder and corruption, and it’s unfair of you to sit there and say that my questions don’t make any sense! They make a lot of sense to me, existentially. It’s not just some abstract speculation; I’m concerned about the well-being of my soul in this society!” I don’t know whether I made any coherent sense in this or not, but he picked up on something and he immediately backed off and became to some degree conciliatory. The rest of the conversation was something of a dialogue. There was a certain respect that I suddenly felt I had as a human being in this situation. But as I brought up particular texts and particular questions, there was a readiness on his part to be fairly abrupt and dismissive. Because he was still in a bad mood! And he was being tape-recorded. Paul seconded and occasionally put a word in as well. For example, I had just recently read a poem by Rilke—it’s called “The Magician.” It’s a short poem, ten or fifteen lines. Rilke articulates how the magician’s use of magic or the effort to use magic eventually traps the magician himself and there is a certain spiritual bondage. It’s beautifully expressed and quite related to certain things that Voegelin wrote. I had always admired the way Voegelin used poets and literary texts to analyze certain states of spiritual disorder and good order. I thought, “Well, maybe he doesn’t know this and he would enjoy it.” So, I mentioned that I had just read this poem, and Voegelin didn’t get a chance to respond because Caringella immediately cut in and said, “Disney used the same theme in Mickey and the Sorcerer’s Apprentice.” You know—next topic! So, that was sort of the tone that was coming from both Voegelin and Caringella for the rest of the hour. I remember leaving the thing feeling shredded. But also at the same time thinking, “Well, I could have been more prepared.” So, after this encounter with Voegelin, you felt chastised, chastened? Hughes: I felt a mixture. I felt abashed, but I also felt unfairly treated. I also

felt that it was an accident, that I had caught him at the wrong moment. I happened to be asking the wrong questions, happened to be looking the wrong way, being in the wrong place—just that it was an accident of my circumstances. I never had a sense of, “Oh, what a disappointment; this is a

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reflection on his character; this really is a vicious man.” Nothing like that. My sense of it was, “Gee, I feel really bad. It’s too bad I caught him at such an awful moment.” He was awfully short with me, he really was. The Provocateur Webb: He was never that way with me; he was always very nice to me. I first

met him when he came to the University of Washington. When he came, I ended up being the one who could explain what he meant to people. I’d sit next to him and explain, “This is what he’s trying to say,” and it turned out to be very helpful to the faculty around here. I sort of explained what he meant to people; and I remember that, after one of these sessions, he told me, “We understand each other.” So, he always treated me very well. He seemed to think that I was a person who caught on. Of course, I was also a full professor at this time. Chip Hughes was only a graduate student and definitely got treated quite arrogantly. Alessandra Lippucci: We had Voegelin come down to teach at the University

of Texas in Austin for a semester. And one of the things that we found really interesting—I guess it comes from him having been a professor in Germany—was that he would have one of the younger professors carry his materials to the seminar room. Eventually, this professor stopped coming to the seminar pretty early on with some of the professors who dropped out for other reasons. But I think that this professor dropped out because he thought he didn’t have the respect of Voegelin. Voegelin was treating him like a lackey. You know, “Carry my stuff to class!” He just didn’t like doing that. So, he dropped out. I don’t know if that’s why he dropped out, but he did. What was the seminar about? Lippucci: It was the history of political thought. I think we started with the

pre-Socratics. He had a rule that you could not use any word, any concept, until it had emerged in history. So you could not use the word system, he said. One day the word system popped out of somebody’s mouth, and he said, “We haven’t come to that word yet in history, so you can’t use it.” David Edwards: You can’t refer to Plato’s political “system” or Aristotle’s or

anyone else’s until Hegel. Lippucci: Right. So, he had rules about the discourse in the seminar. But the

seminar did not start off immediately with a consideration of the material we

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all had prepared. He would make some remarks. At the beginning, we didn’t realize that he was throwing these out to bait us for some reason of which we were not aware. At this time, the Vietnam war was still a big deal. And he said he thought that what we should be doing is bomb Vietnam off the map. And that is a quote! Edwards: Or maybe he said, “Bomb Vietnam into the Stone Age.” That was my recollection. But it was clearly “Destroy Vietnam!” Lippucci: It was definitely bomb to oblivion; oblivion was the way to go.

Maybe he was upset about the incremental approach. But he would say this, and it upset people who had come into the seminar to hear about the assigned materials. Edwards: Our young political theorists were all against the war. So was I. I

never rose to the bait, but these other guys did and they got really annoyed. Lippucci: It’s sad in a way, because in the case of one of them, if he knew anything about Voegelin, you would imagine that he might not want to come, given his political persuasion. Yet he showed up twice and persisted. And persisted and persisted until finally, the seminar got whittled down to a very small number of people. I think maybe we were seven. When we started out, maybe we were fourteen. So, we went down—I’m guessing, but I had the sense that it dwindled quite a bit. He would come and he’d start his routine, and we would just sit there and we would wait for him to stop. When he realized no one was going to rise to the bait, that we were just waiting for him to start the seminar, he would start the seminar.

How did he conduct the class? Lippucci: Basically, he talked and now and then he would ask a question, but

it was a rhetorical question for the most part. He would pretty much dominate it. That’s the way the French fellow we had come in did it, too. I think it was their tradition. He just walked in, talked, and walked out! Was he accessible, did he have office hours? Lippucci: Yes. I went to see him, but I went only once. During that time, I was

concerned about how we could make the world a better place. You know, your basic idealist! I had been reading him, probably for the course. I went in and I said, “I’m wondering, is it your belief that, if we all were able to do what it is you’re talking about in your work, there would be no need for any

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revolution?” He leaned back and said something like, “Well, you’re finally getting it.” It was the first time I ever had any indication that he cared about the world being a better place. Because it bothered me that he might be a very wise man but that he didn’t really think there was any hope for making the world a better place. I know that the chances of people doing that were pretty remote, but I also did believe that, even if you had all the laws in the world, it was going to take something like that inside each person to change things. So, I felt better about him that way. I had always loved his work, because I thought I could use it for my purposes, to change the world! Even if that violated places in his work where it said that it was impossible to change the world or that it was not a problem for him. Something else just struck me. He’d wear the same jacket to class every single day. It seemed like he had only one jacket. And I’d think, “He’s come for the whole semester. Did he only bring one jacket?” I didn’t expect him to be a clotheshorse, but I thought to myself, “Here is a man who has so much money and he plays the stock market, but he’s got one jacket.” So, one day, I asked him. I said, “Is that the only jacket you brought?” This was a red one— he stood out like a bull. And he kind of looked like one too; he walked so straight and his head was so high, he looked like a statue. He actually looked arrogant! Even though I know he had deep humility, he also was arrogant. He looked arrogant and he walked arrogant. But what didn’t work was this red polyester jacket! So, one day I said, “Is this the only jacket you wear?” He asked me what was wrong. I said, “That seems to be what you wear all the time. Did you just bring one jacket?” He said, “I get it dry-cleaned on the weekends.” As if I were worried that it maybe wasn’t clean! But it struck me that he was sort of an ascetic that way. Edwards: Maybe he didn’t want to waste money. Lippucci: Or maybe that he wanted to travel lightly or that there was no rea-

son to be there except to earn the money, do the seminar, and leave. It is fascinating when you think about him in little ways and big ways, because it’s just such a picture of what our humanity really looks like, and it is not anything that should ever be viewed as wrong or bad. It’s just that these are the little idiosyncrasies about great people. There was a wonderful review he did of Huizinga’s Homo Ludens. It showed that he had a very keen appreciation not only of serious play but of unserious play as well. W. Trimpi: Oh, I think he did! And he had a good sense of humor, and he

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laughed and told stories and enjoyed them too. He had a habit of anecdote, in other words, because anecdote is very specific. I still remember that Eric would come back from conferences just full of anecdotes: serious things, unserious things, and what not. He had also perhaps an air of an interest in sports per se, in that he had a very keen sense of the agonistic, particularly in the things in which he was involved. In the question-and-answer periods after he would give a talk, I myself experienced this. I had heard him talk, and he would say things on purpose, really, to get reactions. He loved to go against the current ideology. Quandt: He said that he would be amused by the idea of coming to Berkeley to do a lecture. There would be a critical audience at Berkeley and to enjoy his talk would be something of historical significance. He said, “What would you like me to talk about?” I said, “What about reality?” He said, “Yes, yes, ‘The Problem of Reality.’” I said, “I have one hundred and fifty dollars and you’ll probably talk for about forty-five minutes.” And he said he would do it. So, when he gave the lecture, he opened it up by saying, “Mr. Quandt has asked me to speak on ‘The Problem of Reality.’” He got everything in; that was pretty good. He did the thing about consciousness, that little three- or fourstep thing. He had the stuff about the Paleolithic Age and how the quatrinarian structure of reality gave evidence for the Maltese Cross. He said, “Marx is a swindler.” There was an old Marxian in the audience and he pleaded that, no, Marx couldn’t be a swindler. At which Voegelin just hacked him to bits! It was the saddest thing anybody ever saw; this guy was just chopped to bits. Voegelin was wearing burgundy. He had this burgundy sport coat. It was the stupidest thing you ever saw; it was made of a petroleum product or something, and it was a double-weave. It was the cheapest sort of thing you would get at Mervyn’s Secondhand Store or some place. Nobody could believe this guy! It was like, “What is this guy doing? His hair is on sideways. This is the strangest looking guy!” He would walk around the podium and answer the question and then he would retreat to the podium [and ask], “Are there any more questions?” Talk about a magician; he looked like a magician. With that coat and the way he acted, he looked like a magician—like something out of Thomas Mann! It was a good group; it was a good talk. The classics department was all talking about it afterward: they thought he was some kind of a swindler himself. James Babin: When he discovered that I was doing my thesis (and, later, my

dissertation) on Herman Melville, the first question he asked was, “What do

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you think of The Confidence-Man?” Which astonished me, because I didn’t think that anybody who didn’t have to read that book had ever read it! Apparently, as I learned later, he had even talked about it in public forums. I was amazed that he would even have known of the work, which wasn’t well known in literary studies at the time. People who knew Melville would have known Moby Dick and Billy Budd and some stories, but to have known and considered the sense of The Confidence-Man would have been surprising even in literary studies at that time. For a person in political theory not only to have known Melville well enough to have read The Confidence-Man, but to have contemplated it—well, it is a very vexing book, and it took a lot for scholars to figure out how to read it. H. Trimpi: I gave him a couple of articles I did on Melville, on The ConfidenceMan. That was a real bond between us, or shall we say it was a subject that we could talk about, the idea of The Confidence-Man. Because at that time he was fascinated by it and he had just been reading Thomas Mann’s Confessions of Felix Krull, Confidence-Man. He also made several remarks that were very important to me about the figure of the confidence-man in public life. For example, he labeled Walter Cronkite a confidence-man and would say, “How can this man get up on television and say these kinds of things?” The definition of a confidence-man that I held, and that I think he too held, is that it is someone in public life who says things he doesn’t really believe. So, this was something we could talk about, and he was kind enough to read my articles. When I finished my book on The Confidence-Man, I didn’t expect him to read that. By that time he was so deeply involved in getting his late work finished that he couldn’t do much more with the confidence-man.

Walter Cronkite, I remember, was considered the most trusted man in America. H. Trimpi: That’s probably the kind of thing that set Eric off. I must admit, I

have never looked at a politician again in the same way.

Political Affinities Did you talk daily politics? H. Trimpi: No, what happened was more building from particulars into

generalities. He would sometimes make comments about current politics, but usually he would carry them up to another level, and that’s when I stopped talking and started listening. You’d ask him a question, and he’d give

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you an answer, then you’d plot the next six months by the answer! I can remember that. Did you ever talk to him about his experience of the ’60s? H. Trimpi: No, I usually just listened. Because very often we were asked over

for dinner when he had someone visiting, very frequently from Germany, although from other places too. Then, what was happening in Germany or wherever would become a conversation, and I would listen. He was concerned about what was happening to the German universities, particularly the destruction of the older academic system. Sometimes he would reminisce a little about the years in Munich. He said all sorts of things. So, his comments on the ’s would be more on the superficial, political manifestations, whereas the work on the German universities gets at something more fundamental, as I recall he said in that article he wrote. Edwards: The feeling I got when I heard him talk about contemporary events? I was a professor of international relations, so I considered that a field I knew quite a bit about. Anyway, he struck me then as someone who didn’t really think about it, who had kind of major reactions, right-wing major reactions. A cold warrior, you know, with major reactions. I thought he didn’t really care enough to think it through and that the support he had in the broader institutional sense was often from right-wing fanatics who didn’t have anything like his intellectual capabilities. He sounded kind of like the National Review; you never learned anything about the world by hearing him talk about the contemporary world. I mean, that was my feeling about it. There may have been times when he was more thoughtful. Lippucci: I really don’t think so. That was for us his weak spot. But everybody

has those things. Besides, his strengths so far outweighed what seemed so patently ridiculous to us that it was easy to let that roll off our backs and stay with what he really had to offer. So, we didn’t have any moral problems about being in his seminar at all. I saw some of that in his writing and heard some of it in his conversation, but I just ignored it. Edwards: I also wonder whether some of this was just tossing bones to what

little institutional support he was getting, the right-wing foundations and what not. You know, if he just said stuff like that every so often, they’d go on supporting him. Because again, there wasn’t a passion the way there was when he’d talk about the Book of the Dead or something. He was much more concerned about the Tibetan Book of the Dead than about

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American strategy. I don’t think he taught those kind of practical political courses at that point in his life. Lippucci: Well, he certainly didn’t teach them to us. Ordinary courses in international politics didn’t enter in. This stuff at the beginning of the seminars, the preliminary baiting, was totally divorced from what we learned. What we learned was the history of political thought—his version. When we talked about The New Science of Politics, he gave us this essay to read about the deformation that ideologies caused, so we did get a dose of his practical views. I thought, “Yes, that’s the other part of him.” Edwards: But what was interesting was that what counted as ideology was

Marxism, but not this right-wing stuff he would spout. I never heard him see any connection between that kind of stuff and ideology. Manfred Henningsen: When I was at Stanford in ’ and ’, Voegelin would

call and wanted to know whether I had watched a certain TV program. I said yes. He asked: “And what did you think of it?” Well, I was very polite and didn’t want to say that I found the American Left as obnoxious as the American Right. Voegelin, however, found the American Left to be not only obnoxious but sick and the American Right to be kind of a natural response to them, understandable in denying them and excusable in all its excesses. I had no excuse for it, and I never liked the racist tone that crept in. At one point I had had a very nasty discussion with him about Angela Davis. The way he wanted to deal with the race problem in the United States was simply to seal off the streets on both sides and let them kill each other. Or he endorsed very authoritarian police measures that simply indicated his utter lack of interest in politics and mediation and the attempt to overcome crisis situations. He didn’t want to understand them. For him, these people were simply there to create unrest, trouble. It was like in Munich, when there were sit-ins at his lectures in . He was not interested in what they wanted to say and what was behind it, he wanted peace. He always used this BavarianAustrian phrase for it: “ich will meine Ruhe haben.” He wanted calm, he did not want turmoil. I can understand all of that. I can understand that because of the background of his own situation in prewar Germany. But I thought many of his responses were so irrational that I could not reconcile them with the person I admired, the one who was really central for my intellectual biography. On the other hand, I saw him respond rudely to prominent American conservative intellectuals. I don’t think they understood him. Bill Buckley called

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once while I was in the office, and Voegelin would say, “Yes, very interesting,” and smile. And then after fifteen minutes, he would simply get up and say, “What is going on?” And that was it: he was not interested in Buckley’s remarks. I once saw Russell Kirk at Stanford. Lissy called me up and said, “You have to come over, because I’ve scratched myself bloody in the back of my head. Here you have these two idiots, my husband and Russell Kirk, staring at each other and mumbling one-sentence statements and then falling silent again.” I thought she was making it up, but I went over there around nine o’clock in the evening and it was exactly like that: Eric Voegelin and Russell Kirk were sitting at opposite ends of the room, both smoking cigars and emitting phrases and then falling silent. They had nothing to say to each other. Russell Kirk was a little bit more willing to add maybe a sentence or two to the original sentence, but Voegelin was totally out of it. He hoped that Russell Kirk would go away! When we drove him to the hotel, I had to go with them; I was not allowed to drive home. Voegelin said, “No, we have to talk about this experience.” So, we drove Kirk to the hotel, then we came back and talked about him and the idiocy of American conservatism. How do you account for the extraordinary praise that he would receive from people like Buckley and Kirk? Henningsen: They didn’t understand him. They didn’t understand him, and

he simply shrugged it off. I don’t know whether he was even pleased by this kind of attention. I mean, he knew that these accolades translated into generous financial support for his research from conservative foundations, and Eric was in that sense a Machiavellian: he would simply be friendly and he would accept the money, but he would not accept any conditions. And I think they never made any conditions. Whatever money they gave him was given in support of his work. I don’t know why these people did what they did. I mean, there were a lot of people who supported him financially: one of his admirers was with General Motors, and he gave money through a foundation he was associated with. Again, Henry Salvatori and the conservative clique in California felt this man was unusual. I do not think they understood him at all. But you have to hand it to them that they were willing to fund it. I mean, when you compare that to the history of German philosophy at the end of the eighteenth and the beginning of the nineteenth centuries, how all of these great thinkers had to be tutors, how they searched around for money here and there, and how shabbily they were treated: here you have a fascinating bourgeois behavior that is generous and supportive of philosophy without making any demands. It’s extraordinary.

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Could we talk about the desire of American conservatives to appropriate Voegelin for their own purposes? Sandoz: That’s a good question. The German students like to point out that

they are all Social Democrats and essentially liberal, just as Voegelin himself. The answer to the question is that Voegelin became primarily known in this country on the basis of The New Science of Politics. And The New Science of Politics levels an absolutely withering critique at all of the left-wing ideologies. The simple argument is that the essence of modernity is Gnosticism, that to the ordinary intellectual, Gnosticism is a Christian heresy. Therefore, if you are slaying the dragons of Gnosticism, from the standpoint of a traditionalist or a believing Christian or someone who is essentially a middle-ofthe-road type of common-sense American, this notion would lead one to suppose, “Here’s a guy who’s on our side.” For all these reasons, there is an appeal to conservatives. So, it is both right and wrong that he is mislabeled as a conservative. He’s a conservative in the sense that he wishes to preserve civilization against the onslaught of the barbarians, whichever political hue the barbarians might assume. I remember Russell Kirk’s review of Order and History in the Yale Review, which was published when the first three volumes came out. It was one of the most glowing reviews he had ever received. Or Gerhart Niemeyer’s early reviews—these are people who were essentially political conservatives. So, there may not be a conservative dimension to Voegelin, but there is a conserving one. Twenty-five or thirty years ago in American politics, this conserving dimension was fundamentally not ideological. Did he ever talk to you directly about the ambivalence of being a public figure, about preferring not to be, but then, nevertheless, being open to notice by conservatives that he had written these very important books? Sandoz: I think he was certainly tempted when Richard V. Allen was national security adviser in the Reagan White House; he was very tempted. He felt as though he were in somewhat the same position, or was about to be, that Plato was in when he went off to Syracuse to become an adviser to the tyrant. In other words, there was a feeling that he was in the anteroom of power and that views that he held would gain an audience beyond the very restricted academic circle his views had penetrated. He was not really averse to having his views influence the conduct of affairs, but he knew that he himself did not want to get into the position of being a political force per se because he had other work to do.

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Richard V. Allen: While he was at the Hoover Institution, Voegelin was

intensely interested in what went on inside the White House and the administrations in which I served. He wanted to know the inside story. He really loved it: “Tell me this, tell me that.” He’d get that big cigar out and say, “Now, tell me: What did Nixon do here? And Reagan?” Had you always been more interested in practical political things than science? Allen: All my life. As a matter of fact, when I chose the discipline of political science, I was naïve enough to think that it prepared one for a career in politics. Nothing could be further from the truth!

You went to Munich, you enrolled in Voegelin’s seminars, you met some of his assistants. What did you study? Allen: Well, Professor Voegelin, I think, wanted to see what I could do rather

than assign me any topic. I was an American—I wasn’t the first American, as Ellis Sandoz had been there before me. I told Voegelin basically what I wanted to do, but I was somewhat intimidated by him, and I didn’t want to imply that I was less than completely dedicated. But on the other hand, he knew that my interests were different. One day I was driving him some place in Munich—he didn’t have a car, or if he did, he didn’t use it to go to the office. I asked him if I could give him a lift, and he said yes. On the way, he said, “Allen, you know what I think you ought to do?” “What’s that, Professor?” “I think that you ought to go into business and get rich and support people like me!” I didn’t know whether to be offended at that or flattered, but I chose to be flattered by it. I said, “Well, that’s a good idea.” Because it turned out, in the end—well, I didn’t go into business as such, but I was able to help him. I didn’t support him, but I was able to help him in a practical way through a series of circumstances. It was interesting that he made that point, because he perceived that I wasn’t sufficiently theoretically inclined. But then I didn’t pretend to be, either! I certainly wasn’t interested in whether he approved of my becoming a practitioner still claiming to be a Voegelin student; I don’t think he really cared one way or the other. He didn’t disdain it as others might have done and say, “Well, it’s worthless.” He knew that I was very interested in practical politics. During the  election, he was very interested in the outcome. If he had a preference, he would have voted Republican, because he didn’t think so much of Kennedy. During that election, I listened to the debates by radio— there was no other way to do it, because there was no television in Europe at the time to receive it live—and I thought that Nixon had thoroughly

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trounced Kennedy in the presidential debate. Voegelin and I talked about it, and the fellows at the Institute were interested in it as well. Then, I was shocked to read in the Herald Tribune the next day that Nixon had lost it, basically because of his television image, not the substance. So, skipping forward to the United States, you were at the Hoover Institution at Stanford when Voegelin was coming to the end of his term in Munich? Allen: I was there in ’. Apparently they weren’t going to renew him because of the polemics and other difficulties to which I was not privy and about which I was really uninformed in detail. Life was getting difficult there—the era of “political correctness” set in a lot earlier in Germany than it did here.

He found the Hoover attractive? Allen: Oh, he jumped at it. He wasn’t going to be able to set up a similar institute here [in America]. In fact, he probably didn’t want to. No one was going to bankroll him, because I think the discipline in the States also was trending more toward the positivist side. But, yes, of course: it fit precisely his needs. It emerged quite quickly; it wasn’t something that he pondered for a long time.

How did it happen? Allen: Well, it was a fluke and an accident, but a stroke of great good fortune for Voegelin. It is important to remember that the person who was associated with Voegelin going to Hoover was Glenn Campbell. Without Glenn Campbell, it never would have happened. Glenn Campbell was a great and magnificent leader. There are a lot of people who are critical of him now, but whatever else Glenn Campbell was, he was a great leader of the Hoover Institution. He was a great money raiser, and his fundamental viewpoint was, “I’ve got to raise the money; I’m going to run this place. All you academicians, you crazy Fellows down there in the basement, you’ve got egos a mile wide. I’m not going to get involved in your ego trips: I’ll just cut you off.” And he would just cut them off at the knees when they would come to him whining and whimpering. They didn’t have to go out and get the money, but they would bitch about office space and anything else. Glenn knew how to manage egos and prima donnas. Glenn Campbell took me down to Los Angeles, and we made several calls. One was to Henry Salvatori, a great man in his own right, a man without whom much that has happened in this world would not have happened. Glenn was describing a project to Henry Salvatori at lunch—I think it was at

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the Los Angeles Country Club. Salvatori was a self-made, bootstrap geologist, a second-generation Italian who had discovered a seismic method or instrumentation to indicate where oil is—in other words, an instrument that was very, very useful. He then sold it to some of the major oil companies and made hundreds of millions of dollars, perhaps more. Salvatori was not very interested in what Glenn Campbell was offering as a program worthy of funding, but Glenn was not quite picking up the signals. And I didn’t know Henry very well at that time, but I could see that this was, well, a plain, straightforward man who wasn’t buying what Glenn was selling! Finally, he said, “Glenn, I’m just not interested in this. It doesn’t interest me at all.” Glenn was by now a little dejected, discouraged, and fell silent. So, I just turned the conversation in another direction. I said, “I studied under one of the greatest philosophers of modern times, a man of the stature of Arnold Toynbee. A man who is conservative.” Salvatori perked up. “Is that right?” I said, “Yes. He’s in Germany and right now, I know he’s considering coming back to the United States. I just hope he ends up at the right place.” Salvatori said, “What’s he got lined up?” I said, “He wouldn’t confide that in me, necessarily, but he’s really a great man.” At this time, I had just turned in my dissertation and was in frequent touch with Voegelin. He said, “Well, would he come to the Hoover Institution?” Glenn could see that I had the ball and was running with it at that point, and though we had not discussed this project, he let me go on. So, Salvatori said, “Now something like that would really interest me!” He was in that kind of mood that day! I said to myself, “Okay, now let’s go ahead and close this deal right now.” Henry Salvatori said, “Well, would $, cover such a project?” I hesitated, then looked at Glenn, who said, “Yes, I think it would.” I now had to check and see if this would actually be of interest to Voegelin, and of course, it was. I can remember when I wrote the letter for Glenn— Glenn was always for bringing to Hoover anyone who was good and great. That’s why Milton Friedman came; that’s why George Schultz is there; that’s why these incredible people such as Robert Conquest are there. It’s the mother lode, there’s no question about it! Glenn’s ability and his willingness to bring people and to bring them without a lot of administrative headaches—that was the Campbell master touch. Glenn always told me that if Voegelin would go there, he would get essentially the same treatment that he would give to the others, except that Glenn wouldn’t give it as roughly; he would say “no” in a nice way. And occasionally Glenn would become annoyed with him. Voegelin would come in to make some demand, wanting a larger allocation for research or more money or

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something like that. And Glenn would call me and say, “You know what? Genug was in!” This all stems from a conversation we were having years ago when Voegelin first started bugging Glenn. Voegelin had a little bit of protection with me. I wasn’t a guerrilla, but Glenn and I are very close, and I never lapsed in my support and fealty to Glenn. So, he would always take that into account. I once told him that he ought to say simply, “enough,” but to say it in German, “Genug!” And he would say, “oh, Genug was here to see me the other day.” And I would say, “have you had genug of Genug?” But Voegelin lived out his days, I think, rather happily at Stanford. He was as close to being in heaven as he possibly could have been in the declining years of his life. He had a wonderful home on the campus; I even helped him secure the mortgage. He had one of Stanford’s academic mortgages at about  percent for forty years—a giveaway. And Lissy, his lovely wife, was extremely happy there. He pretended that her comfort wasn’t important at all, but in fact it was very important to him. And I thought I had fulfilled my obligation to help the man who had done so much for me. Voegelin didn’t do a lot for me practically speaking: he didn’t open any doors or guide me to any jobs. But he did give me an “in” to a lot of the world and certainly to the world of scholarship. I reckoned I had done my duty by ensuring that he was comfortable and wasn’t dislodged. So, that’s the story. Communication Problems The Hoover Institution is at Stanford, but not of Stanford? H. Trimpi: That’s the way it’s always been. It should be a happy relationship.

The problem is that it is so widely regarded as being extremely conservative, and the campus is very liberal. People at the Hoover are usually not attached to any department. They are researchers. But Voegelin so easily could have been, if the department had wanted him just to be a regular lecturer. I always told him it was a serious mistake of Stanford not to give him an actual forum in which regularly to lecture, at least an adjunct professorship or something in the political science department. We ourselves a couple of times tried to arrange talks. One lecture was sponsored by the English department. It was always a great pleasure to hear about what he happened to be working on. He was given Room  right next to the English department and maybe thirty-five people: first-year graduate students and faculty. Very informal. I remember his talk and was hoping that there would be some interesting questions. Some professor, who I’m pretty

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sure was hostile to what he had said, ended up saying to Eric, “Who is a philosopher? Who do you think is a philosopher?” Eric just sort of took a step forward on the platform and said, “I’m a philosopher.” And he said it in such a way that it was an illustration of what he talked about and the approach he took was what he meant by the philosophic life. Teaching, the philosophic life, was what he meant. He was irritated with this particular audience because they were not an audience that was ready to learn. They were ready to label him in some way, and this is what I think got to him. The other experience was much more successful: when the Intercollegiate Studies Institute invited him to come. This was before I knew him very well. It was the equivalent of a full course, and he spoke on what his current work was. At that time, he was working on the discovery he had made about the lineage—he was working on what he called historiogenesis. He began thinking that the Israelite record of their experience of history was unique, but he had found the same thing in work in Egyptian tomb texts. He simply got up there and started to talk about it. Again, it was completely off the cuff, but you had the sense you always had when you’ve got a great teacher. He isn’t giving you anything he’s ever said before; he’s thinking out loud. I must say, that particular group—a few of them at the university were “Voegelinians”—was full of very, very eager, sympathetic young people. I could tell by the questions they were asking. This audience was in tune with him and what he was saying. It was a stellar lecture experience, I’d say. He should have been doing that on a regular basis. Did he ever talk to you about his detractors and critics? H. Trimpi: Well, I got to know him in the years he was having few altercations.

He never dwelled on that kind of thing, except with sort of surprise. You know, you’re in the world where you’re supposed to take things seriously; and each time he went to a conference where he was not taken seriously, it always seemed to surprise him. But he was always hopeful, which is why I say he was a bit of an optimist. Because he would go to conferences, and he was again surprised that they didn’t really want to consider these issues seriously; they had some agenda. But never, never did I see in him the quality I have seen in some other teachers whom I respect. Some have had a great deal of bitterness, but he seemed not to have that quality at all. There was never any moaning over professorships in the department. L. Voegelin: Somebody called us. I remember that very well. He told Eric that he could not give any more lectures at Stanford because he could not speak

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proper English. It was not his accent: he was accused of using words and names that are absolutely unknown, such as Plato and Aristotle. So, that was the end of it. Eric never gave another lecture there. Caringella: I know that Heraclitus and Parmenides were two of the names that students found very confusing, but Eric found it very disturbing that he would have to write all these names on the board. Some of the students who stayed really loved the course. Some students got a lot out of it. But the ordinary, run-of-the-mill student, the good old B+ Stanford student who had to do this as a requirement, took the opportunity to write poor evaluations. What’s really awful or maybe pathetic about this is that, when they telephoned him to tell him he was fired, they got some low-ranked hatchet person to read him the rules. L. Voegelin: It was a secretary. Caringella: A secretary. Nobody else had the guts. W. Trimpi: I found a number of problems with his terminology. I thought he

could have tried to avoid terminology that would have misleading connotations for contemporary English speakers. For example? W. Trimpi: Oh, words like transcendental, words like transcendence. Words for which I kept hoping that he would be able to find different words. Because these words, for a young American scholar, have strong connotations of very different intellectual worlds.

Emerson? W. Trimpi: Yes, exactly! You put your finger on it there!

I always had associated the problem of terminology with the German intellectual tradition, especially with Husserl. W. Trimpi: Right, right. He told me—and this was not the only situation, but it’s a good example—that he was constantly fighting jargon of various kinds. But in attempting to avoid jargon, he fell into it, because he would transliterate certain kinds of (usually Greek) words. He always said he used such words in order to escape worse types of jargon, in order to encourage people to go back and look at the roots of these words. Which is a perfectly legitimate thing, but a hindrance for people. But he did not talk much about philological matters. His approach was trying to find, not to resolve, problems in texts.

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He wanted to find a living vocabulary that he could discuss and that he could use. Caringella: Voegelin wasn’t averse to common-sense language. But particu-

lar points, he felt, would be much more clearly presented if you understood their first use. But this most often was not in a language such as English, but in an old language such as Greek. So, to get to the Greek symbolism and remind people of that original experience, you use the Greek word. He especially had disdain for professors who made these kinds of objections, because for him, they had never read a page of Plato in their life. Even though they might be teaching Plato, they didn’t know Greek! They were dependent on translators. On the other hand, he said people with real minds could get the point reading through translations and not be so dependent on philological pretensions. But for himself as a scholar, it required him to be as true to the philology as possible. The symbols were in sentences in Greek, and those sentences were in certain historical contexts and political contexts, and that was the area that he was exploring. My impression—and maybe you can correct me if it is inaccurate—is that he was very serious in his work. And one always has the feeling, particularly reading the early drafts of later texts, that he was trying with great difficulty and concentration to get a phrase or concept or argument precisely the way he wanted it to be. And he was not in any way sloppy. Robert Heilman: In no way did he endeavor to adjust the concept to the going ways of thought, the going vocabularies or anything else.

You seem to have taken him to task on that a few times. Heilman: Well, that’s too strong a term. He would give me these things to

read, these manuscripts of articles, and at least once of a book. And I would occasionally make a suggestion about getting a particular phrasing a little more idiomatic. It was his method of writing: what you had was essentially a translation of German thought. When I was at Stanford, I believe I looked at one of the manuscript copies, and I recognized your writing. It was a different calligraphy and hand than his. Heilman: It wasn’t calligraphy in any way!

No, it wasn’t calligraphy, quite right, but it was beautiful writing. You had written him a letter, and it discussed the correct use of prepositions. I think you said

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something to the effect that, very often, German speakers in particular have difficulty with prepositions in English. Heilman: Not so much difficulty in getting it correct as in getting it

idiomatic. And I thought at times—I can’t remember any examples now— that his choices were running counter to English idioms. He was always terribly grateful, whether or not he adopted what I had proposed. He did combine tremendous courtesy with tremendous independence on the final decisions! For example, he used frequently the phrase “tension toward.” And I didn’t know whether he meant “extension toward” or “reaching toward.” I remember the first time I read that term. I was in graduate school, and I didn’t know what he meant at all. Heilman: I still am not sure. In other words, is it a conscious reaching toward,

or is it just an unconsciously drifting toward? My interpretation—and I may be wrong on this—is that it is an intentional intention toward. And the context that I put it in, in order to understand, was phenomenology and Husserl. I remember Professor Hallowell, who was my teacher, also didn’t like his use of transcendence. He said, “You can find a better word.” And Voegelin wrote to him and said, “Then give me a better word, and I’ll use it.” But he couldn’t come up with one. Webb: Voegelin once told me that Robert Heilman had objected to the use of

the word substance because he thought it sounded like something like shoe polish. I was surprised, because I had kind of a scholastic training at one time, and the word substance is quite natural. But Heilman didn’t know this use at all. And Voegelin wanted to keep it as a technical term. Something else I can tell you about his technical terms was the glossary. In the back of my book, there is this glossary. Well, that was done because Heilman suggested it. Heilman told me, “He’s really hard to read; it would help a lot if you had a glossary that told people what these terms mean.” So, I made up the glossary. When I finished it, I sent it to Voegelin to see if it looked OK to him, and he basically indicated very briefly that he didn’t see any objection to any of the definitions I’d given there. After the book was published, Paul Caringella told me that Voegelin was very enthusiastic about it: this was the first book that had come out on him, and he was very pleased to have a book on himself at all. He bought something like fifteen copies to give to various friends. Paul said that there was just one thing about my book that he didn’t like, and that was the glossary.

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I said, “Well, how so? I showed it to him beforehand. He could have told me if I had something wrong with the definitions.” And he said, “No, it wasn’t that there was anything wrong with the definitions. It was that there shouldn’t be such a thing because people should know what these words mean.” To me, this actually was very significant. What I found when I was working on his stuff—and remember this was a time when there wasn’t very much published on him—was that I had to figure out what he meant by a lot of terms. What I found was that his use of these terms was often kind of personal. Not that that’s not legitimate, but there was this odd discrepancy between his essentially adapting terms to his own use, then using them to try to write stuff that he was hoping to communicate to people, and then objecting to an effort to try to enable people to try to understand what he meant. He just basically would say, “Well, if they don’t know it already they’re ignorant; you shouldn’t waste your time trying to explain it.” Lippucci: I remember one time we were having dinner with him and his

wife. And Hegel was on his hit list. I could see where it was legitimate to attack Marxism. But I really thought that he had done an injustice to Hegel; Hegel can be read differently. I know that most people read him as a historicist, but I had just sat in on a seminar that had six political philosophy professors and six graduate students in that field. We went through the Phenomenology. I, as a graduate student, had just read it; we all didn’t agree on how to read Hegel. The way I read Hegel was that every time you thought you had understood and could move to a higher level, you found out that you were wrong. If you look at it as always finding out that you have made a mistake, it’s not like you’ve got a great history of progress, because you have just made another mistake. So, where can you say, “I was right”? I said to Voegelin at dinner, “It seems to me that you have taken the very best that Hegel has to offer for yourself and have reduced him to being this ideologue.” He didn’t answer me. My feeling was that he thought I was being rude. He never even looked like he was upset with me. He had a very impassive face and it was almost like, “Well, she’s just this ignorant graduate student who is asking me this rather rude question and the best thing I can do, since she was so nice and brought me food when I was sick and had a dinner party for me, is just not to reply.” So, that kind of got me to thinking, “Well, he’s not answering.” I said to him, “When you were teaching in Germany, were your students afraid to ask you questions?” He was silent for a moment, and then he said, “Yes.” I forget the words he used, but he admitted that, yes, he thought he

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scared his students. He didn’t apologize for it, but he could see that I wasn’t scared to ask him a question. So, he didn’t answer that question. There was another thing that he always steadfastly denied. I would say, “You seem to me to be a mystic” after seminar session or something, and he would say no. I thought that the texts he was looking at were texts that resembled texts written by mystics. You know, you could meditate on these texts and they would open you up to the divine ground. So, I thought that he was something of a mystic. But he would steadfastly deny that he was a mystic. I hate to have to embarrass myself, but after he left the University of Texas, the next meetings we had in political science were in Chicago. There was a gigantic room of people where he spoke. It was like a sea of people in a very big rectangular room, and I was sitting very far away. After he said what he had to say—which I can’t remember now—he asked if anyone had any questions. No one raised a hand. So, I stood up and I said, “You have just been with us in Texas and I asked you a number of times whether you were a mystic. And you always said, ‘no.’” I said, “You still seem to me to be a mystic. So, I wanted just to ask you again!” Then I sat down, and he gave this answer, the whole routine about why he wasn’t a mystic and about rationality and all the dangers of mysticism. At that point, I felt so bad. My whole body—I felt like I had violated our friendship by asking him that question in public. I thought, “Sandy, you know you go pretty far, but this time you went too far.” So, later, I went up to him and I said, “I’m really sorry I asked you that question,” or something similar. He grabbed me and hugged me. Then later he said, “Look, there is this art exhibit. Let’s go see it.” He took me out of the hotel and we got in a taxi, and he took me to some art exhibit. He said he had been wanting to see this art exhibit, and I was just so grateful that he wasn’t going to write me off after what I had done, and I was really, of course, very happy to be invited. So we went off to this art exhibit at the Art Institute of Chicago. We got to the art exhibit and started walking around the exhibit together and looking at paintings. I felt kind of funny, you know? I was picturing him going off into the desert to see these works of art and wondering, “What’s he getting out of these paintings?” They were abstract works of art. I remember we stood in front of one canvas. It had some sort of little creatures on it; they were abstract little people. I remember pointing to one and saying, “I think that this fellow looks rather like you!” He just looked at me. I don’t think he was used to having conversations with people like me! He just laughed, he said, “Let’s have lunch!” So, we sat down and we had lunch.

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Did he speak to you about his own spiritual experiences? W. Trimpi: Almost never. That would be one of the topics I might have been

a little bit uncomfortable with myself, thinking that I wouldn’t understand him. He would talk about what he meant by the continuity of mystical experience in purely historical terms through various writers. He would constantly reassert, “Look, you can’t bypass what these people say about their mystical experience.” But I really would stress that this almost always was placed in an historical context, and nearly all of the experiences that he would cite that various writers had written about in the past would very specifically be oriented to a different time, a different text. You know, Saint Augustine was one of them. Those conversations were very specific. Voegelin must have had some experiences of the transcendent Beyond and the problem of the divine in order to interpret Plato and Aristotle and the Gospels and Saint Thomas and so on as he did. But there doesn’t seem to be much direct exegesis of the experience itself. Gebhardt: There were these meditative experiments in Anamnesis where he

tried to recover ordering experiences. I think it was a meditative reflection as he presented them there, as remembering first experiences that would have been experiences of order. He meditated on reflective texts; he did that from the beginning. But he did it in a sense in order to establish the reality of those experiences and to verify the constitutive principle of his work. Not so much [in] a personal way, one in any way enthusiastic or emotional, not in the sense of letting himself get touched by the transcendent or something like that. You know this very well: if he says, “I am a mystical philosopher,” everybody thinks, “Now we’ve got him.” Do you know this essay on Max Weber that [Peter] Opitz had published, this lecture he gave in Munich? Read the last page, where he discusses the question Marianne Weber asked Max Weber about his Verstehen. There you will find that Max Weber maintains a detachment from immediate reality. He has the ability to detach himself. That’s exactly what Voegelin did. In this sense, then, he thought Max Weber was a mystic. Max Weber was a key figure in his life; that’s what he meant by what he said about the meditative detachment that would open up what he called the “non-existing dimension of reality.” He even assumed that exactly this was the secret of Max Weber. That’s what one has to consider: it was not an

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enthusiastic, manic religious experience, because he was not very religious. He had never been to church, and I do not think that he read the Gospels from that point of view. Sandoz: He thought he was participating in an ascent of a sort, and it’s too bad that we can’t get closer than that. But I don’t know of anybody who ever got closer to it. Caringella might have, since he had the religious background to do it, but Caringella has this comedian way about himself. I’m not sure how much Eric would confide in him that way. And Henningsen was ingratiating, but he never struck you as having had a profound spiritual discipline himself. And so, to whom could Voegelin have disclosed these things? There may be somebody to whom he disclosed these things, or talked about these things. I think it might be Lissy, but I don’t think she wants to talk about it. I once asked her because I had read the early stuff, and you go back and you read the very early writings and you read what’s in Volume I, and there is this spiritual concern. He wades through the law and that kind of stuff, but when he gets to the Son of God, this concern in James and Santayana for the dimension of the spirit is what he was always interested in. Well, where does he get this from? Can you explain this? I mean, this is not something that suddenly showed up late in life. It was there in , in his book on America, which is pretty early. The guy was only twenty-seven when the book was published, so he must be about twenty-five, twenty-six when he writes it. It was there from the very beginning. Where did this intensity of interest in things of the spirit come from?

In the Garden Hollweck: Sometimes he would sit outside in the late afternoon after his nap.

And a couple of times I would come across the courtyard, and he would sit there with a cigar, and there was something in his face that was very contemplative, absolutely peaceful. Something I noticed was a quietness of meditation that seemed to be habitual. Caringella: After he was in Japan, he had to have a Zen garden planted just beyond his own sleeping quarters. He used to look out on the garden or to walk out into it. It’s not a huge place to pace around in, but he could stand there and look at how the rocks and little trees and shrubs were developing and even do a little gardening.

Eric had a Zen garden, a rock garden.

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L. Voegelin: Yeah, in the back. It has grown over, of course.

Did you go to Japan? L. Voegelin: Yes, but that was not the reason for the garden. He just wanted

to have some small place that was separated from everything else. We had doors, too; they are gone now. And he went out from his bedroom and he wanted to have that for himself. Did he explain the Zen garden to you? Sandoz: Well, it seemed a little far-fetched to me. He had this Japanese gar-

den and apparently took a certain satisfaction in some of the esoteric aspects of it. But it was never clear to me that he did much in that garden besides go out and look at it now and then, and I can’t imagine that he gardened it much. Well, it was rocks . . . Sandoz: Yeah, rocks. And little Oriental shrubs—what do you call those trees?

Bonzai trees? Sandoz: Yeah, yeah. He didn’t garden to my knowledge, but he’d take walks. He’d take a walk and smoke a cigar and that was his recreation. And his other recreations were no recreations. To my knowledge, he didn’t play cards, didn’t play chess, didn’t play golf. Lippucci: I don’t know why I’m thinking of this, but in his back yard there was this little tree out there that grows like an inch every fifty years. He was so proud of that. I thought that that meant something really important to him, like an organic metaphor for progress of some kind—you know, about how long it takes to make progress and we have to be patient. Vondung: He was very proud of his Zen garden. At that time, I didn’t know

much about it; I didn’t understand what it was all about and what was the special thing about Japanese gardens. Meanwhile, I’ve been to Japan and I’ve seen many Japanese gardens. I know of course that Eric’s Japanese garden— I don’t want to offend him, but it was far from a Japanese garden. It was to begin with too full of plants for this tiny area. Real Japanese Zen gardens are even more somber: just gravel, maybe one rock or two and maybe one or two trees in it. But he was proud of it.

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Lasting Images If you were to do an anemnetic experiment about your time with Eric Voegelin, what would be the first thing that would come to your mind? Vondung: An image of Eric Voegelin and me sitting on the patio at his house

having a drink. Voegelin wouldn’t drink so much alcohol, but he would provide me with a gin and tonic or something. Sitting there, I still can see the beautiful magnolia, no, not magnolia, camellia bushes: beautiful red blossoms in the spring. And we would be talking about, for instance, megalithic culture or some other problem. Sitting there in a leisurely way. The atmosphere, the surroundings belong to this memory: the air, the warmth of spring, late afternoon in California and all these surroundings that belonged to such a Californian atmosphere. And within this situation, talking about scholarly problems. If you were to have a lasting reminiscence of Voegelin, what would it be? But with your impression having been so divided in Munich and Palo Alto, you probably have two! Sitzler: There are two images, that’s very true. The first is of the Kleine Aula

at the University of Munich and his lectures on consciousness and the philosophy of consciousness. He is moving from the podium with a small piece of paper in his hand and walking back and forth to the right of the podium. He is truly peripatetic: he walks back and forth and holds his lecture and really develops these highly complicated trains of thought. That is the one image. And the other is really from this trip to Nevada. It is of him standing there at this petroglyph on a cliff wall. Voegelin is standing with one leg extended, and he’s about to climb up. In this picture, his enthusiasm is very present, also his “thrill of the hunt.” He is a discoverer and researcher in this sunny landscape. Behind him is desert, which is for me a very appealing, very positive, sight anyway. And he is standing there with his grey eyes surveying things and explaining everything. Those are the two images that come immediately into my mind.

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The Call Why did Voegelin found the institute in Munich? Peter J. Opitz: About  or ’, you can find letters where he expresses inter-

est in going back to Europe. He was invited by Horkheimer and Adorno to give some lectures in Frankfurt, where a chair was open. Some of the professors there tried to get Voegelin to come, but he refused. Two years later, when the plans were drawn up to establish the Munich institute, he was willing to come. He wasn’t the first choice, but had the strong support of Alois Dempf, author of Sacrum Imperium. Michael Naumann: Did anyone ever tell you the story about how Adorno and

Horkheimer tried to lure him to Frankfurt? It is an anecdote he told frequently. After the war, when they were rebuilding the Institute for Social Research in Frankfurt, he was invited to come. And he said that he went through Frankfurt, which was in ruins, and he was totally shaken by the sight. He came to visit Horkheimer and Adorno for a dinner, during which they tried to persuade him to join the institute. He said that it was a dinner of the most unbelievable bourgeois, high-class quality; the discussion was about the quality of the wine and the horrors of capitalism! And to see this son of a banker, Horkheimer, and Adorno discussing the horrors of capitalism and to see the unbelievable refinement of that dinner in the middle of misery—that was what persuaded him to stay away. 58

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I’ve heard several different versions of how he was induced to come to Munich, and his reasons for doing so. He was a Boyd Professor of Government at Louisiana State University and that was a good position. LSU was not at the time a particularly great university, but it was respectable. He had a well-established position there, and his major work had just started to come out. But then he left. Florian Sattler: I think he always wanted to come back to Europe. He liked

the idea of working in European libraries, and he knew one person from Vienna who had had to emigrate from Hitler Germany. Alois Dempf was a philosopher, and Dempf had friends in the Bavarian Ministry of Culture, and they decided to invite him. And political science in Germany was something new. All of it was done by émigrés: by Adorno and Horkheimer in Frankfurt, and by Arnold Bergstraesser in Freiberg, for example. They had all gone to the United States and had come back to teach something of what they had learned over there: democracy, the education of a young German generation. Voegelin never was a missionary, but something of that feeling must have been in him as well. There was some politics involved? F. Sattler: Well, I think Voegelin’s call came quite late. The other political sci-

ence institutes in Frankfurt and Cologne had been established in the early fifties. But the house that published Science, Politics, and Gnosticism [Koesel] was a Catholic publisher; it did textbooks for kids and so on. And there was the place of the church within the university to consider: there is a treaty between the Vatican and the Bavarian state that one of the professors of philosophy must uphold a commitment to the Church. Alois Dempf held this Catholic philosophy chair. Dempf was not politically minded, even though he was a liberal Catholic. So, I think they hired Voegelin as a great scholar, not as a conservative ideologue. Why was the Bavarian government interested in Voegelin? Hans Maier: It was, as far as I remember, mainly the idea of Alois Dempf.

But Voegelin was far away, in Louisiana. Maier: Voegelin came back often from the United States. People knew about

the New Science of Politics and about his articles. There were also articles in German newspapers, in the Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung. In the political situation of the time, Voegelin was preferred for this chair by conservative Catholics because they knew his work. And he was accepted by the left-liberal

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government because they thought that a returning emigrant could not be conservative.

Founding the Institute Tilo Schabert: When Voegelin came to Munich, there was no institute; there

was nothing. So, he contacted colleagues in the field whom he trusted to recommend to him young people whom he could appoint as assistants. That is how he got acquainted with Jürgen Gebhardt: Gebhardt had been a doctoral student with another great scholar, Franz Schnabel. Peter Weber-Schäfer was a student in Chinese studies, and he was also recommended to Voegelin. Heinz Laufer had been recommended by Friedrich August Freiherr von der Heydte, who was at that time a great jurist in Würzburg. So, that was the first generation. The second generation was Peter Opitz, Manfred Henningsen, and Peter von Sivers: they started as research assistants, so this was the first generation of real students of Voegelin. They had attended his lectures and seminars and then became his assistants. Why did Voegelin found the institute? Gebhardt: First, I think, he wanted to get out of Baton Rouge. He could not

have had any grand plans for the chair at first, with only two assistants and a secretary. He was supposed to develop a curriculum dealing with what “political education” should be. What should be the most important task for future gymnasium teachers? Then, of course, he wanted to introduce Germany to the highest level of political science. He thought it was necessary to reintroduce a scientific political philosophy in Germany. He agreed in some respects with Arnold Bergstraesser: they cooperated on the basis of a philosophical agreement regarding Aristotelian political science, a science of order. That was the first thing he wrote for the student catalogue. At that time, nobody understood it: three pages of “what is political science?” It was strictly Voegelinian, comprehending classical political philosophy with Aristotle, Western civic government, the study of East Asian and Islamic civilizations. Classical political philosophy would always be the core, and built upon this would be Christian, Islamic, and East Asian political thought. That was his concept; that is what he thought should be taught, and that is what he did teach. But it was not what the ministry had expected him to teach; it had expected him to teach German government and after that whatever else he wanted to pick up.

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What were his ambitious for the institute? Martin Sattler: Papers at the University of Munich describe his ideas of what the institute should be—long texts with many pages and all kinds of graphs. Nothing has been written so far about this grand design. There were to be seven professors, and it was to be an undertaking that covered all civilizations. And some of that was realized: Peter von Sivers did medieval Islamic work, Peter Weber-Schäfer was in charge of Japan and China, and my brother, Florian, was in charge of Spain and Latin America. His grand design then had to be scaled down, but the design of the institute had the underlying ambition of replacing the official German Staatslehre with something new. That was his intent right up to the end, when he left in .

But that is not what he was hired to do. M. Sattler: Well, he was hired to introduce American political science to Bavaria. But for him, this meant, “Aha, through the establishment of this new discipline, I can finally change the official interpretation of public order into something that is more demanding and philosophical.” That’s the way he saw it. Allen: I think that by the time I encountered Voegelin, he was really at the

zenith of his practical power in the sense of running the institute. He had a chair at the University of Munich and the institute was pretty well funded, and he had a grand scheme for the institute. At least, he told a few of us privately that he was going to get into everything, into all sorts of aspects of what would be considered a modern political science institute. It would have area studies and the like, so I could tell that his interests in those kind of things were also real, that he wanted to have something that was complete in every sense of the word. Yet he wanted to reserve that inner circle of theory, perception, and the search for truth for himself and his closest associates.

The Daily Routine Henningsen: He always had the habit of being in the office early in the morning. At that time, Peter Weber-Schäfer was still in the bathtub and Jürgen Gebhardt was in a deep sleep, so it was a very, very complicated ritual to get people there. He never understood that, when people wouldn’t be there when he was there; he sometimes got furious. For some reason, he had become Americanized in that respect; he was not Viennese at all.

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Gebhardt: We would come in the morning, and he would say, “Have you

read this?” Of course, he knew that nobody had read it. He would come into the office and talk to his students or assistants, would talk about a new development in national politics or something. Everybody was impressed until the institute began to subscribe to the Herald-Tribune. He had had the HeraldTribune delivered to his home every morning before breakfast, and he would read the most recent edition of the Herald-Tribune, then come to the institute to tell everybody what he had read in the paper. He came at nine to the office for administrative work, would lecture on Tuesday all day. I think on Wednesday or Monday was another lecture. There were three courses, one seminar and two lecture courses. At nine o’clock, he would do administrative work, then he would go home for lunch and then nap after lunch and then take a walk. He would go to a coffeehouse and would eat a piece of cake, then he would go home and work until two in the morning or something like that—before dinner and after dinner. When he did not go to the office, he started work at nine o’clock. But he would still take a nap and, after the nap, a walk. His wife didn’t like him to go to the coffeehouse, but he would always eat at least one piece of cake, have a cup of coffee, and then go home to do some more work. Did he ever gossip? Opitz: He liked to hear gossip, as did Lissy. Manfred Henningsen was a main

source of gossip. He had a gift for it, and he knew everything. While other assistants of Voegelin were still sleeping, Manfred would already be at the institute, and Voegelin would be very interested to hear what Manfred had to say. When he opened the door and gave an account of the weekend, Voegelin enjoyed that. He taught both lectures and seminars? Opitz: Yes. He usually had two lectures: one on Tuesday morning, one on

Wednesday morning. And he had two seminars at night: Tuesday night and Wednesday night. Usually courses on philosophy of history, an introduction to political theory, an introduction to American government, sometimes the theory of revolution and sometimes classical political philosophy—especially Plato and Aristotle.

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The Star: Lectures Claus-Ekkehard Bärsch: I first heard of him in ’ or ’. I was studying law,

Staatslehre, and it was very boring. Voegelin had just given a lecture about political institutions in America, including the Constitution. At his first lecture, I was convinced by him. But I was also opposed to him—convinced by him and opposed to him at once. I was attracted, because he knew a lot! Not only about political theory, but about institutions and the way institutions cooperate under the American Constitution compared to the German institutions and the German Constitution. I learned more about the German Constitution, the Grundgesetz, in this lecture than I did from the regular lectures by German professors for public and constitutional law! But at that time, I was also influenced by left-wing student organizations. So, there was a conflict. What my friends from Schwabing and the Liberaler StudentenBund discussed in politics was what Voegelin indicated to be sectarian ideology. I was really attracted because Voegelin was very ironic; he really had a sense of humor. He made a lot of allusions and he was very learned about poets and such. His was an ironic style, an ironic wittiness that had a great deal of intellectual spirit. And in my eyes, he looked like the young Gustav Gründgens. Who is Gustav Gründgens? Bärsch: Gustav Gründgens was a famous German actor in the ’s and after

the war. He became famous throughout the world, both with his acting in Mephisto and his work as artistic director of the Hamburg and Düsseldorf theaters. Another thing: usually the German professor gave a lecture and that was it. Voegelin took a break. He smoked a cigar and then it was possible after the break to ask him something. When you said to him, “I didn’t understand this or that,” he answered. He really answered! He was polite. He would say, “Somebody asked me this question and he didn’t understand, so I will repeat it. It was a very interesting question.” Now, I was from East Germany . . . A refugee? Bärsch: I was a refugee, yes. And I was hungry for spirit! And this was a pro-

fessor who had spirit, thank goodness. That was why I was really very impressed.

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Michael Hereth: Because I was a partly left-wing student, I was looking for

professors that had not been involved in the Nazi business. At this time, by the way, it wasn’t a question of left or right, but of what your position toward the German past was. And I found that nearly all my professors had prefaces in their works that showed they had been involved in the Nazi ideology. There was Professor Berber in international law; he had been in the Ribbentrop office and had justified the aggression against Poland. There was Professor Mauntz, also in public law, and he was a terrible Nazi! He was both the minister of cultural affairs in Bavaria at that time and a professor of public law; he was my teacher. There were also a lot of economists that had collaborated with the National Socialists. My grandfather had been opposed to National Socialism, and he had brought a lot of Jews into Switzerland at the beginning of the National Socialist era. So, because my moral attitudes had been formed by my grandfather, I was looking for a teacher who would not simply teach me about how to run an economy. Then I found out that there was one who was morally intact, untouchable; his position against National Socialism was clear. It was Eric Voegelin. So, I went to him. Voegelin’s first assistant was Jürgen Gebhardt, with whom I was friends because of the student movement against nuclear armament of the Bundeswehr. So, I knew his assistant. And his assistant ultimately taught me more in the cafeteria than in the seminars. This is how I had access to Voegelin, who was very strange as a person and very far removed from me, but whom I knew to be morally intact. This integrity was in his lectures, too? Bärsch: Sure, sure. To hear him when he gave the lecture course “Hitler and

the Germans” was a key experience. He put a lot of intellectual spirit into it, and it was brilliant. It impressed me very much. He always asked at lectures, “Are there any more questions?” He didn’t want to hear them, of course, but he always asked. I was one of those who wouldn’t let it drop, so I asked once, for example, “I do not understand what revelation has to do with power, because before the revelatory religions came into the world, there was already power, too.” And he said, “Don’t ask such a stupid question! Have you ever read . . . ?”—I don’t know, but some book. Then he said, “After you have read that book, you won’t ask these questions!” This was his way of treating students! I was furious and I wanted to leave. But the assistants told him, “He’s one of ours!” So, in the second part of the lecture he really answered the question.

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What appealed to you about Voegelin’s courses? Friedemann Büttner: He was there to tell me something meaningful. He

opened up windows for me on Plato and Aristotle and on the medieval sectarian movements. His lecture on the American political system was outstanding. The current head of the Berlin Institute of Advanced Studies was in Munich for a year and also heard Voegelin’s lecture on the American political system. For him, it was an unforgettable lecture—the best he had heard in his life. What were his lectures like? Büttner: You had the feeling that this person was not talking about inconsequential matters, but about things that were existentially relevant. At the same time, he was very provocative at a time when empiricist approaches to social sciences were predominant. The ’s and ’s were the period of behavioralism and empirical, analytical, and statistical approaches to political science. But what he saw to be of particular relevance were experiences that are not self-explanatory, but experiences of the ground, of the final source of being. These were religious experiences or experiences that bordered onto the religious, and they didn’t fit into the universe of discourse of many of the young people he was teaching. What also appealed was his critique of the dominant ideology, his ability to show you that many important insights had been gained by people who did not come from the standard fields of political science. For example, if you wanted to understand the Austrian type of fascism before the Nazis, you didn’t refer to any important political scientist or leader, but to the novelists: Broch and Doderer and Musil and Canetti and others. Even though they wrote novels and were not immediately accessible as works of political science, you soon learned that the description of what Doderer called “second reality,” for example, was in fact extremely relevant to understanding social phenomena. One further thing: Voegelin offered a non-Marxist critique of the bourgeois ideology of the time. This was before ’, before the Frankfurt School had expanded beyond Frankfurt. It was a time when there were no serious Marxists anywhere in West Germany, because Marxism seemed to many to be merely a continuation of the ideology of National Socialism. In the German Democratic Republic, for example, it looked as if one group of ideologists had simply been replaced by another, and many people had managed to change their ideology to fit the new situation.

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There is an anecdote Gregor Sebba used to tell about him. After Sebba listened to his first lecture, Voegelin asked him, “How did you like my lecture?” Sebba told him how much he had appreciated it, how much he had learned, and how very interesting it was. But he had the feeling that Voegelin was aiming too high over the heads of the students. To which Voegelin responded,“I’m aiming my words at the place where the heads of my students should be!” Did they eventually grow to reach it? Büttner: Yes, they did. His lectures were always full. There were always two

hundred students at a time when political science had just been established as a field of study and nobody knew what you could do with a degree in political science from the University of Munich. Did you attend the Hitler lectures as well? Büttner: Yes, I remember how furious he was after the diaries of [Percy]

Schramm were published. Schramm had had this introduction to his book published in Der Spiegel, and he said that you couldn’t say anything about Hitler because he was demonic. Voegelin became furious at this and said, “We have to change the program.” So, everybody was sent out to collect articles, and I think Manfred Henningsen was sent out to advertise the lecture. Dagmar Herwig: There were a lot of interesting professors at Munich, but I

focused on Voegelin. Why? It’s very hard to say, actually. In part it was because Voegelin was very much “in” in . He was “in?” Herwig: Yes, yes, he was a star. He was interesting; he said uncommon things. He did not share the political opinions people had at that time in Germany. He came from the United States and had not been here during the Nazi time. So, there were a lot of things that made him very interesting for people who were just nineteen or twenty years old, because we were very much interested in the recent German past. And he was one of those who made a point of discussing it. Everybody came to his lectures on Hitler. He had a very small lecture room at the beginning, but then he had to change to a large one because so many people came. So, there were a lot of reasons to get interested in political science in Munich. Of course, once you went there and listened to him, you were impressed very quickly because he had this broad horizon. He wasn’t teaching one author or one period or one country or one theory, but he had this

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horizon that extended from the beginning of mankind to the recent past. He taught political theory in an unusual way. It was not empirical political science, it was not a theory of government, although he did that too. It was very philosophical, it was historical, it was international. He talked about China, about ancient China and its role, and about Greece and about the modern United States and about the founding fathers of the United States and about the English political theorists of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. So, it was everything, really. At the beginning, it seemed rather unsystematic; even if you were intelligent and had already read quite a few books, it was still far beyond your own horizon. So, at first, we didn’t understand anything—or at least I didn’t. It was just highly interesting. But he was interesting as a person, too. He had a fascinating way of lecturing, moving from left to right and right to left. And he was a very good actor on stage. He was not just standing in the same place for two hours and talking, as some other professors did. He went back and forth and he looked at people and he took out his handkerchief and he blew his nose and he looked out the window. And at times, what he said was very meaningful and at times it was ironic. He was just a star. And he was a very, very good actor. He needed his audience, too. Sitzler: I simply went to a lecture of Professor Voegelin and was fascinated because he spoke entirely freely. And the second fascinosum, something I immediately became angry with myself about, was that I did not understand very much of his lecture.

What lecture was it precisely? Sitzler: That I don’t know anymore. I think it was on political theory, and it could be that it came from this cycle of his, his work on political theory and the history of ideas. The second of his lectures spoke about Mesopotamia, for example, and about classical Greece. I don’t think it was the lecture on the history of philosophy, but it might have been. I didn’t understand much, but I stayed anyway. After two semesters, I gave up my study of communication theory and took up political theory instead. What was fascinating about him was that he spoke completely freely. And because what he said was of high qualitative value, I really paid attention. I was also fascinated because, in the lectures themselves, he developed certain lines of thought; so, we got to experience directly, so to speak, how a great intellect thinks. And that was fascinating. At some points, one could actually perceive that he was working something out as he went along.

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He had a very light Austrian accent and usage. He used foreign words that were still used in Austria but were not used much in Germany. But it was also very thoroughly structured; he usually returned to exactly the same point he wanted to discuss, so that these were no simple diversions through which one felt completely lost. It was very precise and had a clear progression. Schabert: When I went to his public lectures, it was a revelation I shared with other students at the time in Munich, this remarkable impression of someone talking in a very serious way, being earnest on the one hand, but on the other, full of irony and humor and mockery. And of course there was a huge age difference: I was twenty and he was sixty-two. But the way he gave this lecture, he could have been one of us. He was someone being very impertinent—impudent, so to speak. And that appealed to me immensely.

This was the history of political philosophy course? Schabert: Yes, it was the history of political thought in modern times. I still

have the notes: Machiavelli, Bodin. I didn’t understand a great deal. It was before ‘, and the number of students at the University of Munich was much lower than it is today. It was more upper class as well. And the lecture courses were delivered by professors who enjoyed a certain reputation: they taught a central core of studies, also unlike today, when there is no central core at all. Professors other than Voegelin also attracted a large crowd. But Voegelin, because of his field and his refreshing and somewhat ironical, somewhat allusive and entertaining way of giving his lectures, continually attracted people from the city—adults, people of the age of forty or fifty, what the German universities call Gasthörer, “guest students.” You pay a small fee, and then you have the right to get an education. So, there were quite often visitors in Voegelin’s lectures with the first three or four rows of the large lecture room usually occupied by these older people—mostly women, but also men. The younger, regular students sat behind them. Voegelin also attracted some professors, people from other fields. There was a variety of people, ages, and origins in a very traditional lecture for the general public. He kept the attention of his audience throughout the semester. Usually people drop out, but with Voegelin there were very few dropouts. And this was because of his performance and his irony? Someone said they thought this was very American. Schabert: Yes and no. Certainly, it was American to the extent that Voegelin

would speak without books or with only very few notes. As we now know

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from the archives, he had some kind of outline, but he very often extemporized and spoke about things that had just crossed his mind, so that you had the experience of someone sharing the wealth of his thoughts. He walked around, and that is un-German: a good German would speak from behind his podium, like this famous picture of Hegel sticking his head from behind it. Even today, people do it that way. But Voegelin, particularly when he felt he was getting his message across, would walk up and down. And he would have this very interesting body language. Of course, he was attractive then—I mean, attractive as a person. He would put his hand in his suit and, in a very gracious way, he would make these nasty and ironic remarks. He would walk up and down, and sometimes he would see things and address people even with his body language. Particularly when he had some ironic and sharp point to make, he would turn around like a dancer; he would make a kind of pause to enhance the effect and then he would drop the bomb. That was a real performance. That may have been “American.” On the other hand, he was a very European, Continental gentleman in the sense that he wouldn’t make any cheap jokes. He wouldn’t play to the audience in the sense of an entertainer, which I think is sometimes the case at an American university. If you make jokes, you go down a level. But he would be uncompromising in maintaining the high level of his lecture. F. Sattler: You could interrupt the lecture. In Germany, the normal lecture is

a very formal and ritualized thing. You all sit down, and one person sleeps and some others write, and normally there is no dialogue. It was a big risk to ask him, of course, because usually he took you to be a representative of some ideology. Even if you didn’t understand something as a student, he would say, “You are a relativist, you are a Marxist!” Or some other kind of weird ideologue. So, it was a risk! But some of us took the risk and would react to his lectures. Having students put up their hands to ask questions happens in American universities. F. Sattler: To me, he was very much an American. His accent was foreign:

you understood from the first sentence that he was not a native English speaker, but to us German students, he still very much made the impression of being an American professor. So, I took this to be an American habit. But he also had a strong, melodious Viennese accent. Although he was born in Germany, he was ten or eleven when he went to Vienna. As a person born in Munich, you heard immediately that he came from Vienna.

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Vondung: He loved making controversial remarks, loved it tremendously. He

almost never read from the manuscript when he gave lectures. There were only a few exceptions. The semester after he gave the lectures on “Hitler and the Germans,” there was a lecture given the same time every week, and each lecture was given by a different professor. His was about the role of the German universities. He gave one lecture and it was published, as you know. It had a rhetorical polish, as it were, and he had worked out his lecture very formally and read this lecture. The one on Max Weber, I think, was similar. But apart from these lectures, he would speak freely—I think some ideas came during the flow of his speaking. And I still remember the occasion of this lecture: he would look in his notes and then go on speaking and one had the impression that something shocking had just come into his mind. And he would step forward two or three steps, just to the rim of this podium where the lectern was, and he would almost shoot his nasty or sharp remarks at the audience. He would then stand there for a short moment to let it sink in and grin—I still remember the sardonic grin he would have. Florian Seidl: His lectures were thrilling, because the first impression you

had when he stood in front of you at the podium with the blackboard behind him was that it was like dancing. He was really elegant. He was also a little bit vain, I would say. It was like a performance. Sometimes he liked the things he said very much and when he made a good joke, he found it very funny. It was very elegant, the way he stood and delivered it and also his words. He always spoke freely. He made very witty comments too; it was fantastic to listen to him and to hear his thoughts developing. He was very impressive, especially compared to the other German professors you saw at the university. The other thing was that what he said was very convincing. The very special thing was that he [would] start, not from the argument, but from experience. I think that was one of his conventions in order to transcend the Kantian dilemma: he said, “You have to go to the experiences.” And he really could explicate and show you the experiences that led to certain symbols. Hedda Herwig: I visited Munich when I was still going to high school and my

sister was studying at the University of Munich. She took me to his lectures on Machiavelli, and I was shocked. At this time, I was sixteen years old, and he talked quite the way Machiavelli would have, but I had been educated by a Social Democrat family and was really shocked. My sister gave me a copy of The New Science of Politics some months before I finished my Abitur, and I began to read it and felt a response to it, but it was too heavy for me. So, I didn’t want to have anything to do with Voegelin at first!

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Then I began to see Manfred Henningsen—we almost got married. But even though I was Manfred Henningsen’s girlfriend, I still didn’t have much interest. Then Voegelin gave this lecture series, “Hitler and the Germans.” Everyone went to these lectures, and a lot of the younger people were persuaded by them. We had all had this problem with National Socialism, and there was one man who told us, “You have to see it this way, not the usual way.” Half of Munich was there, not only students! I heard this lecture and I liked it. So, I changed my major to political science. What about the older people? What was their response? H. Herwig: They were offended, because he said, “This was not the work of

one man, National Socialism; there was corruption throughout the whole society.” And he picked out some examples. For our generation, it was no problem; we had nothing to lose, so we liked him! But the older ones were offended. Naumann: I went to study political science in Munich in  because I

wanted to become a journalist. But like everybody else in that age group, I also wanted to know why the Third Reich happened and what exactly happened. At that time, Germany was not really introspective. In fact, we were just coming out of an almost fifteen-year phase of a disregard of some of the most blatant criminal aspects of the Third Reich. And my generation didn’t want to live like that any more. So, I went to study political science with no particular professional prospects, only perhaps of becoming a journalist. You just went to university at that time and entered the humanities; you either wanted to become a teacher or to see what might happen. It was totally different from the goal-oriented attitude that you find today. The most memorable event for me was his lecture series on Hitler, which he never put into a book in his lifetime. It was riveting—the first time anything like that had occurred after the war in Germany. I was sitting in the auditorium, which was packed. And a lot of the professors were those whom he called braunes Gesindel, which is the worst you can say about anybody. Gesindel is really bad: scum, brown scum. I’ll never forget it: “Und stellen Sie sich vor: mit diesem braunen Gesindel muß ich mich jeden Monat einmal in der Fakultät treffen!” [And just imagine it: with this brown scum I must have a faculty meeting every month!] Well, it certainly made the papers the next day. This lecture series caused one person particular trouble: Richard Allen. Richard Allen had written a perfectly fine dissertation on the politics of coexistence under Khrushchev. Because of his sources in think tanks and elsewhere,

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he was able to provide numerous revealing quotes of the leading characters of the Khrushchev regime itself and things that were uttered elsewhere in the provinces. It was a wonderful dissertation; there was nothing wrong with it. Unfortunately, it was written for Voegelin, but his co-referent was a man called Raupach. And Raupach failed Allen, although his dissertation was right up his alley, because Raupach had in the past committed himself in written form to a number of classical National Socialist ideologies. He was one of the braunen Gesindels. Dick Allen never knew what hit him. I had to explain all of this to him twenty years later when he was national security adviser to Ronald Reagan. His dissertation failed: it was the only dissertation under Voegelin ever to fail, because he just happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time. This German professor had nothing to defend himself with, but he certainly took his revenge! F. Sattler: I was at the Hitler lectures: it was libel! People were sitting on the

windowsills, on the floor, everywhere. They were very exciting. It was exactly this kind of detail and lack of compromise that I wanted. I was born in the ’s, so I wanted to understand the Nazi times. It is one of the things I still reproach myself for: we should have insisted that Voegelin put it in a book. I’m quite sure that it would have affected both political science in Germany and the intellectual debate in Germany in general, because much of what Germany is still looking for is an understanding of the Hitler catastrophe. And this lecture was very precise and very, very factual. It was outstanding, and it happened before the revolt of the students that started in ’ and ’, so it was really impressive. His lecture on the German university and the Third Reich presented his harsh criticism of the university of the ’s, which did not react against the Nazi movement. Hannah Arendt said that when she was at the University of Heidelberg, you could count on two hands the people who even considered resisting. And Heidelberg was one of the liberal landmarks of the Weimar times! Then he also offered a critique of the university of the ’s and ’s, which failed to reflect on the utter defeat of the German university during the Hitler era. Seminars Schabert: He attracted the largest number of his students through his lecture courses, not his seminars. Here he was, at least in my experience, much more

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restrained and also more offensive. He could be very sharp, very offensive, so he would put people off in seminars. The problem is that, in the seminar, you expect students to want to learn. In the lecture courses, no work has to be done, whereas the seminar is supposed to be a dialogue between professor and students. Students, then, had to work: you don’t want people who haven’t done the necessary preparation or who don’t really know, for instance, the texts to be discussed. Voegelin expected to have people in the seminars with whom he could work almost on an equal level, with whom he could talk, with whom he could discuss the matter at hand. And he depended on getting this from his students. But it didn’t happen very often, and his patience often ran very short. If someone revealed his or her ignorance, he could be very sharp and say, “Well, shut up.” So, the situation in the seminars generally was tense. He was very sensitive, given his experience of National Socialism and the aggressive rhetoric of ideologies. And he was sensitive in general. So, it could happen that someone might be quite innocent but would use a word in what Voegelin believed to be a positivist way, and he would say that that student’s entire way of thinking was ideological. Then he could be very sharp and reprimand somebody and say, “This is a useless word. You haven’t studied. You should go home and study.” That could also happen. What was it like to participate in his seminars? M. Sattler: He would come in with his assistants, and they would all be smoking cigars! There would be a little introduction, then the papers would be presented; somebody would read his paper. The papers would always have to be submitted beforehand to be read by Voegelin or one of his assistants, so it was a second presentation to an audience. And the assistants would watch for a reaction in the room. There were always about twenty-five or thirty people in his seminar. Then, there was a very intense discussion of the paper. There was always a section where the theoretical questions were discussed, and there were long talks about the material used by the scholar to prove his thesis. Voegelin’s way of proceeding in the seminar was very interesting: he would suddenly switch to the subject of a current political crisis. He never understood events as taking place far away from the theoretical material; he would connect the theoretical subject of the talks with everyday events. This highlighted our sensitivity that science is taking place here and now.

How did Voegelin run his seminars? Henningsen: I don’t think he was a good seminar teacher. He was not accessible. He was not an American professor; he was really a German professor in

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a German university. I mean, you could ask questions in his lectures when you couldn’t do it in other lectures, that’s true. And there were other liberal features that were unusual in terms of breaking rules. But he was a patriarch, and he was really occupying his position with his presence. It came naturally to him, to be a patriarch. Büttner: It came naturally to be a patriarch, but at the same time, he treated the people around him, once they were accepted as people with talent, as equals. And he didn’t overburden us, as many professors did. Hollweck: His seminars were typical German seminars. The professor with

his assistants walks in smoking his cigar, sits down, and says, “Now, let’s begin.” And so, in the smoke-filled rooms, we began. But he ran them in a very open way. You know, normally people would present their reports, and if the reports were made as they had been assigned, then everything was fine. In other words, if you were supposed to give a report on a particular passage of Plato or Cicero or Machiavelli or whatever it was, the main point was that you really rendered what the text said and refrained from too much personal interpretation. You could have it, but it then would really have to be yours coming out of the text. In general, he liked discussion and lively discussion, but he was intolerant of people using a language that had obviously been formed by something other than what we were talking about. He still followed the old German model. I was also taking American studies, which was run in an American style and did not have too many seminars with the old-style professors who were a lot stricter. The professor set the tone. So, in that sense, you could say Voegelin’s seminars were also American. But the level of discussion was probably more elevated than I find even in good universities in this country. One thing about Voegelin was that he was really open. If you wanted to debate an issue, he debated it with you and he didn’t shoo you off. On the other hand, there were the stories going around about him being abrasive to people who would have had, as he called it, “intellectual gonorrhea.” Then, there were comments that could perhaps offend students if they were easily offended. Naumann: His academic standards, which were also projected by his assis-

tants, were very demanding. You had to go through two pro-seminars, which were lower-level seminars, and then you went up into the Hauptseminar, or advanced seminar, where you could actually encounter the master—the master having had fearful standards, so you couldn’t wing it! If you went to his

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classes or to seminars, you had to be well prepared. Students were afraid of his sarcasm. He would interrupt your presentation when you gave your paper, and if your paper was not up to what he thought was minimum academic standards, he could even throw you out! He would shut you up. Take the example of a very smart engineer who studied political science on the side. He put all his intellectual energy into a paper on reason in Aristotle. And he threw too many ideas into one paper, so it fell apart. Voegelin ripped into him and shattered his soul. He was a man whose pedagogical eros was limited, I’m telling you. So, he really shattered this student, who gave up the study of political science to become an industrialist. It’s not a bad choice! But that gives you a side of Voegelin’s personality which was dominating and mercilessly demanding. On the other hand, his insistence on maintaining intellectual standards and his insistence on your reading a lot before you open your mouth was unique, even at that time. He brought the concept of the reading list from America. So, he really forced you—and so did his assistants—to read a lot. Not his books; he never insisted you read his books. But he gave you a lot of good hints on major books that anybody who has read will carry for the rest of his life. So, I was in the fortunate position of having run into a person who, out of the millions of books available in academia, insisted on the good ones. His perspective on the humanities was extraordinary. He introduced a lot of us to the world of Plato and Aristotle and Erasmus and the humanities and German and French and English literature, Thomas Mann, Proust, Canetti, and Karl Kraus, of course. He ran his seminar so that, even if you were only half-industrious, you could not leave less intelligent than when you entered. This was at a time when people were actually teaching in Germany in a way that you usually left a little dumber than when you had arrived. Büttner: The assistants did much of the work. One of the most exciting seminars I had was with Weber-Schäfer on ancient Israel: a group of students meeting with him at his home every week with carefully prepared full-scale seminar papers. But it was not a university seminar, it was just a working group studying Israel and Revelation in the context of other literature on Israel. And that was very exciting. Peter Opitz was writing his habilitation on the process of the reformulation of order in China from the first reactions to the Europeans through various stages. And we had discovered that there were very similar stages of intrusion and reaction in China and the Middle East. So, we held a joint seminar discussing the parallels of social and political change. We were standing in the

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hall and talking, and Voegelin walked by and stopped and said, “What are you talking about?” And we said, “Well, it’s about our seminar.” “What’s the seminar about?” And we told him. Then he said, “But you are not supposed to waste your time with seminars, you are supposed to write your theses.” What were his seminars like? Büttner: Presenting a paper in his seminar was very, very trying for many

students. I remember how difficult it was for some of the people who were working in the same cohort. One of my colleagues already suffered from having a towering figure as a father at home. And now he had a second one here. He was bright, careful in his studies, well balanced, and very well read. But he never finished. Okay, that could have happened with any professor, but I think it had something to do with this: once you realized what Voegelin not only knew and had read himself, but what analytical power he had, it could be very difficult to please him. So, some just gave up. Hereth: He wanted us to work. He always insisted, “You must read much more!” Students today don’t read any more, but at that time, he could really work a ground that was fertile. And he did. I read Augustine, for example, and Aristotle from the beginning to the end. He forced us to read. It was a good education for his students, and the main thing for which I am grateful. I came from a good gymnasium and had not had many problems with my studies. But when I fell into the hands of Voegelin, he told me that I was stupid. He didn’t say, “You are stupid,” but instead “You must read more.”

You had to read very carefully, too? Hereth: Exactly, exactly. The first time I practiced preparing a publication, it

was on Tocqueville. It had nothing to do with Voegelin. But when I was writing this book, I thought very often of Voegelin. Voegelin was still looking over my shoulder, forcing me to do it well! That was his contribution to my intellectual upbringing. Sitzler: In the seminar, he was strict and scrutinized whether we had read very closely the texts on which we were to hold our presentations. One of his notorious questions was always, “Where does it say that?” If one said, “Rousseau said this or said that,” it was always, “Where?” In the first Hauptseminar I was in, I wrote a paper on Rousseau’s Social Contract. I presented it more or less freely, because I knew that that impressed him to some extent. And in the discussion, he said, “Yes, with Rousseau, that is always misinterpreted: he is always regarded as one of the fathers of the French Revolution.

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But in the entire Contrat Social, the word revolution does not appear at all.” But I had read the text very closely, and I was also still young, naïve and impertinent. So, I said to him, “Herr Professor, please excuse me. But please open the Contrat Social to this chapter and this and this paragraph and there you will read the word revolution.” And he did it. This impertinence then contributed to my getting a position with him as an assistant. He accepted it completely in the seminar. Correction, therefore, was something he accepted. M. Sattler: He would sometimes say to a student, “Oh, I didn’t know that.

You have brought me something that I didn’t know yet.” Which was extremely helpful for us. I remember I once gave him a book: it was Walter Pater, Marius the Epicurean (). This of course was ridiculous, for a student to bring a book to a scholar. At first he was astonished; it was a novel he didn’t know. And I said, “This is all about you, you know!” Which is a cheeky way of approaching an old professor. But he wrote me a letter saying that he hadn’t understood at first what I meant, but that after he read the book, he understood what I meant.

International Guests Gebhardt: From the ’s up to the ’s and ’s, he always contacted people

in other fields whom he thought to be competent in their areas of study. If you read his correspondence in the United States and when he got to Europe, he would talk to people whose books he had read. Whenever he hit on a new, interesting book, he would try to get in contact with the author. So, if you worked with him at the institute, you would always be meeting people. We would always keep up with a whole range of developments and would get the material, the books, and the contacts, the scientists. Hereth: I met Hannah Arendt in Voegelin’s seminar. You were in the presence

of two different types of persons: the typical German professor with Voegelin, who was never an American professor, but a typical German professor exuding all this authority by sitting and smoking a big cigar. And then there was Hannah Arendt, who was sitting not on a chair but on the table, smoking one cigarette after another, and talking about Eichmann in Jerusalem. The difference was evident. And I was won over, really, by the charms of Hannah Arendt.

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She was more a person I would appreciate in private conversation as well. Her manner of talking and the way of life Hannah Arendt represented was more liberal, more open. Voegelin was quite rigorous and imposing; Hannah Arendt wanted to convince. Voegelin, I don’t know if he convinced. He convinced by forcing us to read, not by talking! Do you see the difference? Hannah Arendt convinced by talking, by saying, “You must understand . . . ” And Voegelin would say, “You have to read that and when you have read that, you won’t pose any more silly questions!” He was putting it into a more rigorous canon of books. Which of course I accepted! I received many intellectual benefits, it was clear. Both persons also represented two possibilities for my own way of life. I am clear about it now in talking about it, but I had never seen the problem before: Hannah Arendt represented the political life, and Voegelin represented the academic life. He was envious of her because a lot of students from his seminars were also interested in Hannah Arendt. After I left the university, I once met Voegelin in Munich and told him I was reading Hannah Arendt, On Revolution. And he said, “This lady is a communist!” I said, “No, she’s not communist at all and you know it.” He answered, “But her husband is a communist!” This was stupid. It was clear that it was not a problem of whether she was communist or not for him, but that he was envious that we read and appreciated Hannah Arendt. Henningsen: I remember, one morning, we were sitting in a smoke-filled office at a kind of assistant conference. And suddenly the secretary comes in and mumbles something, and Voegelin, with a big grin on his face, says, “Jürgen Kuczinski.” Jürgen Kuczinski, we couldn’t believe our ears! Jürgen Kuczinski was the most famous East German intellectual alive. Then he comes in with his bad teeth, the most prominent East German intellectual, and the two of them were almost embracing each other! They had studied together in Wisconsin; they had known each other since ’, ’, and it seems that they had kept contact. I don’t know what it means in Voegelin’s case, but the way he treated him was quite remarkable. You know, at that point, to have Jürgen Kuczinski in the University of Munich in your office talking to you— that was almost treason! Bärsch: I knew the famous Russian thinker Alexander Zinoviev. When I told

Voegelin that Zinoviev was living in Munich and that I knew him, Voegelin said, “I must meet him, can you make an appointment?” So, we went together to see Alexander Zinoviev, who was very famous at the time. And Voegelin and Zinoviev talked about the end of the Soviet empire. Voegelin asked him,

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“What do you think?” And Zinoviev answered, “Well, only in a long, long time.” Voegelin asked, “Is it possible to gain a new spirit of opposition?” When Zinoviev said no, Voegelin asked why not. Zinoviev made a conventional corporatist reply; he said, “If you cut off the head, another one will replace it, so it does not matter.” Voegelin said only, “hmm.” He was very polite and very gentle to Zinoviev, but in my little car on the way home, he said, “No, Zinoviev is mistaken on this point.” And he prophesied that, in maybe ten years, there would be a new elite that would be maybe only half communist, and this new elite would change things from the top. He saw this at that time already. Caringella: I remember the story of one of his critics, one who I think never

put his criticisms into writing. In Munich, Hans Jonas came to visit one evening to talk with Eric. And Eric went to the elevator to meet Mr. Jonas, and Lissy could hear them, and then they came into the apartment and Mr. Jonas greeted Lissy; they went into Eric’s study and Lissy could hear them. Then Lissy went in with some cookies, and Mr. Jonas was very nice. And Lissy came back out and could hear Mr. Jonas again. Then they came to go to the elevator, and Mr. Jonas said, “Good evening,” and then Lissy could hear them at the elevator. Finally, Lissy asked Eric when he came back, “What did this Mr. Jonas want?” And Eric said, “He doesn’t like what I’m doing.” L. Voegelin: I heard them coming up in the elevator. Eric had just picked him

up from the ground floor, you know, to get him up into elevator. And Mr. Jonas was talking all the time; he was talking and talking in a very loud voice. And he was mad, really. Then Eric went out, and said, “Well, nothing. Nothing happened.” And I said, “hmmm.” How did he interact with his guests when they would lead a seminar? Henningsen: When Michael Oakeshott was in Munich, I do not remember

Eric and Oakeshott talking to each other in class about theoretical issues. Or when Voegelin had guests in his seminars, he would never engage them in questions; he would just let them talk. Hannah Arendt, for example: he let her talk. Jürgen Gebhardt would intervene and start a fight with her, but Eric would simply sit there and smoke a cigar and smile. He was very polite then. I mean, he was rude in writing; when you think of his piece on Rudolph Bultmann, it was as rude as can be! He didn’t have to be that rude. “Well,” he said, “I simply wanted to be honest.” But he didn’t engage people in discussion. Jacob Taubes couldn’t even provoke him when he said to him, “You know, I’ve always thought that you are a Gnostic.” Taubes said it to provoke him, but there was also something to it.

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Büttner: Taubes didn’t say it that way. Taubes was trying to bring Voegelin

to see a point in his own work. I remember when Taubes gave a lecture on Hegel, and Voegelin expounded his thesis that Hegel was a Gnostic, that the Weltgeist was coming zu sich selbst in the person of Hegel, which was Gnostic. Then Taubes very carefully showed Voegelin that what he was doing in many ways was the same thing! That is to say, the philosophy of order that had been corrupted after classical times has now been turned into an ideology in the nineteenth century, and in the critique of this development of Gnosticism, philosophy reestablishes itself, so to speak, as the superior knowledge that recognizes the Gnostic ideological structure in prior thought. In a way, then, Taubes was saying that Voegelin does the same thing structurally. And there was absolute silence in the hall. Because it was obvious that Taubes was pointing very carefully to a very critical point in Voegelin’s work: to his speaking on the basis of superior knowledge. When it ended, Voegelin opened his arms and said, “Sehen Sie, Kinder, ich bin doch ein Gnostiker!” [See, children, I’m a Gnostic after all!] So, he accepted it and at the same time he didn’t accept it.

Women Students Hereth: I went to his Hegel seminar, and I disliked his way of treating his stu-

dents. There were also women students in his seminars, and he treated some of them terribly. He was a misogynist. Twice, I saw women students who began to weep in his seminars because he had roughed them up in five sentences and said, “What are you talking about?” He interrupted them and reduced them to tears. At this time, students were not as free as they are today; they were very much under the authority of the professor. But he wouldn’t let this one woman continue to read her paper. This was misogyny. He wouldn’t do that to men? Hereth: I think it was misogyny. It was very clear that he didn’t want female students to participate very much; it was enough to be pretty. That was his attitude. He didn’t wish his assistants to marry, either. He was very misogynistic.

So, when men would give papers he didn’t approve of . . . Hereth: He didn’t approve of my papers, either, but he didn’t say it so aggres-

sively. I remember when I gave my presentation: I was talking about the

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Menschenbild [image/picture of the person] of Aristotle. He interrupted me and said, “Who painted, who painted? Aristotle has no Menschenbild! This is a false conception.” That was at the beginning of my paper, so I was shocked. Then the assistant, Gebhardt, interrupted the dialogue and said, “You wanted to say ‘the nature of man.’” I answered, “That’s right.” So, I could continue because Gebhardt had saved me from the aggression of the old man! H. Herwig: Most people said he had no pedagogical skills, but I think quite the opposite; I think he was good. He seemed to be an autocrat; he seemed to be authoritarian and so on, so that people were provoked and attacked and irritated. But the ones who stayed, I think, profited from his manner. On the other hand, there were always people who didn’t like him or said that he was inhuman, because he simply was not the type of man to say to students, “Well, you are nice, you are good.” But you could talk to him after the lecture courses while he went down the halls. As he walked between two lectures, he was thankful if you came along and talked with him. Some people feared him, but I never had this fear, because I was a woman and he was very charming in his personal ways. Not in all ways: he was not enthusiastic about feminist views, for example. But he accepted women who were intelligent. I always said to him, “Oh you, with your old-fashioned Austrian manners, you can be most charming.” Well, he was old-fashioned, and it was an interesting situation, because most of the other students feared him because he was so strict. Bärsch: In the lectures of several different professors I always thought, “What is the reaction of the good students to the professor? What is the Körperhaltung, the position of the legs? Are the legs closed or are the legs open?” In Voegelin’s lectures, there were only a few girls, but their eyes were open and their legs were open! And they looked like they were in a mixture of relaxing and the opposite of relaxing.

Tense. Bärsch: Tense! Always. I think that Voegelin had an erotic attraction. That

was my general impression. This you learned through their body language. Bärsch: Body language, yes. I attended to their body language, and this is

how I knew more than others. Now why would that have been? What was it about Voegelin?

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Bärsch: I don’t know the theories, but you might ask: why was Voegelin the

subject of longing, and why not another professor? Like Socrates: the eroticism of the soul? Bärsch: Yes, yes. Not amusing, but interesting, very interesting.

Did he have any women assistants? Henningsen: He had two female doctoral students, and I think they were the

first two students that gave him the impression that women can think. He was really a male chauvinist if there ever was one. The last time I met him, in , Lissy and Eric drove me to the bus stop and Lissy told him, “You are a male chauvinist. You are really an awful male chauvinist!” She rubbed it in, you know, and he was sitting in the back smiling. In a way, he was admitting he knew that. But it was Hedda and Dagmar Herwig in Munich—and Hedda, I think, even more so than Dagmar. I remember when Hedda gave a paper on Locke’s concept of natural law: he was astonished, he was really surprised. Now, I think that simply says something about him and the sociology of the German university—and the American one to some extent, too. Büttner: At that time, there were very, very few women students in the social

sciences. If they studied social sciences, it was rather psychology, sociology at other universities. And there was one beautiful woman in his very first class. Henningsen: That was your girlfriend! Petra Schürmann, Miss Germany, who later became a famous television personality. She was a very attractive woman! Sitzler: He divided women into two categories, so to speak: women outside

science and women within science. With women outside science, he liked to see pretty women. And he always looked at women’s legs; those were the first things he looked at. He was susceptible to legs. And with those who were in science? Sitzler: The essential thing was not how one looked or whether one was par-

ticularly feminine, but the intellect. There, he did not differentiate. As a girl or a woman, one did not have to be smarter than the men with him, which is the case with many, but women were entirely on par. Did he treat women differently? D. Herwig: Yes, of course he treated women differently! It was quite something: he was a man who liked women. He admired them in a way too,

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because in his eyes, they were a nice decoration! Of course he liked the ones who were good-looking. I don’t know if he ever noticed the other ones—I really don’t know. But he did notice the good-looking ones. Did he notice the smart ones? D. Herwig: We’ll come to that next. First, let’s stay with the pretty ones,

because that stands out more in the beginning. I remember I had a girlfriend who went to the gymnasium with me in my last two years, and she studied with Voegelin, too. She was tall, not really beautiful, but she had a nice slim figure and a cute little bosom—not too small and by no means too large, but just perfect and beautiful. And she had very slim hips and long legs. And she used to wear—it was the fashion anyway at that time—very tight pullovers, short ones, just going down to the waist. Sometimes she came in a little late; I don’t know whether it was on purpose, but she came a little late. And when she came in through the doors to the lectures, he looked at the door and he followed her with his eyes until she took her seat. Everybody noticed that. Now was he doing this without paying attention whether the others noticed or not? D. Herwig: He never stopped talking! He never stopped talking, but his eyes

followed her bosom all the way, until she sat down. Just like that! So, his relation to women: I think he liked women. And when they were pretty, he liked them all the more. I think he really loved his wife, although she did not have nearly the intellectual qualities he had. But she had different qualities, of course, social qualities. Now getting to “Did he like smart women?” He certainly thought that women were not fit for science. Which was not uncommon in his generation. I don’t think you should analyze these kinds of prejudices very much; it doesn’t make much sense to analyze them. A lot of men in his generation thought that women are not fit to do anything having to do with intellectual life—not to mention science or teaching people or things like that. And so, I think that it was just another prejudice of his generation that he shared. But we are not at the end of this! He had a way of scaring women students so that only the very committed ones stayed with him. And of course you had to be intelligent and study hard with him eventually to be accepted. Once you did that and once he had gained the impression that you were intelligent, he didn’t make any distinctions about it. So, it was very interesting: once he had the opinion that you studied seriously, that you did your work, that you had something to say, and that he understood what you had just done, then it was okay.

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H. Herwig: I got my doctorate one day before Voegelin went to America. I

wrote on Freud and C. G. Jung. It was entitled, “Therapy of Mankind.” Did Voegelin like it? H. Herwig: Yes, yes, he did. It was very complicated at the beginning, because

he proposed that I should work either on C. G. Jung or on Schelling. So, I went to read some Schelling, and I went to him and said, “No, I can’t, because it’s too dense.” I was just starting, I was twenty-two, so I said, “No, I would like to do C. G. Jung, because I studied him in psychology.” Voegelin thought it would be possible to do something on Jung’s conception of the archetypes: he thought such a study might be good for something. I came to the conclusion that there was no experience behind the archetypes, that Jung’s conception remained at the level of the symbols. I thought it didn’t ring true. Then I talked to Jacob Taubes, and he told me that Jung liked the Nazis at the beginning of the Nazi regime, and he sent me some unpublished interviews of his. So, I changed everything! Voegelin was in America, because he was always one semester in America and one semester in Munich. When he came back, I had to say to him, “Well, I am very sorry, but I can’t write anything positive about C. G. Jung.” But I knew he would understand. So, I wrote the damn thing and he liked it. Back to his attitude toward women . . . H. Herwig: If you showed your intelligence, it was OK. But he was doubtful.

For instance, when I wrote my first paper, he was very enthusiastic about it. But he asked Manfred Henningsen if he had written it! And I know other women who were more sensitive or shy; they reacted in a sensitive way, and then they gave up. For instance, the former wife of Peter Weber-Schäfer studied with Voegelin, but she gave up because she read a paper and he criticized it brutally and said, “You’re talking nonsense.” But he did that with men, too. Women did not have a special problem there! You had to be tough to go through that. For me, I had had it before: my father had been very strict, so I was used to this kind of behavior. When I wrote my papers, they were quite perfect. And so he used to say, “This is a perfect paper. Does anybody have something to say? I think not, because it was perfect.” So, the seminar was over! This was also his way! If it was perfect, then it was perfect, but if there was anything he didn’t like, he wasn’t nice, that’s true. Of course, I had a very personal relationship with him. He told me once— this was after I had finished studying with him, when he came back to

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Germany one time—that I reminded him of his first love in Austria. So, maybe that was why he liked to be more kind to me than to others. But as a woman, I should criticize him for his total lack of respect for the question of womanhood. I mean, in his history, he never said one thing about it! Last month, I had to think about this problem with a women student who is writing a doctoral thesis on Plato. She asked me why Voegelin did not say anything about the question about women. Then I remembered that this was an obsolete question for him, because, as he said, there is no ontological difference between men and women. So, very nice! But really nice from some point of view, because he meant it. But there are also the historical facts. H. Herwig: Yes, that is the problem. Well, it was quite easy for him to say there

is no ontological difference, so it is irrelevant to talk about this because they are equal. But nevertheless, I would say, “Are there not political aspects to this? And so we have to think about it!” For him, though, this was easy. He liked to talk this way: to say that some problem or other was not a problem. The answer is historical, not ontological. But Voegelin has said more about the relationship between history and being than anyone else! H. Herwig: So, he should have done and said something about the historical

involvement of women in this process of differentiation of consciousness. But he didn’t. Henningsen: There were these consistent prejudices toward female thinkers,

and Lissy supported this attitude. Lissy always used the example of Hannah Arendt in order to say that women cannot think. She always felt that when the three of them were together, having dinner or lunch or whatever, when she would watch the two, it was always clear to Lissy that Hannah Arendt was intellectually inferior. Now, I find that absolutely amazing, how you can make this kind of essentialist argument. But she did! In some of the correspondence regarding Arendt, there’s a letter to Gurian regarding the review of The Origins of Totalitarianism. And he uses a phrase, something like “the good lady didn’t . . . .” It’s quite condescending. Henningsen: It’s very condescending. And I think most of that would have

been taken care of if he had been in a good graduate program at an American university. The fact that he was not, I think, influenced not only the difference in academic recognition of Strauss and Voegelin but also his macho relation-

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ship to women in the profession. And for that reason, I always find it was very important for him to have had those two graduate students in Munich, those Ph.D. students. The Herwig sisters somehow helped him to overcome that.  Büttner: When Voegelin was in the States, I think he was associated with the

conservative right. In Germany, this was not the case. His assistants and students were all Social Democrats, with the exception of one assistant called Baruzzi. Why the difference? Büttner: It was probably that his anti-communism was taken at face value in

the United States, whereas here, what appealed to us was his critical analysis of ideologies, including liberalism. And this could easily be expanded in the circumstances of the Germany of the s to include a critique of the “stalemate society” as well. Nineteen sixty-eight appeared as a necessary movement of change in a society in which nothing was happening! The main aim of the people who organized war-torn Germany had been successfully completed, and now people were looking for other things beyond full stomachs. They were able to travel and became increasingly aware that there were no social discussions of these issues, although there was an enormous need to discuss them. But in many ways, his students already formed a highly critical group in society before ’ came. Naumann: Altogether, a lot of students at that time went to university and

went through their studies and had more or less mediocre teachers. But the people who worked with him were an interesting crowd in themselves, because none of them studied in order to pursue a career. None of them; I don’t know anybody who did. As I said, you went to study political philosophy—for what? There was no teaching job on the horizon; there was nothing on the horizon. Or at least one didn’t plan beyond the horizon. We all just wanted to know where we came from. So, this was an extraordinary crowd; they all went because they wanted to learn. And this created a community of young scholars and students that was highly idealistic. It was people like Peter von Sivers, Martin and Florian Sattler, and I who organized the first student demonstrations in  in Munich. These were demonstrations against the calamitous state of the schools and universities. For the first time since the war, we were able to mobilize students. We thought

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that maybe seven or eight hundred would come, but it was fifteen thousand! People were showing their interest in society and politics. It was a huge step forward in the politicization of the student body. What then followed was the student movement. In Munich, it was different: the Marxist ground had been occupied by Frankfurt and Berlin. Munich was much more, shall I say, bohemian: it was a little bit more interested in the fun of demonstrations and sit-ins. Unlike Frankfurt or Berlin, we had a great rock band—Amon Dül—and we had great actors. We had Fassbinder in film, and people like the actress Hanna Schygulla, whom I knew very well. They came out of the student body; Hanna, I think, studied English. There was nothing like this in Berlin, where it was all very ideological. In Munich, there was a lot of Bohème: theater people, actors, artists, students. Its sources were not Marxist; its sources were anti-patriarchal and, believe it or not, antifascist. And we knew some real fascists, who had blood on their hands, too. Was his classroom ever disrupted? Naumann: I don’t think that ever happened, to be frank. I don’t remember. I

may have missed it. I may have come in on the other side! But I don’t think so. The only interruption I recall was from Miss Germany, Petra Schürmann, who would come into his lectures and radiate beauty from the first row. When she crossed her legs, it would shut him up for ten seconds! On the other hand, there was a certain violence beneath those movements. But it was not a violence that would have endangered a single person—that came much later. The real violence in Munich at that time came from the police. Seidl: Nineteen sixty-eight was the hottest time in Germany, as in France,

politically speaking. There were big riots, student riots and protests. Just one hundred meters from here, there was a demonstration against the newspaper, the Bild-Zeitung, in ’. In Berlin, there was the assassination attempt on Rudi Dutschke and that was at Easter. The students made the Springer Press and especially the Bild-Zeitung responsible. And the Bild-Zeitung headquarters were here in Munich. On the day of the big demonstration, Gebhardt was there and went up to the fifth floor and threw out some papers and said revolutionary things. Jürgen Gebhardt? Seidl: Jürgen Gebhardt! It was just here. And I was standing downstairs on

the street during the night, and the students tried to stop the delivery of the paper. They tried to sit on the street and the police pulled them away, and

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when the police tried to catch them, they would run away. I think Martin Sattler was also there. And that day, two people were killed by students who were throwing big stones. The streetcar rails were being repaired and there were big stones lying around. So, they picked up these stones and threw them at the police, but they hit people who were running back. It was a really tense atmosphere. Of course then the Marxists began to agitate at the university. I remember in the summer of , there was a big demonstration against the Emergency Law, and there were papers all over and leaflets, propaganda, demonstrations, talks. People thought that the revolution was just around the corner and that tomorrow, Germany would be a socialist country. Henningsen: Of course there were disturbances with students in lectures, and

Eric was not good at handling them. I remember in May of , they threatened to disturb the lectures. Voegelin had told all of his assistants, “When it happens, I’ll leave and go to the cottage at Weilheim.” I wasn’t there when that happened because I had given a lecture in Vienna. But when I came back, it was traumatic. Voegelin was enraged; he was furious about what had happened. A student had walked into his lecture. His was not the only one, but the incident was written up in the newspapers. For Voegelin, this was a crisis situation, not only for the institute, but for the university and German society; it was really civilization at stake again. I remember that I had begun to get very close to him personally at that time. People always knew that, if trouble arose, I should go see him and talk with him. So, his wife, Lissy, called me up. I was living with Hedda Herwig then, and she called Hedda and told her that when I got back, I should call her immediately. And she impressed on me that I should come immediately, because Eric was in a rage; he was impossible. Now, when Voegelin was impossible, he was not only angry, he was rude and aggressive and very short-tempered. Most people couldn’t talk with him. I somehow managed to overcome that. I don’t know how, but I managed to continue talking with him when these situations came. I remember coming to his apartment and sitting in his study. And he was really fuming, literally. He was smoking one cigar after another and that was always a sign that he was very, very tense. He was chain-smoking cigars, but he was also fuming, figuratively speaking. He would burst out with comments about these students, about the faces he had seen that were exactly like the ones in the ’s. He did not want any compromise with these people; he wanted to call the cops if that were to happen again, or he would cancel his lectures. Now we, the assistants at the institute, followed a different strategy. We said, “You should continue to talk with them, because they are not as evil as

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you think they are. You can reach them; it is possible to get a discussion started. That’s what the university is there for; that’s what we are there for. We should not simply help a similar war-like situation emerge here; we should try to defuse this.” But Voegelin was absolutely against this; there was to be no compromise whatsoever. All the assistants disagreed with him. They didn’t say it to his face, but they said, “Let him go to Weilheim, let him go. Tell him the lectures will not take place, and then we will run the lectures.” And that’s what they did. But he was also angry about that when he found out. Because to him, that was tantamount to caving in to criminally stupid people, and you were not supposed to do that. But then, I remember sitting there in the chair looking at him. I was sitting there watching him fume and make all kinds of irrational statements about the people and the situation, and he was really becoming insulting. Then I looked behind me and saw his book Die politischen Religionen. I said to him: “Do you remember what you wrote in the second edition of Die politischen Religionen, in response to Thomas Mann’s critique of your somewhat detached analysis of National Socialism?” And he looked at me. I don’t exactly remember what he said, but it was almost as if he wanted to say, “That is unfair.” But he immediately understood what I was trying to tell him, that he was being dishonest and was not living up to his own practice. So, he calmed down. Lissy wanted to know how I had done it. I said to her, “I simply reminded him of something that he had written.”“But how did you know that would work at that point?” I said, “There are moments in your husband’s life when certain texts play a major role.” And that was one of them. He would always remember that exchange with Thomas Mann.

Social Life Did he interact much socially with students? Schabert: Well, he had parties, and he regularly invited all his staff and assis-

tants. He had a very good apartment; it was state property and subsidized, so he paid very low rent. Some nights, he had us come there. And then, every Wednesday evening, he invited over his closest circle of students: his assistants and various others. Lissy liked to entertain and cook. They liked young people particularly, and there was much more interaction with us than there was with his colleagues. Sometimes they had colleagues over, but then it was very functional and formal. Up at his cottage in Weilheim, he sometimes had

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a barbecue. He would invite us and we’d go there, and he would fire up the barbecue and grill steaks himself. He liked to do steaks on the barbecue. Did he go to parties? Was he sociable? D. Herwig: Did Voegelin go to parties? No. There was quite a social life

among the students, that “inner circle” and the people around us. There was quite a bit of social life there, but certainly not with Voegelin. He had seminars or colloquia, which he held at his home, and the very advanced students were invited to go there. But you wouldn’t call that a social life, would you? And I don’t know that he ever went to any parties. There were perhaps a few invitations to his home. People received them, and if they went they got something to eat and to drink. But that was stiff and formal—not really like a party! He was always a bit aloof. He was never really very personal. He was not a person whom you would go up to and say, “Oh hello, Professor Voegelin, how are you today?” You would never do that. You were always very respectful, and you just waited to see if he wanted to be talked to or not. And he himself was not the colloquial type. If you talked to him, it was like him giving interviews. You were always the pupil, the student. Of course, we were much younger, so that was OK! He was not a young professor at that time. Henningsen: His social manners were not very good. In fact, I don’t think he had any. Whatever social graces were needed, Lissy was responsible for them. Eric, I think, had none when they got married, and he knew it. She always, as Paul Caringella once described it beautifully, “guided him through dangerous territory” when they went to parties.

Yet he could be charming? Henningsen: Well, he had the charm of what you would call in German

Tanzstunden behavior. That is what you practice when you go to the dance lessons. So, he had some social graces, but they were very predictable and studied. He was condescending to women: the more attractive the woman was, the more polite Eric became. They knew it too, and they exploited it. But he was not a social person; he was not capable of small talk. The art of conversation . . . was not his strength. When the group went out to the cabin in the mountains, what did you do? Henningsen: It was nice, it was a little stone house with a yard, and the

Voegelins would go there on the weekends. They both had their separate

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sleeping quarters there. It was in a way like Heidegger’s hut in the Black Forest, with Voegelin occasionally having to cut wood for their stove—but not for getting closer to Being! And I think sometimes he was actually bored when he went out there, because they often had parties. They always started in the early afternoon, and they were quite lavish. They always served a lot of wine. They never served hard liquor, for dietary and for other reasons. Now, they were very pleasant, but there was an age difference, and there was an aura about Voegelin you could never completely overcome. He was not very good at making people feel relaxed. Lissy was. And alcohol helped, and food—sometimes. Very late in his tenure at Munich, he was invited to one of our big student parties. I remember the first time he was invited to one: I had finished my Ph.D. and it was in February of . Claus Bärsch gave a party in celebration of this event and of the fact that we would be flying to the United States three days later. The Voegelins showed up at this party. There were a hundred people. You couldn’t walk; there was loud music and a lot of wine and people were standing around talking. They were surprised when Eric and Lissy came. Lissy was delighted about this invitation; she always wondered why people didn’t invite them to these parties. Bärsch: At this time, Manfred Henningsen and I were really good friends. He

lived just around the corner from me in Schwabing. He had a little apartment, and I had a flat too. One time he said to me, “We must throw a party and invite Voegelin.” And I was the Gästgeber, the host. So, Voegelin came but was hanging back, just looking at the people, smoking a cigar, and talking about love, erotic things. It was very interesting: this professor in a small room sitting on the chaise socializing with the others. It didn’t happen often. Once, I was invited when he gave a party, and it was very interesting. I like to drink schnapps: whiskey, gin, or vodka. But Voegelin said that he had no vodka, no whiskey, no cognac. Then I said, “Professor please, I need vodka. Or cognac.” So, he took me into the kitchen. In the kitchen, there was a little place with cognac and gin, and he gave it to me. Then I asked him, “Why is the cognac and the gin in here and not . . . ?” He told me, “The problem is that Weber-Schäfer drank and threw up and it was terrible. And my wife said, ‘Never again whiskey, cognac, vodka, or gin if you invite your terrible students!’” In America he had some friends or students who were artists. Lissy once said that he was very bohemian. Not Eric, his artist friend.

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Opitz: Did she use the word bohemian? Did she use that to refer to him? That

reminds me: Voegelin used exactly that word when he talked about Dagmar Herwig and Manfred Henningsen and me living together. And it was not a compliment. In a way, he had a bourgeois aversion to Bohème: he was settled in his ways and always busy, so he didn’t like the leisure time and the lifestyle that we had. It’s one of the reasons why his contacts with artists who cultivated a more bohemian style were limited. Henningsen: He did not understand the social life of his students. Being American in that respect also, he did not understand that people would come together, let’s say, at eight o’clock or eight-thirty and stay until five o’clock in the morning. He always had the suspicion that something fishy was going on—possibly orgies. And in a way, it intrigued him. I got the impression that if there had been orgies, he would have been very proud. There would have been no moralizing coming from him. In Munich, he was open. It was different in the United States, and that led to the falling out between him and me. He came across as a moralizing, dictatorial character who wanted to teach Dagmar Herwig that she was out of line, that her radical lifestyle and convictions were inappropriate and an embarrassment. It was really pathetic. I did not understand what was happening. But that is a different story.

Moralizing You mentioned one example of his moralizing that you didn’t like. Henningsen: Well, it’s a story that is very traumatic for me. It really started

out as something that had to do with Dagmar Herwig’s request of Eric—who was her Doktorvater, her Ph.D. adviser—to write a recommendation for her to go to the University of Dallas. There was an opening for a position there, and they had tried to recruit me in  when I was at Stanford. It was a month before I gave a talk in Hawaii, where they made me an offer I instantly, on the advice of Eric, accepted. But the Dallas position had been open for a long time, so Dagmar applied. Or she wanted to apply, but she needed a letter of recommendation. Voegelin wrote a very polite letter and issued it to her: “This is a very conservative department, Catholic and rich, but they have all kinds of restrictions, so you really wouldn’t wish to be there.” She wrote him back and said, “Yes, I would like to be there. I’ve been in America as an exchange student, and I think I could handle it.” Ah, but then Voegelin became curt and wrote back to her that he didn’t think so.

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He sent the correspondence to me and said, “I sent her this correspondence.” And there was a letter attached saying, “What do I do with madness like this?” It was very censorious in a way, like, “Why can’t this woman who lives a wild life—meaning, she’s not married, she doesn’t have a driver’s license—why doesn’t she see that she doesn’t fit in?” And his students in Munich, not only Dagmar but everybody else, were upset! How can Voegelin do this? This is outrageous; he should simply write a letter about her qualifications! Why should he make any comments about how she lives her life, whether she is married, whether she has a driver’s license or all this other bullshit? When Voegelin sent me this correspondence, I was bombarded by the people in Munich. They said, “Now, what do you say to this? Is this guy crazy? Has he gone nuts? Has the American reactionary climate really gone to his head? How can this guy behave that way?” What could I do? I was going down to Waikiki beach every day. For two weeks, I would swim with all these things in my head. Both sides wanted an answer: Voegelin wanted an answer and my friends in Munich wanted an answer. And my friends in Munich also wanted to see whether I would cave in or not. Does he merely kowtow? I then made the decision. I gambled. I thought that I understood him well and that I could tell him the truth because I had already had some run-ins with him over American politics. I thought to myself, “Look, you have to. He cannot treat his former students this way.” I mean, this person got her Ph.D. under him, but Voegelin’s attitude has nothing to do with what she has written, only with the peripheral ingredients of her life. I say “peripheral ingredients” because that is how he had always treated them! That is how he had always treated them in the life of other thinkers; he never censured their lifestyles. So, I wrote him—well, maybe it was wrong to write that letter from the beginning. It was a really frontal attack on his self-interpretation as a political philosopher. As you know, he didn’t take it too kindly. He came back with his own sledgehammer. And that was the end. When I received his letter, I got mad, I simply saw red. In that sense, we both were beyond repair in that situation. But for me, you know, it was really a disappointment: I could not understand him doing that. But he did do it, and now I was in a bind. So this was a final break? Henningsen: In a way it was a final break, because I refused to meet with him. You could say it was childish, infantile, but there was infantilism on both sides. He may have waited for a letter of apology, and I may have waited for a letter of apology, but I didn’t send one. For ten years, we didn’t meet; there was no

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correspondence. My wife always said to me, “You are really stupid. If you say he doesn’t relent, why don’t you? Why don’t you write him? And say that, in , you will drop by and you would like to see him?” And when I did write, he immediately responded and said, “Yes, why don’t you come and talk.” But that talk confirmed to me a lot of the things that I had realized when this break came. It was not a liberating experience, not in the sense that I rediscovered the person who was the most important person in my intellectual life. I saw the flaws in a very powerful way, his inability to overcome his weakness. And that in a way made me less dependent, but it made me a little bit sad also: I had hoped for some greatness, but it wasn’t coming, and that was a disappointment. I felt a narrowness there.

Politics F. Sattler: We made some excuses for him because he was an émigré. He

came to the United States after the campaign for the presidency when Kennedy won. We of course were for Kennedy because he was so fascinating. But Voegelin came and said that it was only because of those stupid TV debates and only because that “Image-Schmeizer”—John F. Kennedy was an “image projector,” according to Voegelin—was better at throwing images that Kennedy beat Nixon. And the way he talked about the labor movement was based on his experience with the Volkshochschule, a sort of college for grown-ups, in Vienna in . There could not be any form of intelligent or practical Marxism because Marxism is stupid. By that logic, every form of trade union was stupid, because of this experience. Of course, we had other experiences. And I always remember when he was here in  and the Ayatollah Khomeini was flourishing. He said, “Shouldn’t we just bomb the place where the Ayatollah is sitting?” Opitz: I remember when I returned from Berkeley in  and wanted to talk to him about Black Power and the civil rights movement, about ghettos, Vietnam, and ultra-conservative opinion, but he wasn’t very interested in that.

I remember hearing him say a few things about the civil rights movement and about Vietnam; I was surprised at his crudeness. And it is not that he knew anything: I probably knew more about Vietnamese history than he did. But he was very dismissive.

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Opitz: Right. He wasn’t at all interested in criticism of the Vietnam war and

yet he had an opinion. Probably it had something to do with his feeling of being grateful to the United States. He didn’t want to criticize America. Perhaps it had something to do with the whole background of European communism, but he was completely in the dark about the American policy toward Vietnam. When I went to Berkeley in  and ’, the place was in turmoil. There I was the conservative. I defended the American intervention in Vietnam and tried to understand why Washington intervened, although I didn’t completely agree with their policy. But if I gave my opinion to Voegelin, I appeared to be an ultra-leftist. I think he didn’t understand Germany because of his conservatism. On the other hand, he could mount a vigorous opposition to the government. In the Hitler lectures, he mentioned several ministers by name and showed they were former Nazis. His basic attitude toward the German government was highly ambivalent. That was one thing. The other, of course, was that the implication of his philosophy was social-democratic: one has to care for other people, one has to accept other people. He was talking all the time about sociability, but it depended a great deal on Christian love. It was clear from this dimension of his thought that he favored the Social Democrats, as most of his assistants did. Hereth: In many ways, I was more attracted by the person than I was repelled

by the fact that he was so conservative. He was extremely conservative. I was always anti-communist too, so that was not a problem. But you can be a Hobbesian in your practical politics or you can be an Aristotelian. He was a Hobbesian. He was never very interested in practical politics, but when he did talk about it, it was straight Thomas Hobbes. He would give you all this, “Make them feel the strength of the state.” He had no sense for public movements or civil disobedience or all those things that Hannah Arendt treats so marvelously; he had no interest in these things at all. So, he wasn’t political at all? Hereth: He was political, but the political judgments he gave on German politics were stupid! I remember one thing that was extremely funny. In , the Social Democrats changed their political program. They finally officially abandoned Marxism and opened Social Democracy to liberal thought and to normal republicanism. And Voegelin gave a lecture in which he remarked on this. He said, “One should not believe that a party that changes its fundamental program in writing really changes. For the members, it stays the same.”

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This is how he wanted to make them out to be Marxists. But, as I knew much better than he did, the Social Democratic Party had not been a Marxist party for a long time already! So, I lifted my finger and said, “That is not true! You cannot say that, because the Social Democratic Party had to change itself before it would have been able to change its program. The new platform represents a position that had been thought through a long time ago.” He didn’t even enter into the argument. For him, it was clear that the enemy was Marxism and the Social Democrats were a part of it. This example shows that he didn’t have a very deep understanding of German politics. He read the Herald Tribune and the New York Times when he was living in Germany. He probably did not read the German newspapers regularly! I can’t say for sure, but I never had the impression that he was informed about what was happening in Germany. I remember another thing: this was also when he was in Hamburg in the s for a radio interview I did with him. We had four days when we were together nearly all the time. We put on a colloquium with political scientists at Hamburg University and had a kind of conversation and discussion. But he made some statements that shocked everybody. It was fantastic! He was talking about the occupation of the American embassy in Iran when poor President Carter was suffering his worst time as president. The answer of Eric Voegelin to the whole event was, “Tell the Americans just to throw an atomic bomb on Tehran; it would finish the whole story.” All the participants were shocked. This was his reaction to the whole thing: just throw in the bomb and the whole thing is finished! So, he was extremely Hobbesian: set up the state and impose the order and that’s it. International order is strictly power and violence. He also disliked politics because, to the extent that we students were engaged in politics, we were all in the Social Democratic Party. He did not appreciate that. So he was a Christian Democrat? Hereth: No, I think there he was very much a Platonist about politics: no

involvement in politics at all. His theory about creating little intellectual circles to recreate sanity in Germany had no place for political action. These intellectual circles would be like the Platonic Academy, I guess you could say. The society was so corrupt and rotten in Germany—which was quite true at this time—that you had to keep your distance and create spaces for philosophical thought. And from this, you could attain the sanity of the future society. He said one time, in a little aside, “If you want to do something for your country, you must not become involved in politics, because politics is so

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rotten at this time that you cannot do anything.” Pretty remarkable for a political scientist! Henningsen: Voegelin was not a political creature. He had all kinds of talents,

but he would have responded to the assembly in Athens the same way Plato did. No, I think, worse: he would have fled. But Voegelin was a guy who never told us that those of us who were in Social Democrat organizations shouldn’t do it. And he would never say to me, for example, that I should not write for a newspaper. I wrote then in the Münchner Abendzeitung, which was a boulevard newspaper but had this marvelous cultural section—two or three pages, on weekends, sometimes more. They were excellent! The guy who ran this was a friend of mine from the gymnasium in Flensburg. So, I very often published book reviews: for example, one full page on Hannah Arendt’s Eichmann book in . In a way, he liked it, but there was always this critical edge and a touch of contempt. Lissy was more dismissive. Whenever she wanted to say something nasty to me, she would say, “Sie schreiben wie jemand in der Abendzeitung.” [You write like someone at the Abendzeitung.] For her, it was repugnant to try to write for a larger audience and say intelligent things in an accessible language. That was what the newspapers demanded: you were asked to write about Hannah Arendt. They gave you a page, but they said, “Now remember, this is a normal readership, three-hundred thousand people in Munich and we don’t want any jargon.” I thought it was a remarkable challenge, and a lot of other people from the institute wrote there, too. There was one thing about which he was very, very firm and very clear: he didn’t want to have anything to do with extension programs. Leaflets were for the lowbrow; that was their business. I think that was politically ill-advised on his part, because he could have delegated all these things to people in the institute who were willing to do it. But he made this principled stand: there will be no mediation, we should stay out of extension programs. Others could do it, but we are in charge of thinking. We are in charge of educating this generation of philosophers and they can have students in turn, but we are not going in for this popularization business. That is somewhat different than the way he behaved in the States. Henningsen: Look, it is different from the way he behaved in Austria. When

you go through the material in the Hoover collections, it’s fascinating, the kind of talks he gave. He was really a practicing Social Democrat when he was speaking to all of those people. I have seen transcripts and manuscripts of those talks he gave up to , and they were extraordinary.

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Can you say anything about why Voegelin wasn’t politically more engaged? Hollweck: I think he thought that if science were to move beyond the ivory

tower, it would happen in the long run. You know, he always thought about the long run, not the short run. It would be important not merely as science, but because it would pedagogically inform real, living people. He was generous with people like Dick Allen, and he had a great deal of regard for people who would enter public service. He liked people like that. And to the extent they had studied with him and drew on the ethos that came from the experience, that’s what he wanted. So, in that sense, it was not pure science; it really was Platonic: a pedagogical effort that might translate into real human beings developing habits that, when they bring them to the public community, would ultimately do more good than if I forced myself into politics. (Non-)collegiality Hereth: Voegelin was isolated. He did not look for the appreciation of his colleagues. He did not discuss things with them. In his head, Voegelin was still an American. He never entered into the German society and he was not interested in it. This created a kind of isolation, but also a kind of protection against his milieu; there were faculty members who were rotten through and through, morally rotten. If you wanted to protect yourself, you just kept your distance. This did not apply to his colleagues in political science, because political science was a new creation after the foundation of the Federal Republic. It was liberal and, as far as I know, not a single political scientist in Germany had been impregnated by National Socialism. Even so, many academic political scientists did not understand him. There was this essay, “What Is Political Reality?” which he presented at a meeting of the German Political Science Association in Tutzing. It was the focus of the meeting. After he delivered this paper, Karl-Dietrich Bracher, one of the leading specialists in German constitutional thought and German political practice, said, “I didn’t understand a single word. You were not talking about pluralism and all these things that are important and wonderful about democracy!” These people simply didn’t understand what he was talking about! And this continues in part in political science in Germany, and probably in the United States too. Henningsen: There was an extraordinary encounter between Voegelin and the

establishment of German political scientists in the fall of ’ in Tutzing. They were all there. It was a grandiose performance on his part, because everyone

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could see that the way he handled questions ended the discussion. They did not get anywhere. It was really a feast. But it also was clear there was no possibility of any compromise between him and the professionals. I think that meeting with the German political scientists simply confirmed to him that German political scientists were as stupid as the American ones, and that was all there was to it. His regard for American political scientists wasn’t very high either. So, I think this was simply a professional confirmation. Abendroth, the most prominent Marxist in the profession, was there, but he didn’t say anything. This was icing on the cake. Gebhardt: Voegelin always emphasized his American background: American

experience, politics, intellectual climate, scholarship, foundations. He got lots of money from American foundations, and all his students got scholarships from American foundations. Weber-Schäfer, Opitz, and I all went over on American foundation money. Voegelin would behave as an American, would always stress that he is an American citizen and spent every third semester in the United States. Between semesters, he went to the United States; he spent time at the Harvard Divinity School and regularly went to Notre Dame. His Americanism was as important as his internationalism. He brought in Raymond Aron, Hans Jonas, Hannah Arendt, Michael Oakeshott. People who were more or less internationally prominent in the field came to Munich. So, there was not just his particular approach to political science, but also a strong touch of Americanism and internationalism in Munich, in this German provincial context. And here again, he required people not only to read, but also to speak English. This was not done everywhere, to say the least. Many other things constituted the particular make-up of the institute. So, pretty soon, a sectarian touch came in. But that was just one aspect. When Aron came or Arendt came or others came, the members of the institute were felt to be something better than the rest of the academic crowd. There was resentment, first, regarding what Voegelin taught and the way he taught it, but also about the way he talked about the Munich milieu. He more or less openly showed his disrespect for a certain Bavarian provincialism, and he often talked about provincialism. But there were also many colleagues he got along with. Hollweck: On looking through his letters, I realized that there is no major

correspondence between Voegelin and his German colleagues. Not just in political science, but in related fields too. He would invite someone to a public lecture that might be of interest to them, but you don’t find any letters back from these people.

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I think he made attempts to open up a dialogue, but there was never anything in return. I think it was Henningsen or somebody who told me that at the time Anamnesis was published, he sent copies to many people. Never heard back from them. In the lecture on the German university, though, Voegelin gave as good as he got. Hollweck: But his colleagues didn’t notice.

But this was delivered in the big amphitheater! Hollweck: Yes, in the Auditorium Maximum; it was part of a cycle of lectures.

You would have expected that somebody would have been extremely offended. They were much more offended by the Hitler lectures than they were about this one. But somebody could look at the way he analyzed the problem of the university and most people could easily dismiss it with a “That’s not me, you know.” Schabert: The Hitler lectures reinforced the view that Voegelin was some-

body you had to listen to. With the students, that lecture series was kind of a breakthrough for Voegelin. Understandably, though, it distanced him further from his colleagues. He explained about the cooperation of the professors with the Nazis and he named names. He pointed fingers at people. For instance, at Theodor Maunz, who was then the minister of cultural affairs— Voegelin’s boss, so to speak. He had violated taboos, had done something one doesn’t do. You don’t tick off such people. One professor of English literature initiated a disciplinary action against him. Which is a very serious thing, because the process of disciplinary actions introduces the possibility of being removed, which is the ultimate punishment. On what grounds? Schabert: On the grounds that Voegelin had used materials that were confidential. People, from one week to the next, were interested; people reacted. And Voegelin got letters from people in the audience that drew his attention to this or that professor. So, the assistants working with him at the time had lots to do. They worked very hard to follow up on all the information, because they had to investigate claims from one week to the next. Voegelin relished this. It was like a detective in a TV series, you know? You’ve got another corpse every week! I was just a student, but Henningsen and Laufer were there. And in the middle of some lectures, Voegelin read letters he had received with great delight, like it was a drama unfolding. But some of these things referred to confidential matters. So, on these grounds, this colleague asked for disciplinary actions. But nothing happened.

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By ’, Voegelin had resigned himself to the fact that his time in Munich was almost up and he was going to leave. So, if one were to divide up Voegelin’s years in Munich, there were three periods. There was the very brief period of general revolution when the institute seemed like a kind of salvation. But that certainly was dispelled very shortly. Then, after about , he was in a kind of panic, and he increasingly accepted invitations to the United States and traveled around. Then beginning around ’, Voegelin became much more certain that he would be returning to the United States. Gebhardt: Maier came in ’ or ’. He was Bergstraesser’s most gifted stu-

dent and had specialized in Christianity. Now, I think this may have changed as he has aged, but in some way, Maier never forgave Voegelin. Voegelin said basically, “OK, you teach German government and educate the gymnasium teachers, and I’ll finish Order and History and lay out the grand scheme of political theory.” Maier was thirty-two, and in some way Voegelin treated him like an assistant. That was wrong, the way he treated him; it was really a mistake. He did not convince Maier of the value of his plans, but was ready to force his plans upon him. But it didn’t work, because Maier wouldn’t listen. Voegelin was not a cooperative type—certainly, he was not very cooperative with Maier. Maier: Maybe I should say a word about my personal relationship with

Voegelin. I was of course a lot younger than he was, and at a time when he was the king of the science, I was more or less the worker! On the one hand, I admired him greatly. But on the other, Voegelin required, shall we say, a close identification with his ideas, and I had certain reservations on that point. That was one of the difficulties I had with him: Voegelin sometimes put too much stock in his theories. I always had the opinion that when a philosopher refers to historical facts, those historical facts should be true! For his part, Voegelin thought that I was a relativist and a positivist, which I wasn’t. So, there were these areas of disagreement. Here is something else that disturbed me: when he was together with a small party, he was a very nice, charming man with a brilliant mind. But in a larger group, he could be very blunt. It always disturbed me that he only would let people hear him who were really disciples. He was the master, and I myself was just an assistant. He was the master and he had his disciples. And that is what I remember of him, always having those two sides: on the one hand, he was this sly and charming intellectual who associated with only a few people, and on the other, he was this arrogant person who could be really unpleasant.

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Gebhardt: Voegelin went to the ministry and laid out his plans for the insti-

tute, but Maier had much better contact with the ministry. At that time, Maier agreed with the ministry as to what a professor of political science was supposed to do. But it was not what Voegelin wanted to do, with China, and Confucius, and so on. I think that’s when Voegelin began to lose influence. He was not on the committee that filled the positions in the faculty of philosophy, despite the fact that he had brought Nicholas Lobkowicz to Munich. He had wanted Lobkowicz to become a research assistant and to habilitate, but Lobkowicz was insulted at that: he had been an assistant professor at Notre Dame and wanted to become a German ordinarus [full professor] himself. And he was a good Catholic and had contacts with the Bavarian Catholic powers because he was married to the daughter of one of the richest Bavarian aristocrats, so he got the chair of political philosophy. Voegelin was not even on the selection committee for his appointment. This led to a tension between the two. Then the minister sent Gottfried Kindermann to the institute. Again, Voegelin had not been asked if he wanted him. Then Kurt Sontheimer came, whom Voegelin did not want at all. Henningsen: A controversy took place in the late ’s, in ’ or so, when

Kindermann joined the institute. It was a disaster when all the young professors showed up: Maier first, then Lobkowicz, then Kindermann. There was a lot of disagreement after Maier arrived. Voegelin was not very good at handling some of the personal relationships; he was not used to political maneuvering. And we younger assistants didn’t help either. We were aware of a threat to the whole operation: the institute was being threatened by the arrival of people whose intellectual and political persuasions we despised. So, Voegelin’s disagreement with these people was exacerbated by our disgust and contempt for the people who came. We simply despised everything about them: their thinking, their writing, their personal manners, the pettybourgeois tone that had suddenly arrived at the institute. All that simply was against the ground rules according to which the institute Voegelin had founded in ’ had been governed. A kind of bohemian mentality had developed in the institute—not on the orders of Eric, but it somehow emerged. People didn’t just talk about and believe in this kind of counterculture, but tried to live it. And Voegelin was quite happy about that. The others were regarded as functionaries of the spirit.

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Leaving Munich My impression is that Voegelin assumed when he moved to Munich that it would be permanent. Sandoz: Yes, he said in a letter, “We’re moving permanently to Munich.” So,

he thought it would be permanent. At the same time, he was continuing to keep his bridges open to America by returning every other year to teach at Notre Dame. Since he was a naturalized citizen, he had to touch American soil every eighteen months or some such thing—particularly if he had returned to the land of his birth, which of course was Germany. So, he didn’t put all his chips on this Munich thing. Tell me about your dissertation. Allen: My dissertation was ultimately rejected, and it is a very interesting story: it had a lot to do with the politics at the University of Munich and with Voegelin’s future. In a certain sense, I fell victim to the vendetta directed at him that had developed by the time I submitted my thesis to Voegelin. I had a real dilemma with this. On the one hand, I had submitted my dissertation. I went to Munich, withstood my oral exam, the defense of my thesis entitled “The Theory of the Liberation of Man in Marxism-Leninism.” Voegelin seemed to like it. I recall I submitted it in , and then had my oral exams in Eastern European history, national economy, and of course in theory. I earned flying colors—honors. But then, under the rules of the university, the dissertation had to lie at rest, so to speak, for ninety days in the chancellery of the university. And two professors with whom Voegelin had been carrying on some kind of dispute raised objections to my dissertation. So, here I was: I thought I was through after the orals and acceptance of the dissertation by Voegelin, the top economics professor, Erich Preiser, and a leading historian, Georg Stadtmüller. I thought I was finished and was already “Herr Doktor,” but I was failed. Voegelin was terribly upset and embarrassed by this. Now, my dilemma was an interesting one: I had to keep separate what I was doing with Voegelin, trying to get him to Stanford, from my own problem. It wasn’t particularly an act of selflessness, but I decided that it would be more important to get Voegelin out of there and to Stanford, and to deal with my problem later. I didn’t much care anyway; I was pretty well launched in my career, so it didn’t really matter. I had done it: I had gone to Germany, mastered a different language, German, and earned a doctorate. If they wanted to deny it to me, I felt, to hell with them.

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In Voegelin’s correspondence, the story is something like this: two professors didn’t like it, rejected it, and cast a veto. Allen: Yes. I was angry about it for many years, but I gradually shed my anger.

But none of that deterred me on my other project. The delicate part was that I had set in motion a process that would bring Voegelin to Stanford. I felt that there was a conflict of interest here, and I wasn’t going to hold one priority hostage to the other. I was already working on the Nixon campaign, although I intended to return to Stanford to continue as editor of the Yearbook on International Communist Affairs. Now, how much better a situation could I have had than first to conduct the foreign policy part of a winning national campaign, and then to go back to Stanford and have Voegelin there, where I could surely learn some more? Could you summarize your understanding of Voegelin’s third departure for the United States? Henningsen: Well, you’re right, it was the third time. The first time was the

research trip between  and . The second time was in —his exile. And the third time was February of , when he started his career at the Hoover Institution with the Salvatori fellowship. He had arranged it, if I am not mistaken, in April of . That’s the first time I got an inkling of what was coming. I had accompanied the Voegelins for two months on a research trip to the United States. We spent most of the time in Cambridge, Mass. But when we were in Atlanta in April, he gave the Chandler Lectures at Emory. And he said to me one day, “Well, you’ll have to fly home to Boston by yourself, because my wife and I will be going to San Francisco. We have to discuss our future there.” This was the first time I realized that he was thinking of an American future. I had never considered that. It was in a way stupid of me not to have assumed something like that, because there was a mandatory retirement age at German universities, and Voegelin was certainly approaching it. I do not know whether Voegelin’s return to the United States really surprised the others, but it shocked me. I always hoped that it wouldn’t take place. The longer I think about it, the more I understand it: I think his relationship to America had become final. It was an existential connection with the country that had started in the ’s and was then reaffirmed in  and during World War II. And that never changed. I did not understand that in the beginning: I had no understanding of that dimension of his personality because I had never been to America. For me, America was fictional; I grew

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up with America as the great, good Other, and that’s what America was for us as kids growing up after . But Voegelin came back as a returning émigré with the aura of that background and with the self-understanding of an American. When he said, “I’m an American,” I think most Germans never understood what it really meant to him. It is important, I think, to understand that there was a generation of German intellectuals for whom America was a refuge when Germany tried to kill them. Schabert: He had made a mistake coming to Munich. He had thought he

could return to Vienna, so to speak, but he didn’t come back to Vienna. So, he went back to America and felt at home. He felt liberated to be back home and also liberated from these nasty, bureaucratic conflicts in Munich. He could not have gone home to Vienna because the Vienna he left didn’t exist anymore. Schabert: Not now either. Go to the University of Vienna and you’ll find a

third-, fourth-rate university. And it’s corrupt, which is not what a university should be. But he had expected that Munich would be something close to Austria, with great reputations and big names and so on. I think in his subconscious he thought, “Now I have at least a substitute for that.” But Munich proved not to be a substitute. F. Sattler: I guess he started out with an academic curiosity about what Germany might become. And with the passing years, he was disappointed. It was a very common for us young people to say, “Perhaps Voegelin would feel comfortable if he were to go by ship to America and stay in the middle of the ocean between Europe and America.” People who knew him in America thought he argued against American political institutions, and the same was true of people here. So, perhaps he felt the most at ease in the middle of the Atlantic!

How did you feel about his leaving? F. Sattler: My strongest feeling was that we had failed. We had failed to keep him: German society had failed, the German students had failed, the University of Munich had failed. I saw it from his point of view. From his point of view, he was right to go back, because the resonance of his work and of his person here was not strong enough. I think it was OK, his going away. When he came back in , , it was clear that the way he did things had gained more acceptance in America. When he left, there was an interview in the Abendzeitung—Henningsen did this interview. There had been students

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making apocalyptic, stupid revolutionary talk on the one side, and there was this mediocre, faceless reactionary type on the other. So, it was like he was a stranger to the young people and to the old people as well. Hereth: You know this interview he gave to the Abendzeitung when he left?

“Stuck between the stagnant people of the reaction and the frenzied idiots of the revolution, one cannot conduct political philosophy.” I made up this sentence; it is not exactly Voegelin’s, but the sense is the same. But he was talking about his colleagues and his students! That was after he had decided to go back. Henningsen: There’s this funny story about the “liberation” of books when

Voegelin left. He had received a large American grant to purchase books and ordered the librarian to note in the books that they were a gift. When it became quite clear that people would not accept his recommendation for a successor to his chair, he became very angry. One of the manifestations of his anger was that he took some of the books that had been bought with the grant money and had become part of the Munich library and sent them to America. They were worth about fifteen thousand dollars; they were French, bought in Paris. And he said to all of us before he left, “Whatever books you want to liberate, liberate them!” Really! And a lot of people did. Voegelin’s “liberated” books are now with his library at the University of Erlangen.

What happened? Hypotheses Büttner: In the garden off the street that runs north of the university and

branches off from Leopoldstraße, there’s a large, traditional Bavarian restaurant with a beer garden in the back in which we fairly often sat. There Voegelin said, “Ich bin die deutsche Philosophie.” Either he said it there or we discussed it there as a follow-up to what Taubes had said about Voegelin and Gnosis. This was in a heated discussion about the state of German philosophy in the twentieth century. He probably would not have said, “I am the only philosopher of my time.” He would say, “I am a philosopher in the sense of a critical instance responsible for, or at least of being qualified for, judging the developments of society, the thought about society, to bring it back to the greatest clarity regarding the great questions.” Now, that is something that is already present in his early writings. And Voegelin was forced to believe that from an early time.

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Naumann: He was a man with few friends. So, while he saw himself as the

dominant philosophical force in Germany—and he once even said, “I am German philosophy!”—he was not. Because philosophy involves a love not only for knowledge but also for carriers of knowledge, and these are not books. So, if there was one reason why he was never able to build a school in Germany—which is always the secondary goal of every German philosopher, to establish a school—it was his inability to network socially with his brethren in academia. He let them know that he was smart, which he was. But his biting humor and sarcasm also made him enemies. And the students, his assistants, all suffered from it if they pursued academic careers. Then Voegelin left. He did not leave only out of moral reasons, as he pretends; he did not only leave the Gesindel and the rebellious students behind. I think he left because he might have felt underappreciated by the academic community. So, he gave up on the idea and turned to America and to his own network there, which was pretty small, too. When I was in California, I visited him a couple of times, and I thought he was a lonely there, too. Voegelin’s plans for the institute essentially fell through? Allen: They did, to my surprise and disappointment. I had the impression

that he wasn’t very good at bureaucratic infighting. That’s why, in the end, he lost. There were troops that he could have organized. He didn’t see the need to build a constituency, whereas some academics understand the importance of bureaucratic support and will do their best to get it. I don’t think that he was in touch with the right people in Bavaria. Others can tell you much more about this than I can, but my impression was that he didn’t tend to his bureaucratic base, if you will. He should have been out talking to people like the Bavarian premier, Franz-Josef Strauss, and getting their active support. Because no one messes with you if you’ve got a two-ton giant like Strauss behind you. He did not build up, as I see it, a base of political support, a constituency. He could have and he should have from the beginning. Of course, at the time I didn’t know that, I thought, “Well, he must be in tight with everyone.” And when Hans Maier came along, I think you will find that he too did not help. Many people said that Maier had all the political connections and political smarts that Voegelin lacked. Allen: I think that’s probably absolutely correct. Schabert: He was under some illusions when he accepted the appointment

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at Munich. In one of our conversations, he talked about the cultural and political milieu, and we exchanged names and information and so on. And at one point during this conversation, he told me, “I never penetrated the milieu, really, I never penetrated it. I never got so far into it that I became an insider.” Especially with the Catholic intellectuals: Voegelin was quite clear about that. So, this leads me to these conclusions: he had been attracted to Munich by Catholic forces. He could not have received an appointment of this importance at that time in Munich without having been supported by the Catholic milieu. I think that, throughout Bavaria and in some parts of Germany, Voegelin was considered by the Catholic conservatives to be one of their own, to be someone who would help them win the Cold War and help them restore the Christian faith. I think it was an illusion on both sides: an illusion on the part of Voegelin with regard to this milieu and an illusion on the part of these people who supported him. But Voegelin also had his own internal strains and divisions. On the one hand, having lived in America, he was profoundly American. But deep in his soul, there also lived the idea of the great Continental professor corresponding to the great professors in Vienna, with their public influence and their great stature—someone who was almost some kind of demigod. This does not exist in the United States, whereas in a German chair at the university, at least at the old universities, you could still be a demigod. Voegelin, to some extent, wanted to be a demigod. Literally. Up to the end, that was his goal, and he was trying to be it. And I think this is one reason why he was fooling himself. Because he had to reconcile two Voegelins in his life: Voegelin, the ordinary American professor at Louisiana State University giving undergraduate classes in American government, and the demigod. Those two things are hard to reconcile. Voegelin quickly realized that he wasn’t really a demigod. He was perhaps for the students, but not for the milieu, because they quickly realized that he was not one of them. I think the best example to see what his influence could have been is to think of the Frankfurt School. Horkheimer and Adorno: they really made an impact. In the late ’s, of course, this played out with the left turn of the majority of students, with the student revolt, and with many young intellectuals becoming Marxists. The Frankfurt School really had an enormous impact throughout the whole republic, whereas Voegelin did not. Henningsen: Voegelin could have had people eating out of his hand in

Germany. They were waiting for someone to come forward with a book and really to represent the position he took regarding German society. There were

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all kinds of people, conservatives too, who wanted to use him: they had heard of him through their children. One example was Dieter Sattler, who was then the secretary of state representing cultural affairs. He later became the director of the Goethe Institute worldwide and German ambassador to the Vatican in Rome. But he was also a central figure in Munich. That family had connections to all kinds of cultural venues: publishers, intellectuals, the Catholic church. And three of Dieter Sattler’s sons were students of Voegelin. But whenever moves were made or the Bavarian radio or newspapers approached him, Voegelin would always decline. F. Sattler: The University of Munich would have given him much more. In

those days, a historian like Franz Schnabel or an art historian like Hans Sedlmayr were very, very popular. Old ladies would sit there expectantly for two hours before they’d enter the lecture hall. So, it was in some way symptomatic that Voegelin never made it to the biggest lecture hall; he was in the smaller one. Of course, it was also a challenge to listen to Voegelin. Sedlmayr would make his lectures more accessible to the guest-students than Voegelin? F. Sattler: Yes. And art history was not such a controversial topic. For exam-

ple, his lectures were on paintings of the sixteenth century. Hans Sedlmayr even had some Third Reich shadows on his biography, so that he had to change his lectures on account of having been connected with the Nazis. This was all different with Voegelin: you had always to think about your own life and your own political habits when you listened to his lectures. Opitz: His students were sympathetic, admired him, though many of them

couldn’t talk easily with him about philosophy. Even today many people remember him and read his books. It’s a shame, the lost potential! If he had used his time here better, he could have been one of the most important political philosophers in Germany. In 1942 or ’43, he says something to the effect that political philosophers have to be isolated. Opitz: Right. In a way, it might be true; in another way, it might be personal

evasion. The main reason for his isolation in Munich was not so much philosophy as his personal style. He was often needlessly rude, which was the main reason that contributed to his isolation. Why was he like that?

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Opitz: I don’t know. I guess it had something to do with his emigration, his

resentment against old Nazi professors who were still in high positions. I had the impression from conversations with Lissy that he expected to come back to Germany to find a lot of colleagues with whom he could talk about politics and philosophy and so on. If you look at the project proposal for the institute written to the Guggenheim Foundation, he praises the intellectual atmosphere in the highest terms. His letters from the ’s were full of complaints about the low intellectual level at the American university. Of course, there were some exceptions at the large universities. Hallowell used to say that he had very poorly developed diplomatic skills. Opitz: He had none at all. He was an anti-diplomat.

To what do you attribute his lack of diplomatic skills? Gebhardt: He could behave quite diplomatically when he wanted to. He had

learned something in the United States—but only a little. He was convinced of his scientific approach and so on and would tell everybody else this too. But if you look at the more important German university professors, they usually were not very diplomatic either and not too polite to each other. It was a trait of his that he shared with the German professoriate more or less. The problem with Voegelin, people told me afterward, was that there was this man and his crew convinced that they were the true scientists, the true scholars, and everybody else was minor, engaged in mediocre scholarship. And on the one hand, this attracted people, but on the other hand, there were always people who felt disgusted, because it was not very liberal, not very pluralistic. Certain positions had to be accepted in order to become part of the institute, especially between ’ and ’, when the institute had a certain profile that not everybody appreciated. But at least it was a profile in a university where everybody else kept a very low profile. And this again might have been a reason why Voegelin and his Voegelinians were considered strange, in some way arrogant, and certainly, people who held a theoretical position more strongly than other schools. There was a certain sectarian quality back then, I think. There was a sectarian ambiance, a sectarian mood, at least in the perception of outsiders. Hereth: Twice in our conversation, I thought of Leo Strauss, who was, I

think, probably the only one in the United States who succeeded in creating a school of political philosophy. Voegelin had this German idea of creating a school too, that’s true. And Strauss did it in the United States, which did not

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always make him appreciated in the American academy. I think the people there hate this kind of creating schools around scholars. Was Voegelin interested in having a school? Hereth: Voegelin? He was, sure. If he could have, he would have done the

same thing Strauss did; I’m sure he would have. But the German academic reality was occupied by pragmatists and institutionalists, and Voegelin could not do that. He should have developed different ways of acting with other persons; he should have been more sociable. But he was not sociable; he was hostile toward his colleagues. And you cannot expect your colleagues to put your students on the list to be presented to the minister of cultural affairs if you are calling those colleagues idiots! Which he sometimes did—I never understood it. When Karl-Dietrich Bracher [said], “I didn’t hear anything about pluralism, which is so much debated in the literature,” Voegelin answered, “Are there any other questions?” He did not accept his question at all. So, Bracher was not a lover of Voegelin, that was clear! He had this behavior that was counterproductive. If you want to plant your former students or former assistants in different universities, you must behave differently. Weber-Schäfer was the first of Voegelin’s students to get a professorship coming from Munich, but he did not get it through Voegelin. Weber-Schäfer was a sinologist too, and he wrote his thesis on a Japanese topic. His Doktorvater was on the founding committee at the University of Bochum, and he created a position for a professor of political science and Japanology. There was only one person in all of Europe who could fill this post! Then Weber-Schäfer got the chair. Later, he was sitting on the committee that made the next list in Bochum, so Gebhardt came. But Voegelin, in all this, could do nothing, because he had clashed with all of them. So, he had a counterproductive attitude when it came to spreading his ideas in political philosophy. In German political philosophy today, some people are interested in Voegelin. But at the time I went to Bochum, nobody was—except Hans Blumenberg. There again, Voegelin pretended at least not to know that Blumenberg had discussed his work in his book Die Legitimität der Neuzeit. He did not discuss it in a friendly way, not in the sense that he agreed with him; but still, he took him seriously. And Voegelin pretended to know nothing about it. Maybe he really didn’t, which only shows that he was not really living in this country. He lived in a kind of self-isolation; he did not follow what was said about him.

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One of the consequences of Voegelin’s leaving was that he was unable to assist his students and his assistants. Gebhardt: That’s right. But he hadn’t been here for too long, and he did not cultivate networks, in spite of the fact that networks did exist. But when he came here in ’, nobody knew him. Another thing: his idea was that political scientists should specialize in certain areas. Most of his students specialized in those areas and did not do much work in, let’s say, political science proper. They were all specialists: Weber-Schäfer in East Asia, Opitz in East Asia; von Sivers in Islamic politics; Büttner in Islamic politics. Büttner got a chair, by the way, but not with the help of Voegelin. So, this was another handicap: Voegelin needed these people and he wanted them to cooperate, but he should have had them do work in normal political science. When could he have helped people in Germany anyway? He told everybody that he didn’t like Germany and then he left. After that, he stayed in contact with only very few people. If you are an emeritus and live abroad, you can’t do much. If he had come here earlier and had developed a network, it probably would have been different. But you see, he knew he would have to stay on only until the end of the ’ year, which was January ’, and then he could leave. And his wife wanted to leave from the first moment, so he didn’t care very much.

Abandonment Schabert: I remember very well the day he left. It was a cold, dreary day, one

of those grey winter days after weeks of grey, drizzling, cold, depressing rain. And it was late February in the winter semester of ’/’. His wife had already left, and most of the students who had been close to him met together at the airport to say goodbye. We sort of wanted to say something meaningful, but also to maintain some kind of atmosphere of levity. So, it was small talk, but with meaningful reminders. I remember very well that he shook hands with everyone and with Hedda Herwig in particular. Hedda Herwig is now also a professor, but at that time she had just finished her thesis with Voegelin. He was very, very serious with her and very emotional, which surprised me very much. That is probably why I remember it so well. And I think we got the very distinct feeling that he was departing bodily, but not spiritually—that he would stay with us. But he didn’t stay with us either bodily or

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spiritually. My whole feeling when I got in the bus to go home and when I was alone was that I had been abandoned; I think it was really a feeling of abandonment. Henningsen: I’m speaking now for me. I never really thought about how Voegelin’s decision to go to the United States affected other people, but I was shocked. And I felt really almost a sense of abandonment. You know, here was a guy who abandons . . .

His children! Henningsen: Well, his children and more than his children: there was almost

a missionary self-understanding we had vis-à-vis German society. You know, we really felt the same way the people in Frankfurt felt, the Horkheimer and Adorno people. And I think we respected each other, even though we disliked what the others were doing. We respected each other because we thought we had, in a way, the same enemy: the Germany that didn’t want really to look in the mirror and to reflect critically on the causes that had made Germany the Holocaust Empire. Büttner: There is one dimension of Voegelin’s relationship with his students

you should know about, because it is important. Several of his students grew up in their formative years—school, puberty, university—without a father. Their fathers had died in the war. This was the case with several of them: Peter Opitz, Peter von Sivers, I think Henningsen. And there were two or three others who had very strong and intimidating fathers: the Sattlers, myself in many ways. And Jürgen Gebhardt had a very, very famous father. My point is that this feeling of abandonment fits with the fatherless society. And there was a sectarian group of young Voegelinians around Hedda Herwig and her friends and some of the younger ones who had seen Voegelin for only a very short time. They met regularly and discussed Voegelinian issues. And when I saw that happen, it was the beginning of an estrangement. I had been there much longer than they had but had never been a focal member of the Voegelinian group. But they were like an early Christian sect waiting for the parousia, waiting for the reappearance of the savior. It was very strange, their endeavor to recreate the person that was gone and what he had given to them. This group in a way emerged with his leaving. There were a number of people who seemed emotionally to need to recreate the atmosphere of Christ around this figure who had left them. Was this something Voegelin himself would have wanted?

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Büttner: No, no, he was too much a realist. No, he was recreated in this

image to fulfill the emotional needs of these young people. It was created around Voegelin’s departure. He didn’t create it. A lot of his students have said that they found him to be kind of a substitute father. Hereth: How did you find that out? Never mind, it’s true; it’s true. I was

fatherless, because my father and mother separated immediately after the war. Peter Weber-Schäfer had the same problem. I don’t know how it was with Laufer, but Laufer wasn’t all that interested in Voegelin. Gebhardt didn’t have a father either, or Henningsen—both Henningsen brothers. And the Herwig sisters had parents, but they were horrible parents apparently. So, I think there was something to that. This is probably one explanation for the appreciation of Voegelin’s person by the inner circle, let’s say: this was the generation of sons and daughters of former National Socialists. You must see that this was the peculiar situation of the Germany of the ’s and early ’s. My father was also a member of the National Socialist Party, but he did not educate me. And my grandfather was not. So this was very clear: we were all looking for a moral authority and Voegelin was one. How comfortable was Voegelin with that? Hereth: As far as I know, he didn’t know about it. I don’t think he knew the

basis of his influence on his students. I don’t think he knew that this was at least one reason in Germany for his adherents. M. Sattler: For me and my brothers, Voegelin was an authority alongside my

father. My father was a very articulate politician and a man of culture in postwar Germany, so we needed some means to escape his paternal authority. Voegelin was instrumental. I remember very well: one evening in Munich, my parents and the Voegelins went out to a restaurant together to talk, and I felt very strange about it. It was a very important experience for me. I had gone to college in America, to Williams College in Massachusetts, and afterward I pursued my studies in Munich. Voegelin was for me the interpreter of an experience that was very central at that time in Germany and very central to my family: the encounter between the American and German cultures. Having been to America as a young man, I simply saw in him the person that was most adequate at interpreting this American-German cultural encounter.

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The liberation of Germany by Americans was one of the major events for my family. My father’s cousins were in the American army, and the first thing they did, when they were in Germany, was visit us. So, they came with Jeeps and food in May of  to the house where my father lived, and this was a liberation. It was a part of our family tradition to have a feast on that day of liberation—not V-E Day, but two days before, because that was when the cousins came. America, as I already said, was perceived in my family to be the country of great philosophers like George Santayana or William James, philosophers my father had read before the war. So, I had been educated by my parents to respect America, to see it as the country destined to be the liberator of a destroyed Europe. Then Voegelin, as an academic teacher, was the interpreter who could do it better than my father. I could leave the family myths through a teacher who, on the same subject of American culture, was able to be much more differentiated and deep than my father had been. So, this was a very happy event in my life. Many people in Germany went into revolt against their parents, and this could very easily have been the case for me, because my father had not been in the Resistance. Although he had had a cousin who had been in the White Rose movement, he himself didn’t suffer. He had been restricted by the Nazis because of relatives who had emigrated, but he himself did not suffer. He said, “We have to live through this.” This attitude could have prompted a rebellion against my father, but it did not. So I regard it as a very happy event that, beyond the interpretation of the American tradition of my parents, I had found someone else who could teach or explain or even say to me, “Why don’t you go back to America? Why don’t you go to Notre Dame?” Voegelin had an openness about things concerning America. But I stayed in Germany and have taught political science and constitutional law since . After he left, some people said they felt as though he had abandoned them. D. Herwig: Yes, I think that was a feeling some of them had. For some, I think,

it was like their father had abandoned them, had betrayed them, and gone over the broad sea never to be seen again—I don’t know! Of course, he was seen again. But I think that had something to do with his pupils having been mostly men. For a woman, it wasn’t like that. I mean, perhaps if one had liked him very much, one might have thought, “Well, there’s a lover abandoning me.” But I never felt like that. There were very few female people around him, and I believe they never felt that. Women have fathers too!

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D. Herwig: Yes, but he was a special kind of father. Speaking more psycholog-

ically about him and his relation to the students and the students’ relation to him, he was a father figure. Certainly, he was. And with some of his male students, you could say that he was a substitute for their own fathers, whom they couldn’t respect. But they could respect him. Maybe they even loved him— or at least they admired him and respected him as a father figure. So, for a relationship like that, it is hard when someone leaves and goes far away. But some of them wrote him letters and got letters back. Do you think it saddened him to leave his students? D. Herwig: I really wouldn’t know and I’d better not guess.

Were you at the airport with Hedda when he left? D. Herwig: I wasn’t there. In a way, maybe I differ from some others in the group in that he never even came near to being a substitute for a father. I did not let him play that role in my life. I admired him, but just to a certain point; I was not emotionally involved with him as a person. I remember that in the very beginning, in the first years I studied with him, I did sometimes dream about him. I think there was a fascination with a person that was so highly interesting, so I sometimes even dreamed of him. And he had a certain appeal—I mean as a male person. He was appealing, although he was not good-looking. But he had very great charm, and his sort of biting irony was appealing to me. So, let’s put it that way: I was not emotionally involved with him, but I found him through the years to be rather appealing. And I never accepted him as a father figure. I couldn’t, I think, have enjoyed that feeling. I had a very strong father myself. My sister of course had that too, but we had a different relationship with our father. I had a very strong father, and I think that made me very cautious toward persons like Voegelin. But I owe him a lot.

An Abiding Influence Bärsch: I had been lawyer and found practicing law very boring. So, I met

him in a café in Schwabing and asked him, “Professor Voegelin, would it possible to do a dissertation in political science?” And he said that I was lawyer for left-wing people and terrorists, but he didn’t say, “You are a terrible man, because you sustain these terrible people.” No, no, he was very tolerant. And I asked him, “May I do a dissertation?” Then he asked me: “Wieso wollen Sie

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nicht ein Positiv bleiben?” [How come you don’t want to remain a practicing lawyer?] Positiv here referred to positive law. I thought, “He thinks I am too stupid to do a dissertation. I will show him!” So, I worked very hard. And two years later, he was in America. I wrote to him: “Professor Voegelin, I have good news! I have finished my dissertation!” He said, “Yes, yes, send me your dissertation,” because he had expertise in this area. And he sent me a letter with his comments and the letter starts like this: “Dear Mr. Bärsch, ich habe Ihre Arbeit gelesen [I read your work]. Your dissertation is much better than I expected!” He knew my type. I like to go to cafés, and I’m not really a scientist type. Well, maybe I am but I don’t like to show it; I was taught not to show that you are a learned man. It is not possible to say “I am”; you must be understated. At this time, I was not like the other scholars, saying “What is true, what is true, what is true?” Instead, I was saying, “Something might be true, something might not be.” I was in the situation of—Voegelin has a word for it— divertissement. It is French, it means diversion, amusement. And Voegelin thought, “This lazy guy, he’s not really interested.” He recognized this other side, this dark side of my soul. But he also provoked me to work, and I was very proud: he gave me a summa cum laude, one of the best! So, I was very proud and I thought, “If Voegelin gave me a summa cum laude, then it would be better to change my job. I will be awful, go to the university.” And you did. Bärsch: I did, yes. Seidl: I met him a few times when he returned to Munich. For example, he did a lecture in Munich, “The Gospel and Culture.” And once I drove with Stefan Sattler to Vienna, where he held a lecture as well. That was in December of . He was at the University of Vienna for one semester, I think, and had been allowed to live there in the student dormitory. We went into this lecture room where there were only seven or nine students—very, very few. And I think he liked talking in German again. He was in any case very nice and very relaxed. After his talk, he and his wife invited us for dinner at a very good hotel, the Hotel Stephanie. And we had Zander, which is a kind of fish. It was very, very nice, very friendly. And afterward, they invited us to their student residence, where they gave us white wine in juice glasses because they didn’t have wine glasses. Again, he was very polite, very nice. So, this was a side of him that I had not experienced before. He had mellowed; he was very different. During the Munich period, he was so much in a fighting mode.

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But of course he was always a kind of bird of paradise. His name is Voegelin, you must remember! And his face also was a little bit like a bird’s. He was this big bird with this long nose and he was going around picking up all these things. And I think all the other professors thought that this was a very strange bird: “He knows a lot, he’s very intelligent, but it’s not relevant. We are doing all this hard stuff, this empirical research.” But that is what made him so attractive to us. What of his personality lives on in some part of your life? H. Herwig: My major impression was that he was great. He was great! He was

a real phenomenon. I always used to say, “If I had to die, my last wish would be to hear a lecture of Voegelin again!” It was theater. He was something of a prima donna, but brilliant.

4 Notre Dame

7 South Dining Hall John Roos: We would often watch out for Voegelin on campus. There was a professor named Anton-Herman Chroust, a real character. He was a lawyer, philologist, and classicist who had written on various texts of Aristotle. He and Voegelin would hold court, so to speak, over in the South Dining Hall, in a place called the Oak Room. They both smoked cigars, and they would go over there in the mornings and have their coffee. They were both about the same age and had gone through some of the same experiences. Chroust had this line when he would go to class; he would tell Professor Voegelin (I still call him Professor Voegelin, this gives you an idea of the ambience at the time!) that he was going to cast real pearls before real swine. John Kennedy: I recall a kind of tableau there in the South Dining Hall. Eric

lived at the Morris Inn when he was here, but he generally went over to the South Dining Hall for dinner. And Tony Chroust inhabited the place. I can still see him and Tony and a couple of other faculty members at a table together. Their erudition was very impressive. Voegelin’s in particular was really impressive. Did you know that Voegelin would dine regularly with Professor Chroust? John Gueguen: I wasn’t aware that Voegelin associated with him. Professor

Chroust was an elderly law professor and extremely eccentric. He drove around in a flaming red convertible, this elderly man. He was more different, 119

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so to speak, than the people he associated with, yet he was trying to be as modern as he could. Dennis Moran: Chroust would go off to Europe and buy a new car every year,

a sports car, a very, very expensive one. He would drive it for one year, then he would come back, and ship it back in a boat. Sometimes he’d give Voegelin a lift home to the Morris Inn, even though it was only about a hundred yards. I remember their lunches together. They were the salt of the earth, the two of them. Voegelin would sit there in the South Dining Hall in his brown tweed jacket and smoke his cigar. That was in the good old days when you were allowed to smoke, even in the cafeteria. Sometimes he would be by himself, but he was very often with dinner companions—usually, with Tony Chroust. Basically, Tony and Voegelin didn’t give a damn that they were teaching in a Catholic university and they were both agnostics. One time I went into the cafeteria on a Saturday morning. The two of them were there having lunch, and I joined them. We ended up arguing about Lucretius. Chroust was arguing about something Lucretius said, and I said, “Oh, I don’t think you should believe anything he wrote! It was just an effort to convince people to think about what they think.” Voegelin thought that this was humorous. Chroust was annoyed and said to me, “What do you know about Lucretius?” I said, “I read it.” And he said, “Oh yeah, but you didn’t read it in the original.” I said, “No, I read it in the original.” He just looked at me, then he turned to Voegelin and said, “Tell him he’s wrong!” But Voegelin just smiled and said, “I can’t because I agree with him.” So, Voegelin laughed because he also thought that Lucretius didn’t believe anything himself and was trying to say that you should avoid superstition. Then we started talking about superstition, which involved the question of the significance of what Lucretius was doing. Voegelin liked to talk about that. I think he was fascinated with people who believed. I don’t think Voegelin saw himself as a nonbeliever, but he wasn’t a believer either. They used to joke about it. They loved just to scandalize us: in fact, that’s pretty much what we were there for. But Voegelin, more than Chroust, was not just laughing about the Lucretius thing. He was genuinely concerned about people who were superstitious, who were overly devotional. I think that that was part of what he was really worried about: about people who go off the deep end. So you would see these distinguished guys sitting there and you’d just go over? Moran: They’d usually invite you. That Saturday they said, “Hey, come sit

down with us”—which probably meant that they were bored with each other

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and were going to devour this graduate student. As it turned out, Voegelin decided I wasn’t so stupid after all. Although, I remember once—I can’t remember in what context—Voegelin turned to me and said, “You’re a Dummkopf.” And I thought, “God, that’s an honor.” I must have slipped into whatever trap Chroust was trying to set for me and missed it altogether and made a fool of myself. Did they have serious debates? Moran: They would argue, but Chroust was always irreverent. Voegelin

would sit there; he would slightly lean back and smoke his cigar. And he used to have tweed jackets and kind of knit ties. He didn’t always wear white shirts, but most of the time they were laundered, nice white shirts. He was a very stiff man. And Chroust was this rumpled-up person who probably hadn’t had anything dry-cleaned in months, and he would always smoke his pipe and would always be a mess. So, the two of them: Chroust, this rumpled-up character, and Voegelin, this wonderful—someone should make a bust of him. We always used to sit there and think, “Where’s he going to put the ash?” Chroust was rumpled up with stains on his clothes and Voegelin would sit there with his cigar and you’d be waiting for the ash to fall. But he never spilled any on himself. He was always impeccable; it was delightful. Sometimes they would get into current events. I think that Voegelin was like Cardinal Newman in certain ways; he was very interested in the angelism of humanity. Chroust was interested in the other side: he was interested in corruption. My impression was that they really defined each other: Chroust was a skeptic, whereas Voegelin was clearly not a skeptic, there was no cynicism about him at all. Chroust wanted to know everything; he wanted to know all the gossip about the university, especially about the priests. Voegelin was much more involved in bigger ideas and he liked to talk about bigger things. They would talk together about big things, too. They argued about the Republic, for example. But at that time, we were all pretty amused to have these two people thrown together. Life could be very amusing! Voegelin was a Lutheran. And Tony was sort of a Catholic, sort of a Jew, sort of an agnostic. He saw everything as a mystery to be solved. He saw everything that was mystery as a detective story, whereas Voegelin’s notion of mystery was cosmic. For Chroust, life was a back-alley mystery novel! Chroust was always reducing things to the lowest common denominator, to money and women. You must also remember that he was spending his life trying to prove that Aristotle was a spy—on the basis of the lost works of Aristotle!

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So their approaches to scholarship were antithetical? Moran: Right. They were on different ends of the telescope. I think what

bound them together was that, for any expatriate types, this was the Café Roma of Notre Dame. And in general, they were both kind and generous. They would argue and it would be about something serious, but it wasn’t textual. Ordinarily, I would be the unnamed interlocutor in the dialogue. You know, they would simply turn to me and say, “Was that Keats or Shelley?” And I would just say, “Shelley.”

First Encounters Frederick Crosson: He was an interesting figure. He was around here at

Notre Dame intermittently over a period of, I guess, fifteen years. Father Stanley Parry, the chairman of the department, brought him here. Parry was a Holy Cross priest. Sorry, a what? Crosson: Holy Cross, that’s the order that founded Notre Dame: the

Congregatio Sancta Crucis. It’s a title, not an adjective! Father Parry had done a Ph.D. in political science at Yale with a well-known conservative, Wilmoore Kendall. Kendall had really put his stamp on Parry. So, when Parry came back here, he did a lot to influence the department toward the conservative side of things. He was the one who brought Voegelin here. Because he was a naturalized citizen, he had to spend a certain amount of time in America. Crosson: Yes. The first time he came was certainly early on—it would have been the late ’s or early ’s. And he had of course acquired national visibility long before then, whether you loved him or hated him. It was, I guess, thanks in large part to that Walgreen Lecture, The New Science of Politics. It tugged him out of Louisiana onto the larger scene. And it was certainly a boon for us, for our students and for the faculty members who interacted with him. The first time he came, Father Parry invited him. He was going to give a graduate seminar, and the first meeting of it was an open meeting. Maybe I was invited to that because I had done a minor in the Government department here when I was working on my Ph.D. I remember that session very well, mainly because of what might have been a quasi-embarrassing moment for

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me! His talk that night was on Aristotle, and in the course of it, he said—I can still almost quote the words—“Aristotle says that if you want to understand human nature, you should read the poets.” In the discussion afterward, I raised my hand and said, “I don’t think that’s an Aristotelian sentiment. Where does Aristotle say that?” And he responded in Germanic fashion, which was the way he generally talked, “In the Poetics!” I said, “Gee, I’ve read the Poetics a couple of times and I don’t remember him saying anything like that.” He said, “Read it again!” He must have been thinking of the passage where Aristotle compares history to poetry and says, “Well, poetry is more philosophical than history.” But that doesn’t make it more philosophical than the philosophers! So, he must have been giving his own hermeneutics on that. Professor Kennedy, how did you know Professor Voegelin? Kennedy: Eric had been a professor on the faculty at this department for a couple of years at least, maybe more, when I met him. He generally came in the spring semester. I believe he was looked upon as part of the regular faculty. He was not a visiting professor. There were inconveniences with the German universities, coordinating his schedule, because the German semester does not coincide with ours. I think he always had to go back early, which caused inconvenience for him at some point. He lectured in the political theory field and also gave public lectures, maybe three of them during the semester in addition to his classes.

What was your impression of him? Kennedy: Basically he was an enjoyable man, a nice person, as far as I was

concerned. He had a sense of humor. He was, as I say, an asset. The negative side was the scheduling. When did you first meet Voegelin and where? Walter Nicgorski: I’m not absolutely sure whether I was reading The New Science of Politics when I first heard Voegelin lecture, or whether it was a result of that first lecture that I got started on it. But I was in the audience. It was a small audience at the Opus Dei residence on the South Side of Chicago, near the University of Chicago, called Woodlawn Residence. There was quite an interest in Voegelin among the graduate students at Chicago. This was partly caused by graduates of Notre Dame who had encountered him here and then gone up to Chicago into graduate studies. I remember much more vividly my first encounter with him here at Notre Dame. I had been appointed as an instructor and was still finishing my

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dissertation, working under Leo Strauss on Cicero. This was the fall of , and it was either that fall or the next spring that Voegelin was lecturing here. He was in residence for a term, and back again in —that was when he did the lectures on Hegel. I asked Voegelin a question at the end of another of his lectures having to do with certain of the Socratic passages in Plato. I didn’t realize at the time that I must have touched sensitive ground; I wonder in retrospect if I didn’t really touch some of the ground that he and Strauss had gone over long before early in their correspondence, in the letters about myth in Plato. In any case, I remember his intimidating response; he glared down at me and said, “Where did you get that question?” “From my head!” Nicgorski: Right! He was pretty upset with it. I can’t remember now whether

I wormed out of the situation or if he simply moved on to another questioner and dismissed it. Then I went home and wrote him a long, two- to three-page single-spaced letter in which I cited the Platonic texts that had informed the question I gave him. Next day I dropped it in his box at the Morris Inn and taught my class. Not long after I got out of class, the phone rang in the office. It was Eric Voegelin. And his opening lines were, “Oh, Professor Nicgorski, I didn’t realize that it was you posing that question!” Certainly in the American university system, we have our attachments to rank and all, but in his experience, attention to rank was much more important! And now he was very cordial; he invited me to lunch to talk it over, and we began a very good and fruitful relationship. Subsequently, others have told me that they also had a very rocky time in the early days of studying with him, but that it turned into a very good relationship as well. But I’m sure my question had something to do with Strauss’s emphasis on the Socratic turn and the priority of practical philosophy over myth. How did he respond to other questions? Nicgorski: He could be pretty rough on people who challenged him.

It was my recollection that, if he thought that you were challenging him, he could be rough. But if he thought that you were asking a question because you didn’t know, then he would be a gentleman. Nicgorski: I had similar thoughts. As one comes to understand more the range

of his knowledge, and grows in experience and understanding oneself, and faces teaching and lecturing situations—one maybe wouldn’t ever have quite

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the same manner he had, not coming out of the same background and experience, but one has more understanding of what might have been his impatience with certain challenges. Given the clarity with which he saw matters, one comes to be more sympathetic with the passage of time and the gaining of experience.

Teaching at Notre Dame Babin: I asked him once where he liked most to teach. He said he liked to

teach at Notre Dame, because he could assume the students had at least some basic grounding in philosophy and theology. But otherwise, he liked Harvard because of the library. When did you first meet or hear about Voegelin? Gueguen: I was an undergraduate, a major in liberal arts at the University of

Notre Dame in the early ’s. The chairman of the department, Father Stanley Parry, and Professor Gerhart Niemeyer were, I guess you could say, strong fans of Eric Voegelin at the time. No one in the department failed to hear about him and to be directed to his writings: to Order and History and The New Science of Politics. He was always the grey eminence in the background, the great interpreter of texts in our field. I returned from Chicago to teach at the Government department in , the year Voegelin returned, and I was assigned as his teaching assistant. My duties were strictly academic. I sat in on his graduate seminar and administered his undergraduate class, provided counseling for the students, read their papers, and assigned their readings. Voegelin had as little to do with the students as possible. What were his lectures like? Gueguen: His undergraduate lecture was delivered on the stage at the law

auditorium. He would parade back and forth across the stage. I think it wouldn’t have mattered if there were anyone there or not! He was discoursing on the subject, always attired in the same dark suit and the same red plaid tie, which made him a celebrity with the students: some of them were profoundly appalled by this, others found it amusing. He used no notes. He talked continuously while he paced back and forth on the stage without stopping. He appeared to have no difficulty whatsoever following the thread of his own thought. There were no interruptions. He came promptly on time and departed promptly on time.

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Did the students find this intimidating or amusing? Gueguen: I got a variety of responses. Some of them thought he was postur-

ing. His eccentricities were the subject of little jokes and that sort of thing. But for serious students, especially those who had been led to take his course by other members of the faculty who knew why he was there and what they were supposed to get from it, I think they learned a great deal. He had a gift of speaking in an audible, easily understood English. Of course, his vocabulary was special. I spent much of my time with the students trying to explain these special words, this special terminology that he had developed. What would their characteristic difficulties be? Gueguen: Well, the graduate seminar, for example, consisted of a number of people who eventually got into careers in the university. These were very impressive students. And yet on the second day of the meeting, Voegelin announced that our response to the opening class had persuaded him that we were not ready for what he had originally intended to present. He was more surprised than we were as to the difficulties that he was going to encounter.

What was the defect he saw among the students? Gueguen: A complete lack of knowledge of history, of culture, of languages—

classical languages. We had all been the recipients of a proper gentleman’s middle-class education, whereas he was used to an older classical tradition. He may have been teasing us a bit too, because he had been teaching at Louisiana State and he surely understood the kind of student he would have. Maybe he just wanted to intimidate us to help us, to make us more open to what he was doing. Did it work? Gueguen: I think it did. I think it did lead to people making a more serious

effort. There were study groups; students would get together trying to figure out what this strange professor was up to. Tom Flanagan: There were about fifty students enrolled in his undergraduate

course. I didn’t know it then, but I now realize that it was conducted in the manner of a German Vorlesung. It probably should have had more students to make it really authentic. I don’t believe there were any assigned readings— possibly The New Science of Politics, but I had already read that the year before. For the most part, Voegelin simply came in and lectured. Sometimes he talked out of his head, sometimes he used material in black binders, which

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I think must have been his unpublished “History of Political Ideas.” He lectured on Machiavelli for a while and also on the Encyclopedists of the French Enlightenment; those were two cases where he resorted to his binders. Everything he discussed was fascinating to me at the time. He was for me an oracle. In the previous year in Niemeyer’s course, I had read books like Norman Cohn, The Pursuit of the Millennium, and Hans Jonas, The Gnostic Religion, and it all culminated with The New Science of Politics. So, in my mind, Voegelin had synthesized current scholarship and everything revolved around that. It really didn’t matter much what he did, I would have found it interesting. You studied with Voegelin as an undergraduate? Roos: Yes. I went to Notre Dame from  to . At the time, Professor

Voegelin would come every three or four semesters and teach generally an undergraduate course and sometimes a graduate seminar. The one I remember most was either in  or in  and was entitled “Gnosis, Apocalypse, and Christianity.” There were about forty or fifty students, and it was a quite striking topic for us. It wasn’t quite as obscure as it might have been for a typical American undergraduate at the time, who would have known relatively little about Gnosis and apocalypse. First, we were a Catholic university. Second, Gerhart Niemeyer was here. I had become interested in political philosophy very early on and had taken courses from Gerhart, from Edward Goerner, and from Father Parry. It was a very active place at the time. People like Paul Ricoeur and Yves Simon would lecture relatively frequently, and Hannah Arendt would come down. Through a variety of factors, we had in fact read some of the materials that Professor Voegelin was working on. So, we obviously thought we knew more than we did, but at least we weren’t wholly in the dark about some of the themes he was talking about. What text did he use? Roos: He never used a text.

No, I mean what did he have you read? Roos: Oh, what readings? The reason I emphasized that he used no text is that one of the advantages of our education back then was that, for students who were really interested in political philosophy, none of our teachers used texts. We would read monographs and original works, so that once we got to graduate school, we had some of the skills we needed. We read Norman Cohn’s Pursuit of the Millennium; we read Hans Jonas, Gnostic Religion; I think we

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read Gilgamesh; we read Frankfort’s book, and Bruno Snell’s The Discovery of the Mind. Those are the ones that stand out. Voegelin focused on the basic pattern whereby Christianity raises the possibility of an impulse toward reimmanentizing the eschaton. This was found in early Gnosticism and in the irruption of it with Joachim of Fiora, and then it reemerged in modern totalitarian movements. And so the punch line of the course was that modern totalitarianism in some way can be seen as a Christian Gnostic heresy that tries to reimmanentize the eschaton, which the Incarnation had actually placed outside time. There was a debate between Voegelin and Hannah Arendt published in the Review of Politics on just that question. Did you ever read Hannah Arendt in his course? Roos: No, we almost never turned to what might be called the contemporary

secondary debate. We never read Strauss, never read Heidegger, never read Hannah Arendt. Obviously, Voegelin would alert us to the existence of various views on these materials. But he treated Cohn, for example, as representing to us more or less archaeological evidence, as it were. Our task with this guy was to theorize about these materials rather than engage in secondary debates. What kind of a lecturer was he? Roos: Hah! I had never been to Germany, but I had certain stereotypes of the

German professor. Whether these were right or wrong is another matter, but Professor Voegelin certainly fit the stereotypes I had. That is, he was businesslike, he was didactic, he was intent on covering the material, and he was not inviting of class discussion. He was there to lead us through the materials. And it was partly because it was a large class—there were fifty students!— but the emphasis was certainly on his voice leading us through materials rather than on discussion. If you wanted to argue with him about something, there was always the feeling that he didn’t have much stomach for spending the entire class period arguing about something that might turn out to be simply an assertion of will rather than genuine inquiry. Did Voegelin ever talk to you about his experiences in Europe? Roos: In class, he would try not to get terribly involved in particulars. He would make reference to the atmosphere, not to the particulars of his actual leaving, but to what he considered the gangsters in the classroom, you know—the leftists versus the rightists in the classroom—and becoming a

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pawn. One got the sense that his attachment to the university was enduring, to the idea of a university. And he wasn’t going to let that happen again, so he maintained those boundaries. With the undergraduates, he was not one to reminisce a lot about his personal experiences. I think what I would say—I mean, gee, this is how you perceive things when you’re twenty years old! But we really had a group of good students: people like Tom Flanagan; John Gearen was a Rhodes; in the senior class we had five Woodrow Wilsons; we had seven National Science Foundations, six Marshalls; and we were all relatively close. Most of us had already worked with, say, Edward Goerner and Father Parry and Gerhart Niemeyer. So, we were relatively motivated and relatively docile; we already thought that this was pretty good stuff. We might not have agreed with his approach, but there was no real conflict. Around the edges, of course, there would be some adolescent tendencies. The funniest story is about his final exam. The question was, “Relate these terms: immanentization, eschatology, Christianity, Incarnation, Gnosis, apocalypse.” Then, “Make reference to readings in the semester.” So, he gave the exam and we wrote the exam. Now, I had read not only the materials of this course, but had done a lot of work in political theory and had never received a grade less than A, deservedly or not. And I was getting too big for my britches. So, I wrote this long essay that included Eliade, Frankfort, Cohn, Thomas, Augustine; I had all these materials and I understood the basic linkages. I finished the exam and then, with a little bit of humor, I went back to the top of the exam and wrote, “One hypothesis about the relationship between these terms is as follows . . . “ Okay? Then I wrote down Voegelin’s thesis of The New Science of Politics, although the exam itself laid out what his exposition was in greater detail! Well, the exam came back with the comment, “This is not a hypothesis, this is science.” D-! I was willing to take that; I mean, I was being a smart-ass of course. But the real injustice was when he gave Edward Goerner his grade list saying, “I sometimes make mistakes; look this over. If I have made any outrageous grades, change them to whatever you think is just.” Well, Edward looked at mine and he read this exam and the really unjust thing was that he gave me a B! So on my transcript, a D- and all these A’s was clearly better than a B from Voegelin! So, we were a little feisty around the edges. But more seriously, Voegelin was already sensitive to what became even more full-blown with postmodernism: that everything is constructivist and everything is simply a hypothesis and all hypotheses are from a perspective. And he just didn’t want to hear that.

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Did you get a sense of what science meant for him? Roos: I remember two things. One was that his conception of theory was dif-

ferent from what might be called the hypothetical-deductive mode. That is when one simply posits possible axioms, deduces consequences, then compares them to reality and has to refer back to the reality of concepts. Even as an undergraduate, I knew that, by theory, he meant something much like science in Aristotle’s science: speculative reason. That is, true deductions from true premises: one had to get the premises, and the premises had to be in touch with being before one could proceed. There would be all kinds of serendipity and coming and going and adjusting and revision, but from the get-go, it was not a question of beginning with simply hypothetical or constructivist principles. So, I certainly had a very vague sense—and I hadn’t read a lot of analytic philosophy then—that he was closer to something like what might be called a metaphysical or ontological realist than a constructivist. The second was that he believed that this proceeded in political theory, not by an analysis of sense experience, but by a critical clarification of the relationship of symbolization and the relationship back to being. Now, this was deep water for us. But the great mystery was: how can it be that he at the same time pretty clearly thinks of what he’s doing as not simply poetic, simply existential, simply personalistic, but that it has this element of reality? He has also introduced us to the importance of history and changes of consciousness. Of course, the question everyone else always came to was: why doesn’t this result in radical historicism and relativism? But in the classroom, it was really clear that he didn’t think the historical move ended up in relativity. As little nineteen-year-olds, we couldn’t quite dot all the i’s, but that is the sense we got. Somebody said about Voegelin’s idea of science that it would seem to be dogmatism or arrogance. Surely that must have occurred to you with your experience with the test? Roos: At the time, of course, that occurred to me. What also occurred to me was that I was being a smart-ass! I knew what I was writing at the top of it and thought he was giving me my just dessert in a curious way! There weren’t many conflicts because we thought that it was good to read these books; that was why we were at the university. But sometimes it seemed that he envisioned himself as fending off the chaos. He was going to get on with business, there were things to learn, they could be known, and arguing for the sake of arguing—what Socrates called the eristic person—he just wasn’t going to put up with it! The sense of the classroom as fragile, I think, is one way that I would probably construe part of his demeanor in the classroom.

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At that time, we had every excuse to dismiss him as churlish, but we at least knew enough to pose what we thought was an interesting question and not a frivolous one, and we had actually done some work on some of these materials. And he would perhaps sometimes not listen. But rather than feel outraged, many of us simply had a sense that he was mistaken in his judgments of our capacity for civilized discourse. Yet, we also had a sense that it was not because of any personal desire for domination, but a sense of his role as needing to preserve an atmosphere of inquiry. How did he run his seminar? Gueguen: The graduate seminar? Well, there was the commanding presence

of Voegelin, who had everything planned out, and we were all flying along behind to the best of our abilities. I don’t recall people having to prepare seminar papers. I think it was really a lecture, a sit-down lecture. It was in a room on the third floor of O’Shaughnessy Hall around a table, and he was continuing to do what he did in the auditorium, but at a slightly different level. So, the normal distinction that we make between a lecture and a seminar made no difference to him? Gueguen: No, the difference was simply cosmetic, a different setting. He

always did what he knew how to do and hoped that we would pick up some of the scraps falling from the master’s table! I think that analogy is good. And the students could see that too. How did Voegelin get along with students? Kennedy: I’m taking so long to answer you because I’m trying to find a posi-

tive side. What I have recollection of is fairly negative in the sense that . . . Now, I cannot recall who of the colleagues made this complaint, but someone in the department said that you could never get Eric to direct a dissertation. Flanagan: Once there was an evening with Eric Voegelin that was organized

for students in the class. Maybe some other people came, too, but it was mainly for students in the class, and they had a chance to have a cup of coffee with him and to ask him a few questions. I asked him about his mastery of foreign languages, which had always amazed me—that he was able to read material in so many different languages. And I was saying what an advantage in scholarship that gave him, and his response was, “Well, I wasn’t born knowing all those languages.” So, the message was that, if you want to be a scholar, you have to be willing to invest the time.

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But in retrospect, I would say that Gerhart Niemeyer was a much better teacher for North American students than Voegelin. Niemeyer was a remarkable teacher. He didn’t teach in the German grand manner: he used a reading list, and everybody was expected to keep up with the reading. And he worked with a kind of Socratic method of questions and answers. He was constantly asking people questions and getting them to explore. And he orchestrated all this so that we would also come together. I can remember all the books I read in Niemeyer’s class. In contrast, I can’t remember anything specific that Voegelin said, although he was there for an entire term. I was mesmerized by him at the time because he was a good speaker and because what he had to say was tremendously erudite and interesting. But it is striking that I actually don’t remember anything. So, is it the teacher’s responsibility to be erudite and impressive or is it actually to stir something in the minds of students? I think Niemeyer, on that point, was a better teacher. But Voegelin was a phenomenon. He wasn’t really a teacher, he was a phenomenon, and he was treated that way. Various people in the department would encourage their students to take Voegelin’s classes as a peak experience of your time at Notre Dame. So, Goerner and Parry and Niemeyer and various others were encouraging their students. All of us who were seriously interested in political philosophy took his course. And in a sense, it was an experience. I just don’t remember what it was all about now!

An Ill-Fated Symposium Alfons Beitzinger: He had a kind of pugnacity about him that could be very

antagonizing. I remember at one lecture he was very sharp to a student, and I didn’t think it was warranted. The student had had a legitimate point he wanted to make. But you know, he came from a Germanic tradition, although he did study at Wisconsin. Was Voegelin a popular teacher? Beitzinger: Well, let’s put it this way: he had his enemies. That word may be

too strong: there were people who opposed him. And some of them were enemies you ought to have, but others were serious people who . . . Well, you could tell that his emotions sometimes would come out very strongly and that that would irritate people. Moran: I have another weird memory. We had a conference here for him, on

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him. And he got up at the end of it and lambasted everybody for misreading his works. While he was talking, he would march back and forth on the stage smoking his cigar. It was really a magisterial performance. Nicgorski: In , there was a conference in Voegelin’s honor at Notre Dame. I found some notes. I wish I could find more of them, because one of the special things about that conference for people like John Roos and myself was that Joe Cropsey came down from Chicago, so I know there was a discussion of the Walgreen Lecture series. The conference was specifically in honor of Voegelin and involved a discussion of his work. Let me look at my scrawlings. Here is a little pocket-note taken at Voegelin’s final address at the ’ conference. One of the things I jotted down was Eric Voegelin saying, “No one can be a Platonist after the coming of Jesus Christ.” Roos: I was a junior faculty, and he sort of vaguely remembered that I had been in one of his classes as an undergraduate. But we had a Festschrift for him that Gerhart organized and had a dinner, or a kind of a celebration.

Did you attend that celebration? Roos: Yes, it was fascinating. I picked up Mr. Cropsey, who had been my dis-

sertation director. Professor Strauss had already gone out to the West Coast and had been to St. Johns, so Mr. Cropsey directed my dissertation. He was one of the persons invited. It was interesting because I think that when Voegelin was here I was most noticing the kind of nature/history tensions that remained between the two schools. But the funniest story about the Festschrift was that Professor Voegelin sometimes had as much trouble from those who saw themselves as his supporters or compatriots as from those who might have appeared to oppose him. Because, let’s say, of their over-enthusiasm. We were in the library auditorium; and even though smoking wasn’t banned generally, you couldn’t smoke in the library auditorium. He had a big cigar and would sometimes have it in his mouth even when it wasn’t lit. I will never forget when a relatively distinguished American scholar gave an enthusiastic paper praising the depth and wisdom of Eric Voegelin. At one point, he compared Voegelin’s achievement to the parallel achievement of Charles Reich’s The Greening of America. He proceeded to show the parallels of the new discovery, the openness, the getting in touch with the cosmos, etc. About halfway through, the cigar came out. About two minutes later, I saw these puffs of smoke—I was sitting in the back and could only see his head—and I knew that that cigar was being chewed!

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Could you say something about the 1971 symposium? Gueguen: “Departures in Western Political Thought: The School of Eric Voegelin.” I think he objected to that title. He was somewhat truculent during that session at the end of April in . He found himself quite put on the spot and intimidated by the whole idea of this symposium. He was argumentative and sharp in his remarks that day. There was a great deal of tension in the atmosphere. He was quite defensive, concerned—and that’s a sign of his sort of mind—that this would obscure the record of his achievements. That’s my recollection. I had come from Chicago, and a lot of other people came from different places. Very many of the people who were on the program were his former students. I think he was afraid that those who had come to take part or listen who hadn’t had much previous contact with Voegelin would find his stature diminished. And I think, in fact, that that’s what happened, because he didn’t seem very appreciative of this kind of exposure.

Was that a reflection of his personality or of misinterpretation? Gueguen: I think it was much more of his personality and of his awareness that

he was operating at stratospheric levels of thought. I think he was always afraid of authorizing someone to interpret his thought. He did not appreciate the various conservative groups who sought to enlist him for their own purposes. But most mortals like to be admired! Gueguen: There was a deep humility about him. He did not like the limelight;

he didn’t think that he needed it. Paul Caringella would agree with me, I think. And I would also think that, as he was hearing these presentations, he was possibly dissenting from what people were saying and finding that they had fallen so far short. It must have been a painful experience for him, to hear these lower-level intelligences saying things about Voegelin’s significance. I remember a similar occasion when he gave a talk in Montreal. Charles Taylor, who is something of a celebrated personality, made a comment on Voegelin’s understanding of Hegel. And Voegelin probably didn’t care, but his response was so abrupt as to be quite rude. I was quite happy to see it of course, but there was no compunction about saying, “No, that’s wrong.” Gueguen: That’s right. But I think that would be part of his understanding of the philosopher. You say the truth; you are a conservator of the truth. You can’t misrepresent the truth. The more I think about it, the more I think that there would be people who would have thought that he was very arrogant. But I

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think he was a man of deep humility. At the same time, I can see why the external signals that he was sending could have been interpreted as arrogance. For example, he was always very, careful to distinguish his own understanding from that of others and perhaps to exaggerate that distinction. Niemeyer told us that that was a sign of a creative thinker, that Voegelin was not simply a commentator on ancient texts, but was developing his own theory. But he did this even with his peers, even with other professors operating near or at his own level. It was a reflection of his personality? Gueguen: I think so. I think his personality was very strong and also influen-

tial in everything he said. I don’t think his demeanor with peers was any different from his demeanor while he was lecturing. He was always the same, no matter who was there, whether it was a formal occasion or not. He was always the same. Whether he was conscious of it, I wouldn’t know. I don’t know if he even thought about it or reflected on it. He was certainly not doing anything with a deliberate intention to intimidate people; he was just being himself. And he was somewhat amused at them not being themselves too! Sandoz: Voegelin’s characteristic was to never pull punches. It’s not that he

was a particularly abrasive person; he wasn’t. But he believed that people who were professors were supposed to know what they were talking about. And if a professor would ask him a dumb question, or if he would make a statement such as, “Autonomous man is our only hope,” he would be vivisectioned. The guy would receive an absolute blast from which he would never recover. If it was someone who turned out to be a Marxist, or a positivist, or somebody perverting the history of mankind, and if he had perhaps reaped the rewards for having done so, it was absolutely annihilation time when it came to debate. Because he was an extremely effective debater and it was “Katy bar the door” on such occasions. He also couldn’t tolerate laziness. For example, Tommy Cook at Johns Hopkins was a commentator at the APSA meeting that may have been the first one I attended. Certainly, it was a very early one—. The subject was Israel and Revelation. Thomas I. Cook was one of the commentators, and there were a couple of others, including Dante Germino. There was a big audience for this, and Voegelin was there. The book was on the table as the various presentations were going on, and Voegelin would then stand up to respond. W. F. Albright was also on that panel, one of the great scholars of Egypt and Mesopotamia.

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When it was his turn to make a comment, Cook made a remark about Voegelin not having included a particular book in his presentation. Voegelin reached over and got the copy of the book, looked at something, and put it back. When it came time for him to speak, he said, among other things, “Perhaps the criticism against me has been a little harsh, since the book that you cited was published the year after I published my book, so I couldn’t very well have used it.” And it became evident to everybody in the room that Thomas Cook had not read the book he had been assigned to comment on. He talked about this and that, and Eric sat there very straight-faced. But during his response, besides upbraiding Professor Cook, he suggested that several of his comments were in fact addressed in the book on page so and so and in this way and that way. So, it was evident to Voegelin, obviously—and evident to me; I had read the book—that Cook hadn’t read the book. We now know from the correspondence that Voegelin later wrote this very terse little letter: “Dear Tommy, it was good to see you, but what you should do is try to do a little work some time so that you’d know what it is you’re talking about. Cordially, Eric.”

Beyond “The Work” Even for a scholar, there is more to life than work. Do you have any sense of this side of Voegelin? Moran: How did Voegelin spend the day? I don’t know. I wonder if anyone

really knows. I mean, we would imagine Chroust all crumpled up over his desk asleep the way he was in his old cardigan. But no one could imagine how Voegelin would sleep—in his shirt sleeves, sitting there with his tie and his cigar! He was very dismissive of any intrusions on his life. We would joke about it: we didn’t even know if he was married. There was never a reference to his wife. We might have had ten meals together in a semester, and I just assumed that he was an old German professor who had never married. I don’t think any of us shared any confidence with him. The last year I remember seeing him, I was married and had a child. Chroust would come over and say “gah gah, goo goo,” but Voegelin would maybe wave at the baby and that was it. There were no women around, ever, including graduate students. But I don’t think he noticed. He was married, but I think he didn’t like women. You

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know, he didn’t want women in the workshop! I don’t think he would have actually rejected a woman just because of it, but he was not uncomfortable with there being no women around. There must have been some women on the university staff? Moran: Oh, there were. And he was always polite; his language was never gross

or anything. Chroust could be condescending. I remember going through the line at the cafeteria, and Chroust would say, “Get me some of that, dearie,” and things like that. Of course, that was Chroust’s way of being charming. Did he socialize with anyone while he was on campus? Gueguen: I don’t think so. At one point Dr. Niemeyer said, “Why don’t you invite Professor Voegelin to your home?” I lived in a student residence at that time. “Why don’t you invite some of the graduate students in and have just a little informal discussion?” And we did in fact, but it was an absolute disaster. He didn’t find himself amenable to that kind of situation. He would lecture and expound upon things that he thought were important, or nothing. So, there was no question of trying to hold a discussion with him, as we very often did with professors or faculty here. We only attempted it once. But virtually everything we would say . . . I remember one student, for example, early in the discussion, said, “Professor Voegelin, what is your position on . . . ?” And he said, “Obviously, a philosopher does not hold a position on anything. We are all inquiring.” In other words, he would quickly put down a question with one short phrase, and that would close the conversation from there on. Rather than trying to reinterpret the intent of the student’s question and so on, he would take the language very strictly at each meeting and say that only ideologues hold positions.

Why do you suppose he did that? Gueguen: Well, I think that probably this was so deeply ingrained in his style

as an educator that it would have been impossible for him to adapt to a different situation. It could have been tactical—an attempt at overcoming superficiality in the students. Maybe it was kind of an irony, but I don’t think so: I didn’t detect even the slightest hint of Socratic irony. I think it was probably just that he couldn’t adapt to the kind of environment that the students were accustomed to at that time. Around the same time, from ’ to ’, I was in Leo Strauss’s class and there was a very similar—I suppose a European, German, Continental way of handling the subject matter. I saw many similarities in the approach. But

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Strauss was more open, particularly in selecting some students who were close to him, whereas Voegelin had no one. He was absolutely alone as far as I could tell. I don’t think he even socialized very much with the people who admired him so much on the campus. I think he stayed pretty much to himself, avoided such situations. You never saw Mrs. Voegelin? Gueguen: Not to my knowledge. But Strauss never mentioned his wife, either,

and Mrs. Niemeyer stayed very much in the background. This may have been something that was very typical of German scholars. If he didn’t see students and he didn’t socialize, what did he do all day? Gueguen: He read all day.

At his room in the Morris Inn? Gueguen: Yes. And he was not seen out and about in the town to my knowl-

edge. Didn’t go to a football game? Gueguen: I doubt it! I doubt whether he was even invited to go to one.

Perhaps you could say something about the mugging? Gueguen: One day he appeared for his lecture with a small bandage on his

forehead, a very small bandage. I was informed as his assistant that he had been assaulted. He would regularly walk in the evening, when he would get back to his lodging somewhere in South Bend. But he would go out for a walk. This had been observed by some of the lowlife in the neighborhood, and they lay in wait for him one day. They got no money, I’m sure. As a result of the mugging, he was brought onto campus to stay at the Morris Inn. But he never alluded to it himself, and the small bandage quickly disappeared. Did you ever see him outside of class? Roos: Not really. We would go to public lectures, and he would be there and

would nod or something like that. And we would see him in the South Dining Hall with Chroust, and he would nod or say hello. But he was here only one semester at a time and was very busy. That dimension of campus life with the undergraduates wasn’t there. And social activities?

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Roos: Well, we were not a terribly social department, anyway. There was not

an extraordinarily broad social life. It was a different culture, partly because I was born in . It made all the difference in the world: if you were born during the war or immediately after, you respected boundaries more. There was an awe of his generation, of what they had gone through, so you wouldn’t presume as a junior faculty member that they were your best buddies.

The s Did Notre Dame have many demonstrations during the late ’60s? Crosson: During the Vietnam War years? Yes, but things were mild here compared to most campuses. Father Hesburgh, although generally he was and is a political liberal, took a very strong stand on student demonstrations. He issued an edict—he called it that, and I guess that’s what it was. He set up what came to be called the Fifteen-Minute Rule, whereby students could come into the administration building if they wanted and sit there and protest. But once they were given a fifteen-minute warning, they had to end it. The penalty was, not turning them over to the police or anything, but expulsion. That’s pretty strong medicine! And so, we never had a real problem. Only on one day did students try to close down a classroom building. They were marching through it, shouting whatever they were shouting. That was the only time it ever happened, so we had a relatively mild time. Roos: I graduated in  in the spring. Compared to the rest of the campuses

of elite universities around the country, Notre Dame was culturally maybe ten years behind in terms of activism, of awareness of old conflicts, politicization, and so forth. Vietnam was on our far horizon. But strikingly, sometimes we felt—who knows if this was true!—that Voegelin kept expecting students to be espousing some kind of warmed-over Marxism. He didn’t want to fight those battles, so he just dismissed certain questions. In fact, there were very few Marxists at Notre Dame in . We were a very quiet campus, very structured in terms of rules. There were some student protests, but they had nothing to do with the wider world. We had a protest over academic excellence, that our courses weren’t hard enough—that was our big cause célèbre! We still had to be in the dorm at twelve. If he had been at Stanford, he would have had a quite different undergraduate population, but there were virtually no radicals at Notre Dame at the time. Now, by the time I came back as a faculty member, it was quite different.

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By the time I came back in ’, there was heroin on campus and there was a general mood of disintegration. The next spring, after the shootings at Kent State, there was turmoil. But even then, Notre Dame was still in a much less violent, much less irrational mode. The highlight of the weekend was when Father Hesburgh said, “Let’s have a Mass on the quad.” I helped organize a movement to work on congressional campaigns. The administration thought that was a good idea, so we had hundreds of students knocking on doors rather than burning down buildings. So, it certainly changed by the ’s, but back when Voegelin was here, in ’, there was something of a discrepancy. It was almost as though he thought, “They’re all going to jump up and say ‘Sorel must liberate us!’” But for the most part, we were not very radical. Were there any dogmatic and conservative Catholics? Roos: There are always some of those. It seems to me to be an occupational hazard of the institutional Catholic Church! Notre Dame was in a period of transition. The university had had this extraordinary infusion of Europeans after World War II. They leavened the place. The real problem with Notre Dame was this kind of backwater, textbook, neo-Scholastic kind of dogmatism that tended to reign in both philosophy and theology. Believe it or not, it was part of what this protest was against. This is a completely corrigible recollection, but around the edges, even though he was very strict and appeared to be authoritarian, he was jovial. We didn’t feel like he hated us in any way. He was just his own person and he was going to do it his way. We sat and chafed, I think, because we felt (justified or not) that we had more to offer in terms of dialogue. Because we had been lucky enough to be exposed to some of this stuff, we were a little resentful that we were being treated like babies. But he would come in with a smile on his face and would tell us stuff and go over it in class. There was no bitterness then. I think as time went on, he was thinking “God, we’re going back through it, the same kind of disintegration, only in a softer tone.” This was the decade of the ’s.

Did he talk about current events? Roos: He would make occasional references to the news, Lyndon Johnson,

John Kennedy, what it meant to be a liberal Democrat at the time. We knew that Gerhart Niemeyer had been involved in the ’ campaign with Barry Goldwater. And on the side of the undergraduates, I think, we were kind of looking for whether we would get the current political position on what was going on from the two. But from Voegelin, we did not get much. He would

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occasionally comment on the banality of contemporary civilization and the triviality of current events, but he didn’t go into any great detail. Moran: He was very dismissive of all that current events stuff. We didn’t

think that he voted. I don’t think anybody had the guts to ask him, but we suspected that he never voted. Nicgorski: When he returned in ’, I was in attendance at his lectures, and

one of them was a paper called “On Hegel: A Study in Sorcery.” The interesting personal thing about the  encounter was that our friendship had developed enough that, for some reason, I invited him to dinner with my family—my wife and my two small children. And he came. In retrospect, I am trying to figure out why I was comfortable with that setting! I remember that the two children were five and two and our third was not yet born. I can’t remember any dinners back then as having been particularly easy, so I wonder why I wanted to talk to Eric Voegelin in this context! I assume that something had developed; that he had either asked about the family or that he had met my wife. So, I just decided, why not have him over? And he came. The night we had scheduled for dinner, in April of ’, was the night that President Lyndon Johnson, intimidated by the results of the early presidential primaries, bowed out of the race. I had heard that Johnson was going to make a special statement that evening. We didn’t know the nature of it, but knew that he was under great pressure from the Vietnamese war and the disaffection regarding it. My wife thinks that Eric Voegelin had heard about this and asked that we turn on the TV at the appropriate time. We were just about to sit down to dinner, and we had a TV set on wheels that we turned inward as we sat at the dinner table with a salad. He was intensely interested and made some comments about the forces that were driving Johnson from the presidency. Did he talk about those forces? Nicgorski: Well, I think he said they were either people who were enemies of

the Western tradition or terribly naïve about the Cold War situation. That was the sense I had of the way he reacted to them. Was he forthcoming about contemporary politics? Nicgorski: He was quite forthcoming. I mean, he seemed to make it very

clear that, in terms of Cold War politics, he was a strong conservative: strong arms, strong methods were the way to deal with it. I once asked him about his experiences in Munich. Apparently, he had run

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into some leftist reaction among his students, including disruptive behavior at some of his lectures. He made some rather strong statements. I can’t recall now if he actually did this or he was just thinking of doing it, but he mentioned hiring bouncers from beer halls—he had just the right people in mind!—who were going to remove these people the next time they disrupted his lectures.

The Enemy of My Enemy . . . Kennedy: I don’t recall any comments about contemporary politics, but I do recall an incident once when there was a cocktail party somewhere and I was talking with him. And he made a point of telling me in a very friendly way that he was not one of “those conservatives.” In other words, he seemed to want to be considered somewhat distanced ideologically. I’m trying to be cautious about recollecting that far back, but I remember that I was a little surprised at his emphasis. Somehow I had always put him, not necessarily in the conservative category, but at least into a traditional mold of thought. I remember he used these words, though: “I am not a conservative.” And I had this reaction: “I always thought you were!”

Why did conservatives like his work? Crosson: I think that is a good question. I think it’s probably more a question

of common enemies—you know, the enemy of my enemy is my friend. Because he certainly smote thigh and bone, or whatever the quotation is, liberal conceptions of politics and their independence from historical and cultural, religious context. That was probably what drew the conservatives to him. They found impressive critiques of modern liberal democracy and didn’t so much notice the other things that were there. Gerhart Niemeyer was intensely conservative, and he was really his Sancho Panza. I don’t mean that in a pejorative sense! But they were together a lot. Niemeyer was not here, I think, when Voegelin first came; I think he came afterward. But once Gerhart came, they were the two strongest presences here. Bruno Schlesinger: Voegelin always said, “I’m not a conservative,” but

Niemeyer was the opposite. I think that Niemeyer needed a man that was profoundly anti-Marxist as a philosophical connection. And of course, Voegelin was strongly against Marx, that’s for sure.

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Beitzinger: Niemeyer had a break with him at one time—I don’t know if you

knew that—over some question of faith. Niemeyer was a very dedicated Christian who was ordained an Episcopalian minister and then became a Roman Catholic because he couldn’t take the introduction of women priests. But he was a very, very dedicated and devout man. He had a Germanic dedication to the cause. Definitely, I think, he helped Voegelin, but he and Niemeyer had this difference. I think it had to do with religious beliefs. Because Niemeyer was a very devout Christian. Whereas Voegelin, while I have no doubt he was a Christian also, there were aspects Niemeyer discerned that he didn’t like. And they had a difference—I remember Niemeyer told me that when he learned of it. They were on the phone for hours and they were going back and forth. Caringella: As Eric was writing the “Anamnetic Reflections” in October of

, do you remember him telling you about what he was trying to do? L. Voegelin: Oh, maybe we talked about it.

Reading those memories is wonderful. You would think about what the imagery might have meant to a six-year-old boy. Looking out, say, at the steamer on the Rhine. L. Voegelin: Well, the Rhineland is full of stories. Everybody knew these sto-

ries, and his mother told him these stories, too. They talked about these things. But when Anamnesis was translated by Gerhart Niemeyer, Niemeyer did not want to keep the stories in there. And Eric hit the ceiling, I can tell you that. He said, “It’s ridiculous to leave out the anamneses!” “It belongs together,” he said, “and to leave them out is simply incredible.” It was terrible: Eric was yelling and Niemeyer was saying, “hoo, hoo, hoo.” Caringella: Still, Niemeyer left one of the letters out. He kept the experi-

ments, but he left out the foreword to the whole volume. So, Eric wrote another one, “The Remembrance of Things Past,” in . But Niemeyer left out the very important “In Memoriam, Alfred Schütz,” where Voegelin says, “These are a meditative unity.” Niemeyer took one of the pieces out, and he was going to take out the memories themselves! Niemeyer didn’t understand the significance of the unity. Caringella: No, he never did get it. Nicgorski: I was in conversations in Chicago and down here with faculty. I

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was keenly interested in what Voegelin was doing, because I was formed in part in the Thomistic tradition, in a Catholic framework in which metaphysics played a very important part. So, I was interested in a thinker who, you might say, was more directly open to those issues than Strauss had been. These questions were leading me to question Strauss hard about how you make Aristotle’s Ethics and Politics defensible without his Metaphysics. In the course of your conversations, did you come to an understanding of what the word science meant to Voegelin? Nicgorski: I think I was partly there. Science for him meant a true under-

standing of our complete existential situation. That’s why it has an empirical dimension, but not with the kind of constraints that positivism imposes on the concept; rather, it embraces good historical study; it is full empiricism with regard to the introspective dimension, integrated into true understanding. He was very Aristotelian? Nicgorski: Yes, definitely. Would you agree with that?

Yes, yes. I remember a conversation with him. It was obvious that science meant understanding over the whole range of human experience and that this understanding is empirical, too. That was quite a thing for a graduate student in the 1960s to hear, because we thought empirical political science was something altogether different from what Voegelin held it to be. Nicgorski: It’s true. This is one example of how Voegelin’s distinctive vocab-

ulary—and let’s say “peculiar” in the contemporary context—created problems for him in getting a hearing. It would put people off that he would use science in a way that wasn’t customary. But Voegelin had a powerful tradition to draw on in making that claim; and, of course, his use of the term science is hardly the most perplexing of his terminology. His terminology was no doubt the big obstacle to a lot of the graduate students at Chicago, who would have heard of him and seen The New Science of Politics in the same series with Natural Right and History. They dipped into it and found themselves very put off by his strange language and terminology. Even if Strauss had some of that, he always had less of it. And Strauss, of course, was there to explain himself in a way that Voegelin wasn’t. Did you know of any persuasive criticisms of Voegelin when he was here? Nicgorski: I think persuasive would mean that I had finished conversations that are worth a lifetime and had decided about some of these things!

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Unfortunately, that’s not the case. What was really interesting was going to Chicago immediately after being an undergraduate under Voegelin. It was interesting for several reasons. One was that there was a tendency for some of the students in political theory to have encountered one powerful undergraduate teacher and then to have gone on to graduate school on the basis of that. That has a lot of benefits, but it also has some weaknesses. We felt very lucky in the sense that we came to graduate school already having been exposed to the young Edward Goerner and Father Parry, Stephen Kertesz, Paul Ricoeur, Yves Simon, Voegelin, and Gerhart Niemeyer. And I was struck when I got to Chicago: those who had been primarily exposed to what might be called the Straussian perspective as undergraduates had decided that Voegelin was radically historicist and, hence, relativist. Certainly, on a surface level, it was clear to us that it wasn’t quite that simple; he was trying to reconcile things. So, that question became a very interesting one, and one I have thought about a lot. What was he up to? How does one recognize an awareness of the historical turn for a teaching that claims in some way to be in touch with reality? Obviously, being doesn’t change; our connection with it changes. So that would be one question I think a number of people still have. The other, I think, was whether there would be any reason to believe that there could be another leap in consciousness or leap in being of the same magnitude as those, say, of the Incarnation or the discovery of the mind.

Church, Faith, Dogma Do you ever recall Voegelin discussing the Catholic Church while he was at Notre Dame? Schlesinger: Never, no. That’s one reason why I thought it was hilarious that

he was exalted at a Catholic university: there was no shred of sympathy, there was nothing. I never saw a shred of any religious commitment. He interpreted all kinds of texts—Paul, Augustine, everything—but I never detected any kind of religious commitment. Gebhardt: Do you know what the Denzinger is? The Denzinger is the Latin collection of all the dogmatic statements of the Church. Voegelin once said, “All these theologians do not believe in Christ or God, but in the Denzinger.” That’s the problem. I went several times with him to lectures that were given to Catholic organizations. When he talked about transcendence and God, they were in agreement. The problems arose with closer inspection of dogmas. He

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would explain to them what the dogmas are. Certainly, this was the American problem: his interpretation of the Fall and the Risen Christ would not have tied in with dogmatic Catholicism. And mainstream Catholicism in Bavaria never got very interested in Voegelin either. Of course, he would give talks. The New Science of Politics was the most Christian book he ever wrote, and on the basis of that, he was well received. Ratzinger never got very much interested. They were not against him, but still, they knew he was a Protestant. He was not a Catholic, he was not one of us; therefore, he was allowed to say these things. He was at least much better than the positivists and the Marxists. God and Christian experience is important: that, then, would be the common ground to deal with each other. But German Catholics were never very much interested in what he was doing. The theology faculty ensures that Munich is a very Catholic university. Some people sought him because they felt that he would be a good Catholic political scientist—or, if not a good Catholic one, then at least a solid Christian. But of course he was rather more independent than perhaps they had anticipated. Was this obvious? Vondung: That’s a very interesting question. I think that, in a way, he tried to

cover himself. He was not very outspoken on these things; and, indeed, there were all kinds of doubts and uncertainties. Just to give you an example: two years ago at a conference on Expressionist literature, I met an old professor of German literature from the University of Munich who now is in his seventies. He was a professor when Voegelin taught there. We talked about Voegelin, and he was of the opinion that Voegelin was Catholic. He said, “What? He was Catholic. I know it for sure because there was a circle of Catholic professors in Munich. I know it for sure! All these Catholic professors, including Voegelin, went to their meetings. A circle of Catholic professors.” Many people thought he was Catholic—or at least, as you said, a good Christian. As I’ve said, he was not very outspoken. One could, of course, draw the conclusion that he would be a good Christian from certain things he wrote. On the other hand, in his lectures, “Hitler and the Germans,” he said very nasty things about theologians—Protestant and Catholic both. He didn’t publish Volume IV before he was back in the United States and had more leisure to write it and to break with the original concept of Order and History. But while I was studying with him in the ’s, everybody was waiting for the publication of Volume IV. People were always asking, “When will Volume IV come out? What about Volume IV?” Because one of the most interesting things to look forward to was what he would say about Christianity,

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what he would say about Jesus Christ and about Saint Paul in Volume IV. He was not very outspoken. What he thought about the Israelite prophets and the apocalyptics and about Plato and Aristotle, of course, we knew, and then later on the philosophers of modernity. But not what he really thought about Christianity. So, everybody was waiting for Volume IV because everybody thought, “Finally, we will see what he says about Christianity.” And then, when Volume IV was published, he was gone. Was there any response in Munich to what he said in Volume IV? Vondung: Not much. Again, that’s an interesting phenomenon. And it’s of

course a pity that, in contrast to many other professors of political science who had returned from exile after some time, he didn’t manage to make an impression on a larger scholarly public. In the United States, as in Bavaria, many American conservatives thought he was one of them, but he had nothing to do with Catholicism. Schabert: No, no. Nor with conservatism in their sense.

There are some remarks in The History of Political Ideas that aren’t complimentary to the Church. Schabert: He didn’t emphasize it, but he was more open in Munich, more

direct, than he was in the United States. In the United States, he was much more prudent and kept himself clear of this kind of issue. Whereas in Munich, from very early on, he made it very clear that you just can’t rejuvenate medieval times and go back to Thomas Aquinas. That’s not the way you win the Cold War; that’s not the way you restore a spiritual order. Whereas the Catholic milieu here wanted that: go back to Aristotle, go back to Plato, go back to Thomas Aquinas, and then everything will be fine. How was he regarded by the Thomas scholars at Notre Dame? Kennedy: That’s interesting. Father Parry, certainly, looked on him as a very

fine scholar. I don’t know of anybody who didn’t. And as a very productive one, because he had turned out all these volumes. But I had a thought in my mind. This has nothing to do with his stay at Notre Dame, but Bob Harris, a political scientist I knew, had worked with Eric at Louisiana State University, and he told me this story. Bob Harris once said to him, “Eric, maybe you should join the Catholic Church.” And Eric’s reply was, “I would, if they would only go back to being catholic. You know, the Catholic Church has not been catholic since about the eleventh century!”

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Now, I’m sure he would have had more serious thoughts if he had organized them. But Harris, who had a great sense of humor, could tell this with a smile. And certainly, to talk to him, Eric was not a convert to Catholicism, although he certainly was at home with Catholicism, even if it had disappointed him since the twelfth century. Did he ever run into any difficulties with Church authorities at Notre Dame? Crosson: No, not at all. I was going to say that maybe it was because he was

being courteous about his differences with Church doctrine, but I don’t think he would have been. We were already opening up, if I could put it that way. There was a time when Catholic universities in this country were very much a closed kind of network. But when our longtime president Father Hesburgh came in the early ’s, he began to open things up. Not to secularize, but to open the university up to other voices and other perspectives. So, by the time Voegelin came, I don’t think there was any closedness about the place, either intellectually or religiously. I think he found it comfortable here, as a matter of fact. Did he ever run into any difficulties that you were aware of with respect to the Church? Gueguen: No, we asked him about it. Whenever it came up, we got the

impression that he had his own version of Christianity that was profound and, he thought, completely harmonious with his philosophy. And a second thing was that he deeply respected other people’s persuasions and would never have said anything intended to undermine their faith. I know that this came up in his course on apocalypse and Christianity. And he would say, “Most of you are Catholics, and you should know about the Fathers, the Patres, you should know that! You don’t know your own literature!” He would encourage us to pursue the original sources of our tradition. Roos: We were certainly exposed to the dangers of accepting any particular

narrow triumphalist formulation of the wisdom of the Church. Which was also a temptation with persons thus situated: all the textbooks on Thomism and so on and so forth. Professor Voegelin invited us to learn that the question of pursuing God, also a kind of no-God, is complicated; it is not some big formulation! But that also fit in with some of the areas of theology at the time, because Notre Dame had been powerfully influenced through three or four successions of filtration of what might be called the orthodox version of modernism. What the modernist movement was in the Church of the nineteenth

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century was the rejection of ultramontanist triumphalism and the acknowledgment of a historical turn. So, there were people like Newman and the themes of development and doctrine. And later there was Catholic Action. Then there was the historical Jesus issue, and Frank O’Malley, a great teacher of literature, here at the university. There was the Second Vatican Council, and Ratzinger was writing at the time on Bonaventure and the Holy Spirit. So, there was a whole variety of what might be called dynamic elements we were exposed to at the time. Knowledge was no longer static, simple objective formulas; it was something that had to be lived to be authentic. So there was a context in which his historical awareness would have fit. Did you get any sense of his relationship with the Catholic hierarchy at Notre Dame? Moran: Only the impression that he lived in a vacuum in the sense that he

would notice no hierarchy and no hierarchy would ever notice him. I think he admired what Father Hesburgh said about the Vietnam War, but most of us did. And I don’t know that he ever talked to Hesburgh. I don’t think that he thought those people were important. Chroust loved to complain and jaw about the damn CSC; he loved to criticize. And of course he’d get his digs in about the celibates, although Chroust probably hadn’t had a date since the Depression! Voegelin’s independence from institutions: it’s repeated in Munich and it’s repeated at Stanford. Moran: I think it had some unhappy results. The suspicion among some of

us was that he liked his privacy because he just didn’t trust them. Especially Catholics: he thought that they would never understand him. What he was doing was so subtle. He had separated himself from the world because he just didn’t want to get involved with idiots. Well, he went to Munich through the efforts of a Catholic, Alois Dempf. And Dempf sold him to the archbishop as being just the sort of the good Catholicminded intellectual they wanted. Moran: Really? He wasn’t even a good Lutheran! Dante Germino: One day Voegelin called me in and said, “I understand that

you’ve been asking questions about whether I’m a Christian or not.” I said, “Well, there are no ulterior motives.” And that was that. He obviously trusted me enough to know that I was not out to judge him dogmatically or ideolog-

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ically. With regard to his Christianity, the most remarkable thing he ever said about it was some years later at Virginia, where he was giving a lecture at a small college near the University of Virginia. I asked him again the question, “Do you consider yourself a Christian?” And his answer was, “I try to be and also to be a philosopher.” It was a quite rapid answer. Not dismissive though? Germino: Certainly not. “I try to be.” Gebhardt calls him a modernist in his

theology and says that he was not interested in the Church at all. I asked him a number of times, “Don’t you think creeds are important? For example, the Nicene creed? That dogma has its place?” He said, “Oh yes, yes.” So, I’m not so sure he was completely dismissive of the Church as an institution, especially the Catholic Church. Indeed, in The History of Political Ideas, there is a lot of appreciation for medieval Catholicism. Where he really comes down hard is on Luther and Calvin and the Reformation. Do you think that he kept that stance toward Christianity? Germino: Well, The New Science is his most Christian-centered book. His

later reflections become more cosmic. He’s trying to do something different, rather than taking Christianity as a base, which he could have done, and Thomas’s principle of Christ as the head of all mankind. One could declare that there was the presence of Christ in the Buddhist hymn and the meditations of a Muslim mystic. He could have taken Christianity as his base, but he did not. However, I think it’s a basic mistake to try to impose some dogmatic straitjacket on Voegelin. You have to remember his emphasis on faith as central to Christianity, which is the experience of uncertainty in the sense of Hebrews :. And what we have in Voegelin is fiercely anti-systematic. Indeed, if you are thinking about him in the form of a closed system, then you are a Gnostic thinker: that seems to me to be his message. So, what we find in Voegelin is openness, an exploration of questions, a constant receptivity to new scholarly discoveries. One must see it in context. To me, church ceremonies are important. But Voegelin lived when the churches were behaving scandalously by submitting themselves to Hitler, and so he was very alienated from Lutheranism. You can understand why he didn’t want to go to church and his distaste for the traditional church. I don’t agree with him on that, but I don’t want to say, I have the right to excommunicate him and say that he wasn’t a Christian. That is a very presumptuous thing. He may have been a greater Christian than many of us!

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Sandoz: He didn’t want to be identified with any institution or any partisan

position that might impugn the validity of his own desire for objectivity and his desire that his work be received as objective. The first thing I published on him said that he was a Christian philosopher. When he read the essay, he came to the word Christian and he took the pencil and crossed out Christian. This has always amused me a little bit. It’s not that he was anti-Christian, but there was the desire to be empirical, to be impartial. If Christ is the flash of eternity into time, it’s not to say that there are not some other flashes of eternity into time. D. Herwig: There was a time when I thought that, in a part of his thinking, he was dogmatic. You will find other people who studied with him who would never say that. What I mean is that he seemed to be dogmatic by insisting that you had to concede that there is a transcendent source of truth. And, of course, people who had a religious way of thinking or who had families and a background in which religion was normal could easily follow him there. You wouldn’t have had to be an institutional churchgoer, because that doesn’t mean anything about how you think or what you believe. But it was easier for you if you had this feeling there must be something like God, as people usually call it. Of course, he never talked about God, he talked about transcendence. There are things that are transcendent to human recognition that one has to accept. And I think that was a point where you could get the impression that he was dogmatic. Actually, it was not discussed at that time. It took me some time to understand that, at the core, there was no such dogmatism. But at a certain time, his way of presenting things gave rise to misunderstandings. Büttner: When it came to the Erfahrung vom Grund [experience of the

divine ground], he became rather apodictic. Everybody was supposed to be able to have these experiences; and if students doubted it, he said that that was their problem, their refusing to open themselves. So, very often, the type of question asked in a lecture did not lead to answers that encouraged discussion. In a way, it ended where the question started: “But if I don’t have the experience, then what?” And Voegelin would say, “That’s your problem!” In that connection, I have always wondered about two things. One: what did all these experiences of the deepest source of being, all this talking about the Erfahrung vom Grund, mean to Voegelin existentially? I have always wondered whether he was a deeply religious person or whether it grew instead out of a philosophical discourse. At the point inside its structure beyond which you cannot go, you then have the source of everything in the beyond, in transcendence. I never knew what it meant for him as a person.

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And the second thing I always wondered about is this: did it matter to him whether this divine source of our being exists beyond our experiences of it? This question as to the existence of God outside my experience is not part of Voegelin’s discourse. But for a religious person, it might be a serious question. You told a very charming anecdote the other day. Lippucci: The one about Jesus? Well, I had been struggling with Christianity.

I had been raised in it; my grandfather was a minister. But being honest with myself, I couldn’t really believe in Christ. I just didn’t believe it. I liked what he had to say, and I could believe that that was a good way to live, but it was really hard for me to accept that I couldn’t really do any more than that. And so, I asked Voegelin one day after our seminar: “What do you think of Christ?” And it was really interesting, because I immediately got his attention. There was no one else around. My husband was around, but I don’t think anyone else was around; they had already walked out. I even remember what side of the table I was sitting on when he told me this—I remember it that vividly. And he looked at me and there wasn’t an immediate answer, but it came in about four seconds. He just said, “Well, Christ is a true myth.” I don’t believe he elaborated on it much—at least I don’t recall what he said after that. What I remember is that when he said the words, that was the solution to my problem. I understood that I was free now to believe in Christ and to see him as revealing truth, but I did not have to believe in the historical facts that went with it. So, the spiritual life had been differentiated by him for me. That was Voegelin’s contribution, his statement that historical facts about Jesus didn’t really matter. I didn’t believe in salvation in some other world; I just couldn’t. But I do believe that I’m a spiritual being. And I felt that Voegelin believed that Christ was a true myth also and that’s how he could answer the question. In a way, it wasn’t necessary to have a lot of conversation about it after that, because it seemed to me to be something that you just get or you don’t. And I got it. Edwards: Discussing the church, we asked him whether he went to church.

And he said, “I’ve only been to church twice in my life.” Once was his wedding, and the other was some other event. It was never for worship as such. Lippucci: I found that really reassuring too, because I would go into a church

and I would get upset because of the doctrines and things. I felt that what I was really there for had been obscured. This was my irritation with the context I was in. And I’m guessing that that was his problem, too. You know, maybe you can

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carry on these essential things with texts, so that they’re part of your meditative life. Now, this is my interpretation, but I believe that he didn’t separate the two: for him, his intellectual search and his spiritual life were one and the same. They were not distinct.

Resonance at Notre Dame Crosson: I think Voegelin certainly stirred up something that already existed

but gained impetus during the years he was visiting, namely, our concentration in political theory, political philosophy. That had started relatively early. Of course, every department of political science had some political theory requirement at that time—witness Sabine’s book and its endurance. But we now have, and have had for a number of years, three or four professors who worked strictly in political theory. That concentration, I think, came about because of the presence of people like Voegelin. I think I would be right in saying that he was far and away the most powerful and best-known person in political theory and political philosophy of the visitors that we had. We had other European visitors, but they were generally in comparative government. He had quite an influence on the direction of our program here in the Government Department—and, I think, all to the good. His importance was unmistakable. Not only was he a powerful figure and a well-known figure, but he came over a long period of time—my guess would be that it was over a period of fifteen, maybe twenty years, which is a long time to be influenced by his presence and his ideas. Not only in the Government Department, although that is what I stress. That’s where he had his major impact, but he had impact on a number of other departments as well. Moran: As a person, he seemed to be so unapproachable, so formidable, although he did have a great sense of humor. Order and History was like that: Volume IV, try again! He was in his late sixties when he decided to start all over again! But you know, he’d done that once before. That seems to be the most remarkable thing. But that was the mystery of his personality, that he was actually much more pliable, much more agreeable than his ego allowed. We really did like him.

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EV and Marie König at Milly-la-Forêt, Île-de-France, July .

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EV, following his last lecture in Munich, . Photo taken for interview in the Abendzeitung. Photo courtesy Eric-Voegelin-Archiv, Munich.

The ones left behind. Tilo Schabert, Hedda Herwig, and others say good-bye to Voegelin at the Munich Airport, January . Photo courtesy Hedda Herwig.

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Photo courtesy Notre Dame Archives.

Eric Voegelin with Jo Scurria in Baton Rouge, .

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EV, ca. 

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EV on an excursion with friends, ca. .

Lissy Voegelin, ca. .

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EV, 1938. From Neue Freie Presse.

5 Baton Rouge

7

The State of Louisiana Heilman: Huey Long was killed in . There’s no reason why you should

remember it; I wrote an essay on it because I was present. Ruth and I, on what was practically our honeymoon, arrived at Baton Rouge on Labor Day in . The next Sunday, we went to a meeting of the legislature because the United States senator Huey Long was going to be there. And we were sitting in the balcony, which is at the rear of the lesser chamber, and we saw Huey Long in action on the floor. United States Senator Huey Long was sitting in one of the head chairs of the Lower House of the Louisiana legislature. After about forty-five minutes, he left; he was walking down the aisle underneath us with henchmen going after him in droves. And then we heard something that sounded like firecrackers. People started running back in and ducking behind desks. What we were doing was attending the death of Huey Long— well, he died two and a half days later. That was quite an introduction for a couple of Northerners to Louisiana! We thought, “So that’s how they settle problems here!” The head of the department at that time came to my apartment several days later. He said, “Heilman, I don’t know if the university is going to open next week.” I thought he meant that a formal period of mourning might continue. But no—what he meant was that the whole state might fall apart. I thought, “Good God!” But the university did open. 160

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Lewis P. Simpson: Huey, he had actually got control of everything, even of the

university. He had the National Guard here in Baton Rouge and so on. He had made the National Guard into his own groom, so to speak, as he already had the state police and the state legislature. He left the governorship to become a United States senator, but in fact he kept both jobs and solidified his power in Louisiana even though he had gone to Washington. He had aspirations to become president, and there were reports that Franklin Roosevelt was rather afraid of Huey Long. But I don’t know how true that was, considering Roosevelt had some cognizance of the fact that he [Long] would have some problems trying to establish himself as a national force as well as a having a stake in the South. That was the context when Voegelin arrived. By the time he got here, what is referred to as “the Scandals” had already broken open. By , a number of members of the Long regime were in prison, including the president of Louisiana State University. He had been engaged in various fraudulent activities. He was sentenced to the state penitentiary at Angola, which is still bad enough, but in those days was probably one of the worst penitentiaries in the country! They still wore prison stripes, traditional prison garb. There is a picture in Life magazine, oh, from about : “Ronald Smith, former president of LSU, standing in a cane-field with a machete cutting cane.” Anyway, he died there not long afterward. It was a strange time in Louisiana. A great deal of it was used in Robert Penn Warren’s novel, All the King’s Men.

The New Arrivals L. Voegelin: After we arrived from Europe, we were in New York for two days. Caringella: They arrived in New York, and just as they got to their hotel, the

great hurricane of  came up the coast. L. Voegelin: And the windows were all falling out onto the streets. Oh, it was

terrible. The wind—oh, it howled. And we were on the twenty-second floor. But Eric just said, “That’s the way it is in the United States.” Caringella: “You have to get used to it! It’s a new country.” The next day, I think, Eric went somewhere for a meeting, or to a library. He made sure you knew that, if you went out, you should stay close to the building. You were to go around the block and not wander off. So, you went out for a walk, and you turned around the corner . . .

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L. Voegelin: And the first thing I saw was two rough girls in brown uniforms

singing songs about refugees. Then I started crying. I turned around, and cried and cried. Caringella: And you told Eric, “They’re here.”

These were American Nazis? L. Voegelin: Eric told me it was very stupid of me. Caringella: So that was a great introduction to America. Then they got on

the boat. You had to take a boat up to Boston? L. Voegelin: Oh yes, because of the hurricane. The trees were falling over the

tracks, so we had to take the boat. And we couldn’t afford a cabin to sleep in, but there were great big chairs on the deck outside. We got two of them, and I had my fur coat with me, so I put it over me and felt very comfortable. And Eric left for a while to buy some cigars or I don’t know what. Then a man came up to me and said, “You don’t have to stay here on this deck. Come with me to my cabin. I have a very nice room there. You can sleep all night.” I said, “No, thank you very much. My husband is coming.” I couldn’t stand talking to this person. Then he said, “Oh, your husband’s coming,” and he disappeared. When we went to Boston, Eric put me in a hotel. And he said, “Stay here.” Then he emptied his pockets, and there were fifty dollars in them. “Now I’m going on to Harvard,” he said. “I have the permit until the tenth of October, and I’ll try to get fifty dollars from them.” When he came back, he said that they wouldn’t do it. He had asked for a senior secretary to come and had told her that we were refugees really, that it wasn’t our fault. Eric said, “Oh, I am doing lots of things for Harvard, and I’ll be getting lots of payment.” But she said, “No, we cannot do it. We can’t do it, it’s absolutely impossible.” You then spent the winter in Cambridge? L. Voegelin: Yes, yes. In January, we went to Bennington. Eric had to return

to Harvard every Wednesday afternoon, I think. He went to Cambridge every Wednesday because he had two boys to tutor. He was also looking for a job, of course. Then on Thursdays and Fridays, Eric came back to Bennington. Caringella: A group of the Bennington girls upset you and Eric once. They

were very much against Germans, and you happened to speak German. And what did they do?

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L. Voegelin: Well, they had a group of girls who sang about refugees in

Bennington. Because the quarters where we had to live had big windows, they had seen me. They knew that I could see them, of course. When Eric came home, I told him, and he knew exactly who they were and that they had seen me. Eric went to the director and told him about it, and the girls got a lecture. They did it just because they didn’t like Germans? L. Voegelin: I don’t know why. I had never done anything to them; I had

never seen them before. They probably didn’t like Germans. But Eric and I, when we were together, talked German together because I didn’t know English well yet. But we only whispered; we did not make much noise. Caringella: On the train once—I think you were coming back to Baton

Rouge from Cambridge—this couple behind you heard you talking to one another in German. And they called the conductor and told the conductor something. So that when you got to the train station in Baton Rouge. . . L. Voegelin: When we got off the train and Eric tried to hail a taxi, the police came and said, “Wait a minute, who are you?” And so forth and so on. Eric showed them that he had an appointment at the university, that he was a professor of government, and so on. He asked, “What’s going on here?” And the policeman said, “Well, somebody sitting behind you in the train heard you talking German, and thought you were spies.” But what spies would talk in German?

Did you enjoy your time in Bennington? L. Voegelin: Oh, yes. It was in Vermont. At that time, it was girls only. The

girls liked Eric very much. They were asking the president to ask Eric to stay for five years. But Eric didn’t want to. Caringella: They offered Eric five thousand dollars, which was a lot in . L. Voegelin: Then we went to Alabama for two thousand. Eric said, “I’m not

going to stay up in Bennington, in the mountains in the snow and ice where I see only fifty people and they hate each other. I don’t like it there.” So, we went to Alabama. Caringella: By way of Evanston—by way of Northwestern. L. Voegelin: That was for summer school, yes. Caringella: It was in Evanston—or Chicago—that Eric and Lissy bought a

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car. And Eric drove first to Wisconsin, then straight down from Wisconsin to Alabama. I thought he couldn’t drive. I thought you would drive. L. Voegelin: Oh, he could drive. But he was a very thoughtless driver. One day

I heard him after he had left in the morning for the university: I heard a big bang, and I thought, “Oh, it was somebody else.” But then came Eric with a really white face. He said he had lit his cigar and his hands had left the wheel. And then I thought, “Ah, I want us to live a little longer.” So, I took over. And Eric was delighted. He never drove again. Caringella: When they got the car, I think they both said to the salesman,

“We can’t drive.” L. Voegelin: The salesman said, “Oh, anybody can drive. Sit in there, and I’ll show you how.” And we went right into the car. Caringella: Those were the days! James Bolner Sr.: When I taught at Alabama in the early ’s, I heard a story about Voegelin. This had to do with his absentmindedness. One day, the Voegelins let it be known that their car was not functioning properly—or not functioning at all. They then discovered that there was absolutely no oil in the motor block; there was just no oil. It had never occurred to them to get the oil checked or changed or whatever. This is an Alabama story, and although it might not be true at all, that level of absentmindedness corroborated other stories you would hear in Baton Rouge.

So, you came to Tuscaloosa. L. Voegelin: Tuscaloosa, yes. They were very nice to us. Eric had gone down there on a Rockefeller fellowship, and when the Rockefeller expired, somebody said, “No, you’re out.” I remember the head of the department went to the president and did all kinds of things to try and keep Eric, but they could not keep him. So, Eric had to go to Baton Rouge one weekend to give a lecture there . . . Caringella: At the meeting of the Southern Political Science Association. L. Voegelin: And Eric was immediately hired. So, he went to Louisiana.

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Louisiana State University Simpson: Robert Penn Warren was already at LSU when Voegelin came. So

were such scholars as Cleanth Brooks, T. Harry Williams, Robert Heilman. Voegelin stepped into a situation where there was a marvelous group of people—most of them younger—at LSU. It was a pretty exciting time in a way, a Southern university acquiring a broad reputation almost overnight. It became internationally known even. The intellectual aspect of the university in the ’s and ’s was more impressive than it ever had been. The intellectual liveliness of LSU in the early 1940s is not something I expected. How did this configuration of minds come together? Did they recruit one another? Was it purely good luck for the undergraduates? Robert Pascal: It was not good luck. This campus is the result of the efforts

of Huey Long. Huey Long’s idea was that this university was going to be one of the best universities, if not the best. Money was not an object for Huey Long; whatever the university needed, it got. Salaries for good people were high for the time. The law school, for example: Huey wanted a law school that would teach the law of the world. He wanted a law school that would be able to teach European law, Latin American law, certainly Anglo-American law. He got a professor, then at Tulane, Frederick Butell, to head the LSU Law School. Butell was simply told by Huey Long that he should get the best people and pay them well. He did. To give you an idea, back in the ’s and early ’s, before World War II, salaries for some full professors at the law school were ten thousand dollars. That was a lot then. Butell managed to attract a great number of people to the LSU Law School. Now, that’s only the law school—I can’t tell you very much about the other faculties, but I have no doubt that the law school was part and parcel of the same thing. While Huey was still alive, he told Butell that he was to build a building for a proper law school and a library building that would permit a collection of books that would exceed Harvard’s collection in number and quality. It was only after Huey died that the plans were toned down. But still: Heilman and people like that were brought here, the southern poets were brought here, Cleanth Brooks, Robert Penn Warren, and other people. The Southern Review was founded then. It is still a very respectable review. Did he ever talk to you about how he came to LSU and why he left Germany? Ernest J. Walters: Oh, no, although we knew he left Europe because of the

Anschluss. He had friends where he was able to get into Switzerland, and

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then from Switzerland came to the United States. He taught at Harvard and at the University of Alabama, then he came to LSU. Then, when he gained such notoriety, they gave him one of these chairs. There were three people who got those chairs: Voegelin was one of them, Harry Williams was one of them, and I don’t remember the third person. But I do remember that Voegelin got a salary of eight thousand dollars a year and all of us thought, “Good heavens, how could anyone earn that much money?” So you see, this was a long time ago! Donald Stanford: I did not arrive on the scene for any length of time until

. At that time, I received my long-awaited doctorate degree from Stanford University, and with my new wife, I traveled out to Baton Rouge and we lived in Baton Rouge from  on. I believe that that was the year Voegelin was made Boyd professor here. I heard about it soon after my arrival. He was a great scholar and a very erudite man. Simpson: A Boyd professor is supposed to be, academically, the most prestigious rank. They have established in recent years a number of professorships named for alumni, so it’s not quite what it was. But when Voegelin was appointed, it was still supposed to be the highest academic ranking. Not a great many were appointed to that. But I think Voegelin was appointed first, then T. Harry Williams was probably the second. He had won the Pulitzer Prize for a long book called Lincoln and His Generals—that was the book that made Harry prominent. After he wrote Lincoln and His Generals, he wrote a biography of General Beauregard. He then spent many years working on Huey Long. And he won, I think, two Pulitzer Prizes. Pascal: Voegelin found some people on the faculty of interest to him, such as

Heilman and Brooks. That’s perfectly true. But I think what he liked about LSU was the fact that he was allowed to work as he pleased. He didn’t lack anything by way of library resources or other such things. He would go off at times, in the summer, to other places and do some research—that’s true. But he found it very comfortable here. Able to work peacefully. You know what his schedule was? He’d get to the university about nine o’clock in the morning. And you might see him strolling around the campus, smoking a big black cigar, until it was time for his ten o’clock class. Then he would come in and teach it. If he had another class, he would go out and smoke another cigar and think. That’s about the way he carried on here. He did his work at home. Generally, he would go home for his main meal, around noon, and take a siesta. Then, at three o’clock, he would begin his

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work. And except for a very light supper—almost every day, he had a very light supper, prepared by Lissy—he worked through until three, three-thirty in the morning. She was an academic widow, for the most part. Although he did try out many things on her, would test things on her. So, she was not someone who was entirely out of the picture. L. Voegelin: He very seldom went to bed before two o’clock in the morning. And he had to have breakfast at seven-thirty. Then he read the newspapers and the journals. And then he went and worked, and then we had lunch. After lunch he’d always have a nap of at least two hours—that’s where he caught up on his lost sleep. And then he read. At night he started really to work.

And you made him breakfast and lunch. L. Voegelin: Yes.

Did he ever cook? L. Voegelin: No, never. He always was very happy to cook omelettes, but that

was all he could cook. Did you make him Viennese coffee or American coffee for breakfast? L. Voegelin: For breakfast? Oh, I had American coffee made in a coffee machine. But we never had coffee for breakfast. We had tea. Eric didn’t like coffee for breakfast, and I couldn’t stand it. Both of us had tea.

And he did most of his work in his study at home rather than in his office? L. Voegelin: Yes. In Louisiana, he had to teach in the morning, of course.

From nine to ten, and from eleven to twelve he always had to. And on Saturdays, of course. They always put him in a Saturday class, especially from eleven to twelve, because he was the only one who could make the students come. Otherwise they would leave. Jo Scurria: I remember he always wanted his classes at the time of eleven

o’clock—from eleven to twelve on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Those were his class times. Why did he want those times? Scurria: I don’t know exactly. You didn’t make up a schedule—classes were

given by Dr. Voegelin at the eleven to twelve hour. He never did drive, and Mrs. Voegelin would come and pick him up. She’d come into my office and talk to me and wait for him to get out of class. I guess they just went home

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after that and did whatever a brilliant man like that does at home. He would go home with her, and you never found him around the hallways in the afternoon. I think at the time he was also teaching a course in jurisprudence in the law school. At that time, they did give you a class load, and then you also had time for research. So, he probably taught about six hours and used the others for research. If he did most of his work at home, his office wasn’t filled with books? Scurria: He had books in his office, but he had evidently a lot more at home,

because, other than at eleven o’clock, you’d never find him in his office. He was always at home. But he was not unreachable: if I had questions about a manuscript or something, I felt comfortable calling him. So you had the task of typing Voegelin’s manuscripts? Did you do all his typing? Scurria: I must have typed something like  pages of manuscripts.

Remember, we didn’t have any electric typewriters; we had all elite typewriters, that was what we typed with. But Dr. Voegelin wanted his done with a pica type. I had an old, old Underwood typewriter, and I can’t think now how I ever typed on that typewriter. But I typed on that old typewriter all those pages of manuscript for Dr. Voegelin. The man never failed to compliment me, saying, “Where did you learn to type that good?” It was just typing; it wasn’t any big deal, especially for a typist. It all just came naturally to me. But he never failed to compliment me on anything I did for him. Elite type is the smaller? Scurria: The smaller, and he wanted the pica type. I think that’s what his

publishers wanted. And all his own typing was done on a manual typewriter. So, he typed what he wrote himself? Scurria: He typed himself. Dr. Harris was the chairman of the department at

that time, and I said, “Dr. Harris, this stuff is all Greek to me anyway.” But when Dr. Voegelin was typing, he would want to type over something like an e with an o or an o with an e, and I never could tell if it was supposed to be an o or an e. I always had to ask him about it, because I guess he thought that I knew what the Greek words meant, but I didn’t. But he typed it, and he’d have all these little things in the margins, you know—these thoughts that he had had afterward. But he was quite a chore, and I used to think, “Is this stuff ever going to stop

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coming?” I guess it didn’t, though, because as long as he lived he was always producing stuff! I found that, when he left, I truly missed all the typing that I had done. I was sorry he had left, because he was truly a great, great man. You could read his writing, too? Scurria: Yeah, I could read his writing. In fact, I still have to read it to peo-

ple. It sounds like I’m tooting my own horn, but I am reading what he put down because nobody else can read it! You didn’t just work for Dr. Voegelin, did you? Scurria: No, I worked for the whole department. There were five of us in the

department at that time. I was the only secretary; they just had the one secretary. And no matter what else I had to do, Voegelin’s work came first. I was not exempt from anything else, but his work was put right alongside everything else in the department. He had good support from LSU. Was he comfortable in other senses? Did he ever mention the weather, for example? Marianne Steintrager: I don’t remember him complaining about anything. Scurria: No, he never did, he never complained. Of course, he always got his

schedule arranged like he wanted to, his eleven o’clock class. It was like: whatever Voegelin wants, Voegelin gets. I think some people probably resented that on campus, because a lot of people didn’t feel about Dr. Voegelin the way we did. It’s not really a matter of reputation, but of an internal awareness of his own abilities. With someone of his stature, it must have been a source of considerable resentment? Scurria: It may have been across campus. I say across campus because we

were on one side of the campus, and they were on the other. And maybe some of the others in the history or philosophy departments may have resented him. But within the department, they always felt it was complimentary to the department for LSU to be recognized through such a scholar. Do you think there was any resentment? Steintrager: I never remember any resentment. And then we also had Dr.

Heberle in sociology. His wife was Arnold Toynbee’s daughter, so we had two of those fairly distinguished people. I think that people were just very pleased that LSU had them.

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The English department was also quite prominent then. Steintrager: And we had T. Harry Williams in history, too. It was a good time to be at LSU, actually. We had a lot of famous people. Lucille McDowell: I got this little student job—well, I didn’t get it, jobs were

foisted on me. I didn’t mean to work, they would just happen. So, I was grading papers for the philosophy department, and I was in this English library, and that’s where Cleanth Brooks was. He was my undergraduate adviser, and he really helped me schedule things. He was absolutely remarkable in the classroom. He drew people: we would study a poem and think there was nothing to it, and two days later you would know that that poem was the equivalent of any novel that had ever been written. They were his insights and he was leading you to them; it was fabulous. Well, Dr. Brooks and T. Harry Williams and Eric Voegelin and a man named Robert Heilman—all of them were marvelous lecturers. They were friends. And Peter Carmichael, who was the head of the philosophy department, their offices were all on that floor. They would sometimes forget, I think, that I was there. I suppose I learned as much from the conversations as from the lectures! And sometimes Dr. Voegelin would come over. Now, he wasn’t in the gang because he wasn’t on that floor, but he would sometimes come in. Of course, they would also tease one another, and he would enter into that too when he was there. He could give as good as he got. And he got and gave! I heard a lot of that, and it was marvelous: he was absolutely charming and a different person with that group of people. But then, being with Cleanth Brooks and T. Harry Williams would swing anybody. There would have to be something happening, because T. Harry Williams was kind of crazy. One day, for example, T. Harry Williams was walking down the hallway. And he said, “Hey, Lucille!”—he used to call me Lucille, the Miss Klausen went long ago because he would tease me, he liked to tease everybody. And he was coming down the hall toward me, yelling all the way down the hall, “Hey, Lucille, guess what? I just learned there are three sexes on the campus.” And I said, “Oh really, Dr. Williams?” “Yeah, three it is.” And he’s coming closer the whole time, and I’m wondering what this is going to be. And he gets to me and says, “Guess what they are.” “I don’t know, Dr. Williams, what are they?” “Well, there’s the male sex, and there’s the female sex, and then there’s the English major.” And he just falls all over himself. Everybody was looking because he was yelling and he had a booming voice: this little bitty man and this booming voice, and he was yelling this joke. And every time he used to

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tease me about being an English major and how ridiculous it was. He teased anybody about whatever it was that was their thing. He teased Eric Voegelin too, and Dr. Voegelin, I think, enjoyed it a great deal. In fact, I think they were a kind of club, and Dr. Voegelin was admitted. He wasn’t a prominent fixture because he wasn’t there every day. But that little group met, and there was the wonderful quality of T. Harry Williams and of his mind and of his spirit. He was absolutely the life of the place. And Cleanth Brooks was simply a fabulous human being. And Dr. Heilman was a marvelous person, and Peter Carmichael was very interesting, and they enjoyed each other very much. When Dr. Voegelin would come in, you could tell that he enjoyed it too. But what person of any intellect whatsoever wouldn’t enjoy Cleanth Brooks? Or T. Harry Williams or Dr. Heilman? And Peter Carmichael: I think the other three sort of accepted Peter Carmichael on sufferance, but they didn’t accept Eric Voegelin on sufferance. He was welcomed. I felt that I was really privileged to be able to listen, to be able to hear a lot of the conversations, because they would have them in this huge room with a lot of books in it. Of course, there was a sign that said “Quiet,” but they didn’t care about that. It was their clubroom.

Robert Heilman Voegelin says that Robert Heilman helped him a great deal with his English. Do you know anything about that? McDowell: I know they seemed to be very friendly. I know that Dr. Voegelin

would come over. As I said to you, Dr. Heilman was one of these men who gathered—not as much as Brooks and T. Harry Williams, who were just pals, it seemed to me, but Heilman was much in that group. Dr. Heilman was a remarkable man in his own right. As a pair—they were both very big men— they were both impressive, a little bit reserved. It seemed to me there was more likeness between Heilman, who was just a magnificent lecturer, a straight-out lecturer, and Voegelin, with his manner of straight-out lecturing in his class. It was not a seminar or that sort of thing. I would say that those men were probably more alike than T. Harry Williams and Cleanth Brooks would have been. Dr. Heilman was pretty formidable; he was a more formidable person, a more orderly person. In fact, a friend and I did something very funny in his class. We were reading The Prince by Machiavelli. And on just one page there

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were so many footnotes. It was a little bitty book and we were just laughing— she and I were laughing and laughing because some of the footnotes were in Chinese, some were in Greek, and so forth. And we just thought it was all ridiculous. We were two eighteen-year-old kids who really thought this was funny. So, she was writing her research paper and I said, “You ought to put a lot of footnotes in it, and you ought to put some of them in Chinese, and some of them in Greek, and so on.” So, we went to this Chinese person we knew and he helped her write them in. But Dr. Heilman gave her an F, and was not amused. That was Dr. Heilman. Now, I believe that Mr. Brooks would have been amused and I know Dr. Williams would have been amused—but Dr. Heilman was not amused. I then had to go in to him and say, “Dr. Heilman, it’s all my fault.” And he said, “She is capable, isn’t she?” “Yes, sir.” And we had quite a little discussion, and I felt very bad about it because she would not have done it without me. So, they finally worked it out. But that’s the kind of person Dr. Heilman was: he was not loose and easy in situations where I think the others might have been. But I don’t think, if it had come to that, that Dr. Voegelin would have been loose and easy either. H. Trimpi: I tried to figure out why he was interested in this particular literary man because there were loads of literary people at LSU. But I think it was because Heilman was trying in his own literary studies, particularly of Shakespeare, to deal with large symbolism. And I think Eric at that time was fascinated with the application of his idea of symbolism to literature. I used to be very skeptical of that, and I don’t know that I’m not still a little skeptical. I think the way he uses symbolism is so broad, so general, that you apply it to Shakespeare’s plays almost at the expense of the plays as literary structures. You see, that’s sort of my corner: I think I understand the way writers of fiction and writers of novels write. And if they think about these things, they don’t think about it in the very general way that Heilman writes about them. Which is not to say that there isn’t that grain of truth in what Heilman writes—it’s there. But I still always want to come back to the writer’s point of view. So, I wouldn’t pursue that line of thought myself. But I think that was the bond they shared intellectually. And then of course, as you know, they did become really good friends.

When did you first meet Eric? Heilman: When he was at Alabama, he came over to LSU to do a lecture, and I remember hearing that lecture and commenting on it then. That was about , perhaps. And of course I met him in , shortly after he came to LSU.

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You saw each other then socially? Heilman: We belonged to the same group and there were parties, and I don’t

know how often those parties were. You see, this was fifty years ago now. We entertained the Voegelins and they entertained us. We seemed to have some congeniality both ways. I became sort of his—to use an anthropological term—American informant. He always asked me how things worked on the faculties and what the faculty attitudes were, their relationships to each other and so on. And he asked a lot of questions about English literature. About attitudes to things that he’d read and knew about. So, I was Mr. Know-It-All on that subject. Did he take any particular interest in faculty politics? Or did you? Heilman: He took very little, I took a good deal. At LSU, there was a whole

group of us who thought we could sort of, as somebody at the law school said, “make it more like a university.” Make over the place, and so on. Did it work? Heilman: We tried that, we had a favorite candidate for the presidency, and

then we got the very guy we didn’t want. Once, four of us—and another of the four was Cleanth Brooks, who was at Yale for many years and who just died—made a Sunday trip to Shreveport from LSU to call on the head of the board and make our recommendation for the presidency. At any rate, we told the old guy what he should do, and of course he went right ahead and did what he was proposing to do anyway, which was to appoint the guy we didn’t like! So, it’s all rather amusing to look back. But Eric was not much interested in that sort of thing. Well, he sensed that, as foreign born, anything he was for would naturally suffer from it having a foreign supporter. So, he didn’t spend time on things like that. So, you were his informant as to university politics in daily life and so on as well? Heilman: I remember him asking very many questions about how things

worked in this university, how things worked in the field of English generally, and so on. And asking about personalities and about ideas. Probably the most well-known document between the two of you was the letter he wrote about Henry James’s novella, The Turn of the Screw. Heilman: Oh, that famous letter, yes. I was just delighted by that. I happened

to be teaching The Turn of the Screw in class, so when he said, “I’ve never read

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anything by Henry James, what do I read?” I said, “Try The Turn of the Screw.” He was fascinated by it. I think he read it in one sitting, all night long, which is the kind of thing he did. Then he wrote me that long letter that I subsequently had published in the Southern Review. I thought it ought to be turned over to the Xerox office and have copies made. Of Eric’s essay I said, “It’s the best thing that’s ever been written on it. This is profound, and it is difficult.” It was so far out of line with the conventional . . . Heilman: It was so far out of line with the sort of standard modern goop, you

know, which is all debunking. Then, as you know, there was the first essay he wrote when he first read it and the second thoughts twenty years later, which got much more difficult because of all the very difficult theological problems. But the first part, at least, was quite intelligible. You’ve written several books on the various plays of Shakespeare. Did you discuss Shakespeare with Eric? Heilman: Yes, various issues would come up now and then. He would say,

“What’s the going attitude on so-and-so?” That kind of thing. I think he read your books. Heilman: Yes, I have one book on Lear and one on Othello.

Did he give you a response? Heilman: Oh yes, he wrote a wonderful letter. Talking very knowingly and intelligently and ever-so-delicately where he was suggesting an alternative view. He could do that with marvelous grace. He knew I was being an idiot, but he wasn’t saying it in any fiercely negative way.

He could also state it in a very straightforward way when he wanted to. Heilman: Oh yes, he could. Indeed he could!

I always felt amazed that he put up with me. Sometimes he said, “We must go and have some little boy talk.” Every now and then he liked cute terms of that sort. So, he’d take me out to lunch, and you know, the little boy talk was me just listening as he recited to me his latest chapters. And that would be it: me trying desperately to catch on. I’d try to say something intelligent, but I was just conceptually not there. But I don’t think anyone ever felt really at ease with him. Nobody there was equipped to carry on at his level of discourse and with an appropriate vocabulary.

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Was Robert Penn Warren there? Heilman: Yes, he was there, but I think he and Eric never got close. He was a poet and novelist. I think that the particular kind of abstraction that was characteristic of Eric’s intellectual procedure was quite foreign to the kind of thing that Warren did. There wasn’t any hostility, but it seems to me there was never any particular warmth.

When I took a second-year English course, I read Brooks’s A Well Wrought Urn. Part of it was on Keats, I think. Heilman: Yes, and on a series of poets and poems.

Now he was—and perhaps you were too—part of an approach to English literature? Heilman: Well, yes. Cleanth was very important in the development of what

for a while was called “new criticism.” And the new criticism in essence— you’ll hear all kinds of silly things said about it—was saying that history is not all. Graduate schools did everything in history, you know: “the influence of A on B” and that sort of thing. What were the influences on Chaucer, the influences on Shakespeare, the sources of Shakespeare? The new criticism simply said: let’s look at the structure of these works and see what we learn about why they’re good or not. It was something of that sort. The old historians all raised a hell of a howl. Of course, both Brooks and Loren, having had undergraduate degrees from Vanderbilt and graduate degrees from Oxford, had a damn sight more history in their training than most English professors do these days. And they were never saying, “Let’s give up history”; but, “What is there besides history?” And that’s what the new criticism [was] in essence. It has been totally misrepresented by people who act as though they would take everything out of context. They took context for granted, everybody knows that. But they asked: what else is there besides source, influences, and context? Well, we’ll have my lecture on the new criticism another time. It’s now been replaced by what’s called literary theory. Did Eric and Brooks ever discuss his work? Heilman: I don’t know. I was never present at an official discussion. I do

know that Brooks had used Voegelin in some critical essays. Notably in an essay on a Mississippi doctor—Walker Percy. He wrote The Moviegoer. I met Brooks once in New Orleans, and he was a very courtly man.

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Heilman: Yes, that’s right. Very courtly.

I talked to Bob Heilman, and I sensed he was very reluctant to say he knew anything at all about Voegelin. Simpson: Well, Bob’s always like that. I always felt that he has that same reti-

cence I have, only he’s less justified in having it! That said, in spite of the fact that he knew him well, and he helped him get his citizenship papers and all that stuff, he still never really knew him. You just don’t meet very many people with such wonderful minds. Because he was far and away an intellectual. So, I think he has that feeling too: if you have any respect at all for the life of the mind, then you had the feeling, “Eric Voegelin, he was a real genius.” Do you know if he and Voegelin were very close? Simpson: Yes, yes, they were. But there again, I expect they weren’t, you know,

bosom buddies. It was more an exchange of ideas. I know in his criticism, several years later, he referred to Voegelin. He was considerably influenced by the idea of Gnosticism and was attracted to his anthropology.

The Breakthrough Were you there when The New Science of Politics was published? Walters: No, but I can remember Voegelin afterward. I was talking with him

about The New Science of Politics, and the expression he used was: “You know, they have sold ten thousand copies of that? Who on earth would want to buy it?” Of course, I would assume the sales shot up once he got that Time magazine article. After The New Science of Politics, there was this article in Time magazine. How did his colleagues respond to this? Simpson: I don’t know. I think in the English department there wasn’t much

response, because not too many people knew about it at that point. I remember being tremendously impressed by seeing that spread in Time, because, as far as I know, nobody at LSU had ever gotten that much attention before. Not too many university professors ever get it. That summer, when The New Science of Politics came out, I tackled it and I read it two or three times. And it impressed me at that point more than almost any other thing I had read of Voegelin’s. Because it was easier to get into in a way. Once I read The New Science of Politics, it gave me more understanding of what he was up to. This

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book, at that point, was his vision of his whole project. I also found it pretty concise. Scurria: You know that book he gave the Walgreen Lectures from? It was our

big joke: as he was going on the plane to deliver the Walgreen Lectures, I was practically going behind him in another car typing it. It was that close, how we got to finishing it up before he left to deliver the Walgreen Lectures. Then I heard afterward that he didn’t even refer to his notes! It was just off the top of his head, as he always spoke. I couldn’t understand the big rush to get the book finished when he didn’t even look at it when he was delivering the lectures. Caringella: He really worked the entire summer of  on the review of The

Origins of Totalitarianism, by Hannah Arendt. L. Voegelin: The whole summer on a text that was just seven or eight pages. Caringella: Is that so? It’s very, very clear. It’s one of the clearest things that

he wrote. It’s very clear where they disagree. I think it’s a wonderful piece of work. And, I suppose, if he worked the whole summer on it . . . L. Voegelin: Yes, he really worked the whole summer on it. I complained about it; I said, “What are you doing?” And he said, “I know what I’m doing. I have to know first what I want to say!”

Did he ever talk to you about the change from The History of Political Ideas to Order and History? L. Voegelin: Oh yes, of course. He talked about it all the time. That was really

a hard time, the hardest time of our lives when he went through that: leaving The History of Ideas alone and starting all over again. That was really a very hard time. I was reading some letters. He was saying in the spring that it would be ready in the fall of 1952. L. Voegelin: Oh, he said that all the time.

Could you describe the period that ensued in 1953 and ’54? Caringella: Well, it was difficult. He had no publisher, and he had to devise

a history of political ideas—not just in order to make it marketable, to find a publisher. But he was discovering new things, things that had made it difficult to finish The History of Political Ideas—especially what he was doing on the scriptures in ’.

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Didn’t you also take that trip to Scandinavia in 1955? L. Voegelin: That was before the first volume of Order and History came out.

I think he wanted to meet some writers there that nobody else had. Caringella: Yes, he felt that the best scripture scholars were there at the time.

And this was because of the delay in publications because of the war, that The History was written essentially on the basis of the prewar, textual criticism? And then this new archaelogical material came out and he had to incorporate it? Caringella: The Scandinavians were not as much affected by the war. It

didn’t interrupt the scholarship in the scripture studies as much as it had elsewhere. The German scholarship completely stopped. The libraries and journals really ceased in many areas. And the Scandinavians still had their German libraries intact, so they had the best German scholarship as well. The awful thing when Eric had to do Order and History instead of The History of Political Ideas at Louisiana was that he had to give up going to dinner parties. That made it also very hard on Lissy. Why? Caringella: Because she felt she couldn’t go without him, until one of her friends said, “Oh Lissy, you can come by yourself.” So, she asked Eric, and he said, “Of course! You go. I have to work.” Then he always waited for Lissy to come home. L. Voegelin: Yes, I went to all the dinner parties myself. Without Eric. But

when I came home, all the lights were turned on, and Eric even had a drink ready for me—it wasn’t necessary. Of course he wanted to talk: What was going on at that party? Who was there?

Dinner Parties Did you ever see Voegelin socially at LSU? Stanford: Yes, yes I did. Eat dinner, throw some parties when he was here,

have visits. I think I can say I got fairly well acquainted with him. I found him, as all people did at times, a bit hard to understand because of his accent. His accent was very strong. I have heard other people who have said of him—in fact, Heilman said this— that he seemed to be incapable of small talk.

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Stanford: That’s true.

So, at parties, one must have simply discussed important questions. Stanford: That’s true. And at parties, I would usually just listen. I mean, he would get into a serious conversation with various faculty members on his own terms. And I would listen in on that, but I did not have much to contribute to the conversation.

Did you find him approachable? Stanford: I did, yes. He was different for different people I suppose, but I

think he liked me and my wife, and I liked him and his wife. And I carried some clout with him because I edited the Southern Review, and I was chairman of the lecture committee as well. So you didn’t converse regularly about literature with Voegelin? Simpson: No, no. I don’t think anybody conversed too regularly with him. He wasn’t going to go and have coffee with you or something like that. He was always working. His mind went two times faster than everybody else’s anyway. I would see him at parties: he usually would be sitting in a chair somewhere, and he didn’t seem to be enjoying himself too much. He didn’t like small talk; he really didn’t. I remember seeing him the last time I saw him at a party, when he came back to lecture. What impressed me was that he was attempting to sort of mingle and talk, to stand up with a drink in his hand and do that cocktail party sort of thing. And I think he found it difficult. I think his wife had to look after him; she took care of his social obligations and so on. He wasn’t somebody who you would think about going over to his house to visit, you know. Unless you had received a very formal invitation to go. Pascal: My wife and I found ourselves invited to the Voegelins’ home from

time to time, usually in the evening, after dinner. And it would be a simple evening of, perhaps, hors d’oeuvres, or a dessert and a drink or two. We were never alone; the Voegelins were very sociable, in a sense. He did spend a tremendous number of hours studying, working, but he nevertheless found time for some socialization. Sandoz: Jay Walters had a story about having a faculty/student party, and

Voegelin showed up and they would chug-a-lug beers. But I never saw any of that. Voegelin would chug-a-lug beers?

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Sandoz: The beer was disappearing very swiftly, let’s say. But he said he didn’t

drink because it made him sleepy and he didn’t want to go to sleep; he wanted to read. So, he wouldn’t drink except very occasionally. And as far as I could see, he drank vodka; I’ve forgotten what his brand of choice was. Lissy seemed to like scotch. Let’s say that, on a social evening, he would partake. Scurria: Voegelin, he never let a holiday go, whether Christmas or Easter or

whatever, without giving you a gift. He always gave me a gift. I always felt good about it. He was just very complimentary to me. And he noticed things. My father had passed away during the summer, and when I went back to work, he said, “I noticed you’re very sad, is something wrong?” He was very observant. I told him that my father had died. And he was so good: he had just realized what had happened. I thought that this was very observant for a man of his caliber: to notice that his secretary is depressed, or that something is wrong. What was the social life like here in the ’40s and ’50s? Scurria: There was not very much. They would get together on election night

or something, and they would all be together to discuss or talk about the election. Dr. Voegelin had a sit-down supper at his house one night for the faculty, and I was invited. But there was not very much socializing. Would the students be included in these? Was that line pretty carefully drawn? Steintrager: It was Mister and Miss, professors and students. Scurria: No calling by the first name, like they do now. I am always amazed—

I continue to call them Dr. so and so, and they come up with first names, and I still cannot get used to that. But Dr. Voegelin never treated me like I was below him. He always acted like we were on an equal footing. And goodness knows, as far as brains go, I was not on an equal footing with Dr. Voegelin! But I never felt like less of a person when he talked to me; he didn’t intimidate me. Not all people who work for German professors have that experience. Scurria: He was very down-to-earth. If I came to work with a particular per-

fume, he would notice it, and he would say, “What are you wearing?” And I would tell him. Nobody would ever think of Voegelin in that way, but he was just down-to-earth like everybody else when you got him talking one on one. Here’s something interesting: after Dr. Voegelin left for Germany, I used to send his mail to him. And if you don’t mind me reading this, he wrote,

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“Things are going slow but sure. I have three beautiful rooms in a new office building, completely empty, the university architect now is occupied with the furnishings. Yesterday, I ordered a lovely desk made of teak wood and designed by himself, a handmade work of art. I was going to settle for less, but he insisted that was my due as a professor. In two weeks, the object will appear together with a desk chair upholstered and covered in Chinese red. Isn’t it ducky? About that time I hope the bookshelves and my books will have appeared, too, so I can start working.” You don’t think of Dr. Voegelin saying things like “ducky,” you know! This was March , . That’s when he left us, and shortly after he arrived in Munich. I have another one that I think is just a classic. He thanks me for forwarding the mail so faithfully and for so judiciously selecting it—you see? He just had a way of making you feel that you were really doing something for him. Then he writes, “We came here for the last week of the carnival and that event spilled over to the university. I got my certificate of employment on Mardi Gras. And when I came to the rector’s office, the two secretaries in the anteroom are in dress for the occasion. And one of them was particularly fetching as a sort of cat with black stretch-pants and a long curly tail. The rector was a distinct let-down after that prelude. He did not even wear a false nose. I am writing you all this because I strongly feel that something should be done in our department in Baton Rouge along these lines. Just imagine how the enrollment would go up if you were on exhibition in black tights with a tail!” He was just a terrific person. I just thought so much of Dr. Voegelin. You can tell that I personally was trying to describe him in a different sort of way, but I had a lot of respect for him. And I won’t say I loved him, but I really liked him a lot. He was very good to me, and he was so appreciative of everything that I did for him. And he’d never forget to let you know, to say something like, “Where did you learn to type like this?” It was just things like that. I just had a lot of respect for him and really hated to see him leave LSU. I think it was a loss to LSU.

The Move to Munich Was there any signal or any anticipation that he might be leaving? Scurria: No, it came as a complete shock to me. I was really surprised.

When Voegelin left Germany to go back to the States, his students felt abandoned, annoyed, disappointed. I was wondering how the people here felt when he left.

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Scurria: I think they hated to see him go. He was a man who was renowned

all over the world, and having been at LSU, we thought that we were fortunate to have him. And then to have him leave, it just left a big void, as far as I was concerned. I don’t know how people on campus felt about it, but I know that the department hated to see him go. I hated to see him leave, I truly liked him. Why do you think Voegelin went to Munich? Sandoz: Well, he had been headed off in the past by every single job offer he might have been able to get in the United States—including kind of a disastrous one apparently at Johns Hopkins, which may have involved a bit of skullduggery on the part of Leo Strauss himself. There may be documentary evidence for it; it’s pretty authoritative because it came as a reaction to what I wrote about Voegelin. Lissy read it and corrected me as to when the split between Strauss and Voegelin came, and why it was as profound as it was. But there was a direct statement that Voegelin was characterized as being “too controversial” to be appointed at Johns Hopkins. The point is: He had been at LSU for sixteen years. He had been in America since , and in twenty years had gone from Bennington to Alabama to LSU. He had some ambition, and Alois Dempf and Romano Guardini were at Munich. There was this opportunity to develop political science in a country that had no liberal democratic tradition and needed an infusion of ideas on how to govern on the basis of a liberal democratic regime such as the American one. And I’m sure the pay was pretty good, too. So, for a variety of reasons, he accepted. Pascal: When Voegelin indicated that he would be leaving, there was an attempt to keep him here—a very real attempt. Cecil Taylor, who was then chancellor of the university, did everything he could to raise a sufficient amount of money to keep Voegelin here. Now, neither Voegelin himself nor his wife were interested in money as such, I must say that. Voegelin, I think, would have been delighted to stay here as a professor; to be able to travel (as he was always able to travel and go to other libraries and consult other scholars) but to operate from here. The one thing that convinced him he had to make a change was that LSU, at that time, did not have a good retirement system. First of all, the maximum retirement for an LSU professor at that time was only one-third of the average of his highest-paid three years. And absolutely no provision was made for a widow. He told me himself at the time—don’t forget we were talking in another era, in , ’—“Well, I would have to have at least three hundred thousand dollars to make sure that Lissy would have enough income when I die, and it

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looks like that is not possible.” Then he said, “In Germany, once I take the oath of office, I will have my salary for life, and if I die, she will have seventyfive or eighty percent of the professor’s salary.” So, here was a retirement benefit adequate for Lissy. That, I think, was the principal reason for his going. I don’t think he had a desire to return to Germany at that time. But he did tell me about the retirement situation, his own fear that his illness might return, and that sort of thing. I certainly can believe that the opportunity to open this institute was itself complimentary to him, to say the least. But I still don’t think he would have gone to Germany.

Health Problems When Voegelin lived in Baton Rouge he was ill a couple of times, too, wasn’t he? Scurria: I’ll never forget it. He had serious colon surgery and he came to

work—he never stopped teaching, very rarely—all bandaged up. I said, “Voegelin came to work with a hole in his side.” He must have still been draining or something. He just didn’t want to miss any time. But he had had serious colon surgery, I remember that. He actually had a hole in his side. It must have been a draining tube under the bandages. But he didn’t take time off; he came right on back to teaching. He was something else. Sandoz: He got some kind of parasite from eating lettuce in Baton Rouge.

That’s when he was hospitalized, because of this intestinal parasite he got from a salad. It was a very serious attack. That’s how he got acquainted with a famous physician who had a fine medical clinic, like the Mayo Clinic in the North. But that’s the only illness I can think of. He came back and said, “They handled me like a piece of meat.” He didn’t want to be handled like a piece of meat. These physicians didn’t know what an important piece of meat he was, and they cared less! They were just trying to get the parasites out. L. Voegelin: Eric had this operation. It was very painful. It was an awful oper-

ation, really. Caringella: This doctor was a very well-known doctor; he had developed a technique for this kind of surgery. So, Eric was fortunate to be going to Dr. Oxner’s clinic. L. Voegelin: Well, somebody sent him there. And while I was waiting for him

in the evening, I bought Time magazine. I leafed through it, and I saw this

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article about The New Science of Politics. He was in intensive care, although he was already out of the greatest danger. So, I went to the orderlies’ area and I showed the assistant the magazine. I said, “If you would let me show this to him, it would speed his recovery.” And she said, “Yes, I think we could do that.” So, I went in with her. Everything was dark, and Eric couldn’t see anything, but I showed it to him and I read it out to him and it cheered him up. Was he in the hospital very often? L. Voegelin: That time, yes. Because they had to take the intestine out. They

closed the whole thing up and had to open it here, you know. And after five or six weeks, they had to close it again. The closing of this opening took many trips. He had to go several times and had to use a girdle. Caringella: But he had been seriously ill already in Tuscaloosa, hadn’t he?

Didn’t he have encephalitis? L. Voegelin: He was in the hospital then. And he was so weak, I couldn’t

believe it. This was in  or . I remember him being very robust, physically. L. Voegelin: He was. Caringella: But he had that great weakness of Tuscaloosa, and this major

surgery in Louisiana. And then he had his gall-bladder removed in . So, every fourteen years: from  to , from  to . And then around , he got something like Legionnaires’ disease. He came back from Ann Arbor and collapsed in the garden. Apart from the few interludes of illness, he seemed quite healthy. Heilman: He was a very healthy guy, yes. Well, he had one serious operation. And later on Lissy had a serious operation: breast cancer, I think. I remember him speaking very highly of American medicine. He said, “If we had stayed in Vienna, we’d both be dead right now.” And that, from a Viennese, is something! Another thing I remember: in Baton Rouge, he used to like to sit in the tub, in cold water, smoking a cigar, with a board from one side of the tub to the other on which he could put books. He was a great cigar smoker, you know. He was a “man of the people.” Sandoz: When Voegelin was seventy years old, he informed me that he had cut back to one hundred and fifty cigars a week. At seventy years old: God

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knows how many he smoked in his prime! And he didn’t die of lung cancer; he died of congestive heart failure at eighty-three or eighty-four. So, the question is: how long would he have lived if he hadn’t smoked cigars? Would he smoke cigars in class? Scurria: At the time, you could smoke anywhere; nobody was afraid of cigar

smoke or any kind of smoke. But yeah, he smoked cigars in class. In fact, I don’t think I ever saw Dr. Voegelin without a cigar in his hands, and his fingers were just yellow from the tobacco. But he never moved at a fast pace. He would always just look very relaxed and come into the office smoking a cigar. He never sat down to talk to you, but when he would come in from the classroom, he would stand up at the front of the desk and talk to you. He was never in a hurry. The bell would ring to go, but he was never in a hurry to rush off to his class. I guess he figured that they weren’t going anywhere, and they would wait for him. He was always calm to me, always gave the appearance of being very calm, not excitable.

Lectures In his lecture courses, the German tradition of lecturing is essentially the professor stands in front of his class, reads his lecture or simply declaims his lecture, and everybody dutifully takes notes. McDowell: That’s precisely what he did in the government class, the under-

graduate class. Now, did he allow you to raise your hand and ask a question? McDowell: I believe that somebody did once in awhile, but I don’t recall him

being the kind of a person who said on the first day of class, “I will welcome questions, I want your questions, I want discussion.” He did not really discuss much in that class. But I don’t recall him simply standing at a lectern: I recall him walking around more, and I recall him being an absolutely fascinating lecturer. Not that he told funny stories or anything of that sort, but he made comments that fleshed things out. And, of course, everything was in great detail and extremely orderly. At the same time I was doing this, I was a reader for the logic class and I was filled with logic; and his course was extremely, beautifully organized. I don’t recall him really referring to notes. He may have had them, but he was just a powerful, wonderful lecturer. Not dramatic: powerful rather than that. He had a presence.

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Was he a popular teacher as well? McDowell: Only for a certain kind of student. I think a lot of students avoided

him, actually. I found no difficulty whatsoever in understanding him, but there are lots of people who have trouble with a foreign accent. And he certainly did have a German accent, although he spoke beautiful English. I couldn’t understand any student who said that he couldn’t understand Dr. Voegelin. I think it was more Dr. Voegelin’s ideas that were beyond them, not Dr. Voegelin’s accent. But the quality of student at Louisiana State University was not as impressive as one would have liked. And most undergraduates I knew—not all by any means, but the majority—really avoided anyone if he had a reputation of being demanding, of being difficult. Dr. Voegelin’s was a hard course. What was hard about it? McDowell: Well, it was a hard course because his tests were very hard.

Certainly, they were never fill-in-the-blank! Not two or three questions, but sometimes five or six. We had four-hour exams. Most students had great difficulty with five questions and four hours. I remember the cigar. It reminded me of my father, a big handsome man who smoked a cigar. He was a lot like Dr. Voegelin, a European, and very different from some of the fathers of the children in the neighborhood. He even dressed differently. And I think that Dr. Voegelin was a little bit more formal in his dress than some of the professors of the time. It seemed to me that his clothes were well-chosen, suitable to him, attractive. Did he ever discuss current events? While you were studying with him, that would have been the war. It would have been an obvious topic for discussion. Did he ever discuss how the war was progressing and what was happening? McDowell: I don’t recall any discussions of the war. Of course, my last year

was the year that the war ended. Around Christmas time, the men very quickly started coming back. Walters:  and , those were the introductory political theory courses.

There were other courses: I took a course on China and Japan with Voegelin. It was not really his field, but it was a decent survey of Japan and China. He got us to read Chiang Kai-shek and Sun Yat-Sen, so it was interesting in that regard. And then he did a course on Russian politics, although he didn’t really do very much with contemporary politics. It was more of an historical orientation.

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Did you have any problems with his accent? Walters: Fortunately, I was taking German, so I could understand fairly

well—at least, after a while. But I couldn’t understand all the names he would bring up. The reason was that I wasn’t a liberal arts major. So I didn’t have the proper background, really. But some did: another of my good friends was a chap who later went to New York. He had a good singing voice, and he sang on the Lucky Strike Hit Parade. He was in  and  with me, and he would just shake his head after one of Voegelin’s lectures and say, “I can’t tell you how many history courses I’ve taken where I didn’t really know what was going on. And here, in fifteen minutes, Voegelin has straightened out the whole thing.” So, he had an enormous admiration of Voegelin from the point of view of explaining different periods of history. Did he speak from notes? Walters: Well, at that time, we didn’t know that he was working on Order and

History. So, I don’t know how much of an overlap there was. But whatever he was working on, he would simply come into class with the manuscript, which showed he was well organized. But if someone asked a question, he could go on for ten or fifteen minutes; he didn’t have to refer to his notes. It was an organized way of lecturing; it was also a way to decide whether he wanted to make changes to his manuscript. Was he generally admired at LSU by the undergraduates? Walters: Not by the undergraduates as a whole; it really was an elite group of

the undergraduates. Sometimes it was guys that were dating girls who were very intelligent: with that group, he had a tremendous reputation. I guess you know the story about Jack Welsh. Jack Welsh was one of the smartest guys I ever knew, a physics major. As a matter of fact, he was also a fraternity brother of mine. And so, in talking another friend of mine into going to Voegelin’s classes, I also talked Jack Welsh into going. Jack of course just breezed through all his courses, and then he took Voegelin’s. Well, by the time he took Voegelin’s class, I was off campus, but he thought the world of Voegelin. He later went into the Army Air Force. The LSU alumni magazine had an interview with Jack, and Jack said that he had learned a great deal of physics at LSU, but he also learned a great deal from a man named Eric Voegelin. He described what he had learned with Voegelin. Then they went on in the article, and Jack pointed out, “All the missiles that the air force has, I invented those.” At the time he was interviewed he was a general. So, this was a very smart guy, and Voegelin had an enormous effect on him.

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But there’s one story I wanted to tell you about his lecture. One time, Voegelin went to the john and came in and then it was time for class. He started his lecture, but he hadn’t zipped up his pants. And sitting right on the front row were two ladies who were maybe in their sixties—much older than the regular students, anyway. I guess it was five or ten minutes into the lecture when he realized this woman was trying to hand him a note. And he looked at the note, which probably said “Your pants are unzipped.” So, he just turned around with his back to the class, zipped his pants up and turned around and just kept talking! I think that would have thrown me for a loop, but it didn’t faze him. How did you first hear of, or have anything to do with, Voegelin? Sandoz: I was an undergraduate at Louisiana State University, majoring in history and minoring in philosophy. I chanced into Eric Voegelin’s senior theory survey class, Government . This must have been -. It was sheer chance, except for the fact that I had had a number of other government courses and I’d heard about this strange fellow who knew everything about everything, and who—in a five-man department—was a great luminary. I went in to see what he had to say and found out he knew a lot, knew whereof he spoke, and had an enormous command of his subject. He stood out above other professors I’d experienced in four years at LSU.

He was one of five people in the department. I hadn’t realized it was so small. Is this why he was able to teach such a range of subjects? Sandoz: That’s one of the reasons. But he insisted on teaching American

Government every term, because, as you know, he prided himself on the fact that he had made a clean break with Europe, and he wanted to become a real American. One way to do that was to work his way into the American material. So, he was teaching our introductory course on American government, Government . He also taught a course on Chinese politics, which I took. This was after —after the Chinese communist takeover of China, the expulsion of Chiang Kai-shek to Taiwan. Because he had such a facility with languages, he could learn enough Chinese quickly to use some of the primary materials, and he taught a very interesting and respectable course. You might say that the beginning of the chapter on the Chinese Ecumene that comes out in the fourth volume of Order and History was fashioned during the late ’s and early ’s, when he started teaching Chinese politics as a semester-long course at LSU.

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How did he lecture? Sandoz: He gave well-organized presentations as a lecturer. He was a very fine

teacher. He never lost his Austrian accent, so it was a challenge to understand him in speaking with the students. Well, the undergraduates at LSU are not terribly sophisticated. Neither was I, for that matter; I wandered in from Shreveport, and there was this great man. However, we had sense enough to know that he truly was a great man. The undergraduates knew that Voegelin was a great man from the first time they studied with him. It was not only because of the extraordinary clarity of his presentation, but also because of his ability to take complex theoretical material and give a perfectly lucid presentation at a rate that made note-taking possible. At the end of the course, you had a very satisfactory outline. He was an extraordinarily fine lecturer. He also had a keen sense of humor. He enjoyed presenting the profundities of Aristotle and Thomas Aquinas to the innocents of Louisiana. He said, “This subject-matter is very important, although perhaps what we are doing with it here is not so very important.” The coherence of the presentation was superb. As a result, this guy drew in the best students—you don’t often find electrical engineers, chemists, and physicists that come over and sit in on our courses on political philosophy! Did he use a text? Sandoz: Nothing really counted except the lectures, as a matter of fact. For

readings, he would say, “Well, get the Sabine textbook.” This was when Sabine reigned supreme. The Sabine textbook was what he used, but no exam questions ever came from Sabine. When we did the China course, we had a whole stack of books to read, including Chiang Kai-shek’s China’s Destiny, a collection by McNair, and other things that he directed us to. He did this a little bit more readily than in theory, but for the most part, it was his interpretation of the material based on his History of Political Ideas we were there to get and to understand for test-time. The tests were straightforward, tough tests, but he was a relatively generous grader. There were a good many A’s and B’s in his classes. What courses did you take? Steintrager: Most of them were based on the book he was writing. They were based on the whole history of political philosophy, starting at the very beginning, and developed pretty much in historical sequence. We just got a tremendous amount of fascinating information about how political philosophy

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developed. A lot of us got hooked on political philosophy at that point. We were very fortunate at LSU, you know, because we also had Walter Berns there—he had been a student of Strauss. We had Rene Williamson, who was an excellent political philosophy teacher. A lot of us were in government because there was no decent philosophy department at LSU: it was a one-man philosophy department. He was also good at applying political philosophy to what was going in contemporary politics. I still remember the notion that trying to export democracy to some of the emerging countries was like sending a Molotov cocktail to these countries. That was my first awareness of how ideas have consequences when you begin to export things. I think we learned a lot from him that served us well, even if we didn’t go on and have careers in political philosophy. We learned how to make judgments as to why certain things don’t work, and why you don’t try certain things, because they can have terrible consequences. Would he make other comments—about say, the 1952 election? Steinrager: I don’t remember any of those kinds of comments. It was more,

I think, comments about how philosophical ideas like the idea of democracy could affect world politics. But he didn’t even do that very often, make that direct connection for us between what he was teaching and what was going on in contemporary politics. Not that I remember. Bolner: My roommate was Jim Guirard—he’s now a lobbyist in Washington.

He said, “You gotta come sit in on this,” so I did. I was, as I’m sure a lot of people were, totally taken in. I was just taken by his vision of life and the whole overarching philosophy of history and of being and so on. It was just awesome. So, I had his course, the  course, which is the first part of the sequence. It was really an experience. I still have my notes from that course. One was transported, because he would come in and he would be so impassioned about what he had to say. Well, it was more than just excitement: it was a conviction and a desire to persuade. I made an A in the course, but I was told later that Voegelin graded easily. How would he teach? Bolner: He would stand behind the lectern, but he would also gesticulate a lot. I never saw him sitting down, never saw him come in front of the desk and lean on the desk. But he would write on the board a lot. He would never have an outline, but words would occur, and he would write with very poor

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handwriting. And he seemed always to have the shortest piece of chalk; it was part of the excitement, his excitement. He would write these terms down. As he would be talking, he would want to use a term, and he would sense that it was difficult for the students to understand it, so he would write it on the board. Did you ever have any difficulty understanding his accent? Bolner: Yes, there were times. He would repeat some, and after a while, of

course, you got used to it. Did he ever talk about practical politics? Bolner: No. Well, the course was at such a level that it would have been rather

comical in the sense of juxtaposing the profound and the absolutely trite to talk about current events or to talk about the results of the local election or something. You just wouldn’t think of it. Now, the first course would have been on the Greeks? Did he start, in fact, with the Egyptians? Bolner: Oh yes, he started with the omphalos; he started at the beginning. He

had so many connections he would make. He’d make connections to modern writers, to music, to art. He was also teaching Chinese political philosophy at the time, so he would often bring that in. I had never encountered anyone like this: the languages, the history. It was just totally overwhelming. Would he entertain questions? Bolner: No, he would not entertain questions. I don’t recall in that course his

ever stopping and saying, “Is this clear?” or “Do you have any questions?” In fact, to speak frankly, I don’t think he had a great deal of respect for the students, which is why I was very surprised to get the A. It was perhaps his style, but I think he was condescending. There was an apocryphal story, which is a good story and one of the first things I was told about him. Once, a student did raise a question, and the question was, “Who came first, Justinian or Socrates?” Apparently, Voegelin got so frustrated and angry that he slammed his folder with his notes in it and walked out. Now, whether that’s true or not, I don’t know. But it was a story that was repeated a lot. Which suggests that he would be a professor that you would respect, rather than have a great deal of affection for. Bolner: Oh, yes. However, he was genteel. I remember exactly where his office

was, and when I went in, he was busy, but he was very courteous. I told him

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how much I appreciated his course, and that I had decided to study political philosophy. It seemed as if this had happened so many times that he wasn’t very impressed. But he was very genteel, very calming, and very sociable. Voegelin, he was a dynamo. He influenced me immediately from the beginning in my own teaching style. And of course the main thing he taught me, if you’re going to be successful, and if you’re going to be good at this, you have to give it your all, you have to be passionate about what you are saying. And really, with all due respect to all of the others, they were not doing that. Now that doesn’t mean they weren’t good, or very clear, or whatever, but he brought to it such a passion. One of the things that I’ve concluded about Voegelin is that the contemplative, scholarly life was extremely important for him. What he was doing was, he thought, a very serious business. I remember teachers who impressed me with the notion that they were doing something extremely important. If I didn’t understand it, it was my problem, not theirs. Would that be fair to say you realized something significant was happening with him? Walters: Oh sure. Oh, we had no doubt about it. Most of us simply said,

“This is the first real scholar we’ve ever met.” It was just marvelous in that respect. At the same time, he turned off your run-of-the-mill undergraduates. I happened to be at some kind of a convocation sitting with two coeds while Voegelin was giving the main speech. When he started talking, these girls started chattering with each other. They said, “How can anyone understand this?” Now I don’t know whether they were talking about the content of what Voegelin said, or whether they simply couldn’t understand his accent, but they weren’t at all interested in listening to him. You said he was revered by his students at LSU. Was he a popular teacher? Heilman: No, not popular, because popular usually implies a very wide appeal

to large numbers. Eric’s appeal was strictly to the very good students. And I even had one very good student in English who couldn’t make head or tail of what Eric was saying. But the good students nevertheless would attend his courses. Heilman: Ah, yes. I can’t remember what our advising system was, but each

of us in the department had a certain number of advisees. And because one felt pretty well acquainted with who were the “real minds” throughout the faculty, one could recommend good people to professors in other departments. And Eric was always one whom I recommended. And the better the

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people, the more they liked him. But again: the idiom was not a popular one or an easy one, and it put off even some good students. He also taught a course in the law school. Was that a well-attended course? Heilman: I don’t know. My inclination is that he was greatly admired by law students but that they didn’t know what the hell this was all about. Somehow they had a feeling that this was a very superior guy, but what was this natural law stuff all about anyway? And what’s it got to do with litigation? I thought it was a great credit to the dean of the law school that he brought Eric in to give the course. This was the guy we all wanted to be president. He was Catholic: Paul Macarius Abare. He was dean of the law school, and he was a characteristic Louisiana Catholic, who knew how the world worked but had also gotten a taste of ideas in his Catholic upbringing. And this made him appreciative of Eric. It was he who was responsible for Eric’s giving the course. Pascal: I had been able to convince the dean of the law school and some of

the senior colleagues that we should have a course in the philosophy of law in the very first year of law school, and also a course in elementary legal science—one covering both the Romanist tradition and the Anglo-American. I proposed that I teach the legal science part and that Voegelin teach the course in jurisprudence, even though he was not a member of the law faculty. So, we worked on that. And until Voegelin left, I think that we had the very best introductory law program in the United States. Voegelin’s course is written up to some extent in his volume The Nature of the Law. I had suggested that perhaps jurisprudence should be offered first, in the fall semester, and my course in the spring semester, but Voegelin wanted to reverse that. He wanted the students to have some basic knowledge of the legal order before tackling the problem of its philosophy. So, that is how that occurred. I must tell you that I didn’t have anything to do with dictating the content of Voegelin’s course—you understand that very well. Nor did he attempt in any way to tell me how I should teach mine. We worked together in the sense that we were in constant communication, knew what the other one was doing. Let me go back. This was an obligatory course for first-year students? Did they enjoy it? Did they object to it? Pascal: As with any course like that, it was primarily the intelligent students,

those who were better prepared, who liked it. There were many who did not like it. But, for the most part, members of the law faculty objected to Voegelin. First of all, Voegelin was difficult to understand, especially in those days. The

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German accent was even thicker in the early days than it came to be later on. It was hard, sometimes, for our local people to understand him. That undoubtedly was a factor. For another thing, although he was generally patient with people, he would show a bit of temper now and then—even in the lecture room. He would be lecturing on something, and just turn to somebody and say, “What do you think about this, Mr. So and So?” If the student responded in a manner that showed that he had not been paying too much attention, Voegelin would get really excited—not be too pleasant. One day, one of our senior law professors was in the lecture room when one of those events occurred. And from that time on, he wanted Voegelin out. I daresay that if it hadn’t been for the fact that Voegelin left the university to go to Germany, he would have been asked not to give the course any longer. There was opposition to my course, too, because the same individual, the same professor—although he was not the only one, he was foremost of the objectors—kept saying to others that my course was too Catholic. This professor was concerned that I was too Catholic, and he thought of Voegelin as being too Catholic as well, though he was a Lutheran. So, I say reluctantly that I think our program would have ended anyway, even if Voegelin had not gone to Germany. Did you have any feedback from his students? Pascal: Oh, yes. I can tell you this without any doubt in my mind: the students who graduated after having had the two courses under me and Voegelin proved to be some of the best prepared we have ever graduated from the LSU law school. I base this judgment on the fact that, while they were still in school, we found students clamoring for more courses of that kind. Steintrager: We could sometimes hear him shouting “Dummkopf ” at his

law students. Scurria: I don’t think he had much use for the law students. In fact, I don’t think that he felt that he should be teaching law students.

His jurisprudence lectures were finally published, The Nature of the Law, and they were written shortly after The New Science of Politics. They were available in mimeographed form, but only for a couple of years. And then he left. It’s pretty complex material for a bunch of law students. Scurria: I don’t think the students were too happy having to take that course.

I don’t think it was a popular course.

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It was a required course, then? Scurria: It may have been a required course, because he used to have large

classes. And I don’t think they would have volunteered if the course was not required.

Seminars McDowell: I was at LSU from ’ through ’. And he was fascinating. His courses and lectures were fantastic; the range of references were amazing. I enjoyed it thoroughly. And I thought, “Well, I wanted to take everything he teaches.” I saw that he didn’t teach a lot. If I recall correctly, it seems to me that he didn’t teach a lot of undergraduate classes at all. But he permitted me finally to get into a graduate seminar, where I really got to know him. I was out of my depth in that class, although I enjoyed it tremendously. It was an oddball group because there were two ladies in the group—I suppose they were easily ten years older than I—and all the men had just returned from the war. And they really were men; they weren’t boys.

What would he teach in seminars? How would he organize them? McDowell: It was mostly readings. My memory of the seminar is rather vague, but he would assign readings. He would cite one work he felt was very significant for a certain period of time, and that would be required reading. There was a lot of preparation and discussion; it was really a discussion seminar, but always focused, never just talking. He didn’t speak all that much, but drew out what he wanted. He didn’t lecture in the seminar. Later in my life, I had other seminars—mostly in the English department—and they didn’t match what went on in that seminar at all. Often, they were rather dull. There was nothing dull in Dr. Voegelin’s seminar, although I often felt lost. I often felt like writing little notes to myself to check on this, find out about that. I followed up on a good bit of it. So, that’s really all I can tell you about the seminar. Later, when I did a lot of facilitation and then taught myself, I thought of him and his methods and the way he worked people. You know what I mean: he drew people out, he was an astute questioner. He chided me now and then, but he was well aware that I was a sophomore, and then a junior, and so forth, and that I was nineteen and graduated when I was almost twenty.

Did you ever meet Mrs. Voegelin?

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McDowell: I did meet her, and I only have a vague remembrance of her. She

seemed to be very quiet. I remember her clothes: I am always struck by clothes. I recall one time, she had on a dress I thought was very pretty. It was kind of chiffony and it had flowers in it, and it was loose, with a flowing collar. It was probably chiffon. It was very graceful. I was just struck that she looked very, very graceful and perfectly appropriate. I mean, it was what anybody would have worn in Baton Rouge in the late afternoon or evening. She seemed to me to be attractive. She didn’t join the group, but something was served—I don’t remember what, but there was something to serve and she came in. I don’t recall her saying anything, just her being there and being very nice and being in and out of the room. So, that is my whole experience with her. Steintrager: He only had boy students in his seminars. Scurria: Oh, did he? I didn’t realize that. I didn’t know it was just boys. Steintrager: He was certainly very cordial, there was never anything arro-

gant about him at all. But at least in my class, only the male students were invited to the in-home seminars. Were these credit courses? Steintrager: Seminars were credit courses. But he had a group of boys only, because I knew them then. I wasn’t invited. And apparently, Mrs. Voegelin stayed in the background, too. She served the refreshments, but she stayed in the background. Sandoz: The seminars were always at his house in Baton Rouge. It was the class year of ’–’ when I took my seminars with him as a graduate student. We’d go to his house, which was not too far from campus. It would always be about a five-cigar night. He would come out with a handful of cigars and put them on the table, and we would read a text. There would be one text we would go through carefully. For example, we spent one semester going through Lambda, book , of Aristotle’s Metaphysics, because all of us thought we needed to know something about metaphysics, so he led us through that. We would do a few pages each week, then there would be individual presentations by the various students who were assigned to do papers on whatever topics, and these were discussed. At some point, the presentations would be interrupted and a silence would fall. Everyone was always very respectful when the silence fell: Lissy then knew it was time to serve tea and cookies, so she would come in with homemade cookies and tea for everyone.

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We would sit around and sip our tea and munch our cookies. Then after about fifteen minutes, we would go back and talk some more. This would be at least a three- to three-and-a-half-hour session, once a week. Always in a very genial sort of spirit, unless someone had the temerity not to be prepared, at which point things tended to become very tense. But we were about five to seven people in the seminars, and it was a fairly congenial experience. Walters: Once, a group of us students got together, and we asked Voegelin to

give us a course on Nietzsche, because he never covered him in /. I don’t know the academic procedures at LSU at that time, but apparently he had to submit it to some group, and they rejected it. They rejected it because the head of the philosophy department said that Nietzsche was a philosopher and therefore you can’t teach him at a political science department. So, Voegelin says, “Well, we have to abide by the rules, so you all will have to come out to my house.” I don’t know if he let us decide the day, but it was something like a Wednesday, and we would go out at seven o’clock. If we were finished by eleven, we were fortunate. We worked through Nietzsche, and we worked through sections on “What is God?” in Saint Thomas. It was very interesting because we sat around in a circle. And Voegelin had a chair—not quite an easy chair, but everyone knew that was where he was going to sit. In fact, somebody sat in it the first time, and he told him, “You have to move, that’s where I sit.” And he would always come out and put two cigars down on the table; that was as much as he would allow himself during that seminar. When he would come out, if he wasn’t ready to start, we would walk around. He had had bookcases built into his dining room and into his office, which was a bedroom off to one side. He had scads of books around there, and we would look at those. I recall pulling out one book and looking at it. Then when I went to put it back, it wouldn’t go back: things were too tight. So, I just laid it flat on top of the other books. And, oh, he jumped all over me! He said, “How can I find these books again if you don’t put them in the right place?” Those seminars were marvelous. I remember I gave a paper on human nature; in fact, I wound up writing my master’s thesis on Graham Wallace’s Human Nature and Politics. I gave this paper, and I guess I read the stupid thing for fifteen minutes or so. You have to recall that, at that time, intellectually, we were just learning to tie our shoelaces; Voegelin just shot over the heads of most of us. Voegelin complimented me on the paper, then proceeded to tell the whole group why it was so good. But after we left that night, one of my friends said, “You know, I didn’t think he was talking about your

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paper.” What he had done was seen that I had perceived this problem of human nature. He then took off and brought in all sorts of stuff that I hadn’t even mentioned. Was he a demanding teacher in the seminars? Walters: He was not demanding in terms of grading, but he was still demanding. For instance, I started writing a master’s thesis, and I got interested in Arnold Toynbee and Oswald Spengler. So, I suggested to Voegelin that I do my master’s thesis on Spengler. I figured, well, two volumes: I can work though those. I’m a very slow worker. But Voegelin wandered into the graduate students’ office at one point, and he saw six volumes of Toynbee’s study of history. “Oh, Mr. Walters, you’re already working on Spengler; I think you should also prepare on Toynbee.” Well, I consented to that. Then I thought, “Oh my gosh, six other volumes!” But I set to doing it. Then, by God, before I even really got a grip on working in Toynbee, Voegelin came in one day and noticed a copy of Vico on my desk. “Oh yes, I meant to tell you, Mr. Walters. Throw Vico into your master’s thesis.” Well, this would have been more than a doctoral dissertation! And it was because Voegelin could do these things himself that he assumed his students could. Of course, I simply had to give the whole thing up and write a master’s thesis when I got to Chicago! But it was because he wanted me to do so much; and it was not just a lot of reading, it was a lot of difficult thinking and understanding. So, in that sense, he was an impractical person. But I learned so much. In one of these seminars at his house, we studied parts of Saint Augustine’s Confessions. And I’d never even read it, so I really learned a great deal there.

Culture Gaps, Gender Gaps, IQ Gaps Did you notice any difference in the students that he had between America and Germany? Did they come to your house in both places? L. Voegelin: We had a seminar in Baton Rouge every year, every Wednesday.

And in Munich, Eric had a seminar. He had four assistants, and they came together every four weeks or so—not what we had in Baton Rouge. But what we had in America were more like classes. Did he treat the students differently in the two countries? L. Voegelin: No, I don’t think so.

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Caringella: The students in Baton Rouge were much younger. The ones in

Munich were graduate students. L. Voegelin: Yes, they all had their doctorates already. And it was different, of

course. But Eric always liked to teach younger students. He always liked to teach undergraduates. Caringella: Like at Notre Dame, he remarked that the undergraduates were

often better than the graduate students. L. Voegelin: He said, “We’ve got a good group.” And he could do with them

what he wanted. The ones who had degrees already, he had to undo a lot of learning they had done before, which took a lot of time. Walters: I can remember when I was an undergraduate. Voegelin didn’t just

come in and announce it in class, but he would say it with the small group of us: “You know, the undergraduates are much better than the graduate students.” Once we became graduate students, I don’t know whether he was being discreet or not, but he didn’t say it that directly! Did you notice any difference in the way that Voegelin taught in Germany compared to the way he taught at LSU? Sandoz: He was mindful, I think, of the fact that the German student was a

good deal better informed than the one he was teaching at LSU. These students knew a lot more. He said as much himself and conducted himself as though this was his judgment. His judgment was that the American students could understand the political theories in the most complicated writings with absolute perfection, but they couldn’t spell the philosopher’s name. In the case of the Germans, he knew that the Germans knew more history and had more linguistic facility and they were academically better prepared than his LSU students were. But they didn’t have common sense and therefore were not able to relate the content of political philosophy and political theory to the existential problems that face human beings and the practical problems of politics—including such things as the development of democracy in a formerly totalitarian country, or the basis of totalitarianism and why it might be bad, and so forth. There was this educational superiority, but also this lack of any center of clarity about the nature of human existence. The Americans had this through the fact that common sense is the prevailing way of understanding things over here; it is woven into the political culture of the country. Because Germany had no political culture, developing common sense became sort of a slogan around Voegelin’s political science institute.

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The Americans didn’t have a philosophical grasp of the material that was present in a rudimentary form in the ordinary air that everybody breathed in Germany. Here, then, the process of developing a more sophisticated theoretical sensitivity was part of his educational approach. In Germany, the problem was different. He would address his classes in a different way and make these kinds of “real human connections” between highfalutin theories and what it takes for an individual to live decently and the political order to be satisfactory. So, he used different techniques. Did he get along fairly well with female students, and with women in general? Heilman: I think so, yes. He was a very courtly man. To which they would

respond favorably, even though they knew there was no prospective seducer in there. And what about young men? Did they see him as a typical, aloof German authority? Heilman: They certainly didn’t think of him as having a folksy manner, as

many faculty do, you know. This “Atta boys, call me Charlie, I’m just as dumb as you are” sort of style—this he didn’t have. I think there was very great respect for his learning and, indeed, for his gentlemanly style. But there was often also a complete puzzlement faced with some unknown—which, as you know, is a response that has been felt elsewhere as well. Oh, yes. Was he willing to explain himself in words that his students could more easily comprehend? Heilman: He would try. But I also think that his sense of very limited receptivities was deficient. He might have been doing his level best to get it across, but still, he was unconsciously speaking at several levels above what they were used to taking in at times.

When you and your contemporaries took courses from him, were you aware that you were in the presence of somebody whose reputation was growing and whose work was gaining in importance? Steintrager: I think we probably were aware of that. Yes, we were probably aware of that, but we were young and probably did our share of making good fun of things like the “immanentization of the eschaton” and the accent. And we’d write notes on the board about the “immanentization” and that sort of thing. But we took him seriously, too; I think we were aware. There was a little awe there. He was a demanding teacher, but he was not an unreasonable

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person, so you felt very comfortable taking his classes. In other words, you weren’t scared off because you were afraid you weren’t going to do well. He was very approachable, and he really wanted you to understand what he was trying to teach you. So, except for the seminars—from which I was excluded— there was time for questions in the lectures. He was always friendly, always helpful in terms of advice about where you might want to go to graduate school, or that sort of thing. You never did feel like he was unapproachable. Do you think that his other students would also have been devoted to him as well? Steintrager: I think he inspired loyalty among those students who really

were interested in what he had to say. But I don’t think I felt the kind of affection Jo Scurria felt. I mean, I liked him very much, but I didn’t know this side where he would write about cat suits or that sort of thing. So, I wouldn’t call him a beloved teacher. I think people liked him and respected him and were sorry to see him go. Voegelin I liked, but I wouldn’t just go in and plop myself down and have a chat with him. And I wouldn’t have known this familiar side of his personality. Then again, I don’t remember any of the professors were particularly friendly with the students. I don’t remember them being unfriendly, but you went in to them only when you needed something. They were teachers, and you were not on the same level. Today it’s an entirely different thing. That probably came in the ’s, when all the students started carrying on. I can remember my poor husband, with students coming in and threatening suicide, and he would have go to the infirmary with them, and all that kind of stuff. You wouldn’t go to your professor if you felt like you were going to commit suicide back in the ’s! Sandoz: He was never one for small talk, at all. We had the sense that you just

didn’t go in to see Professor Voegelin, sit down, and shoot the breeze with him for a while, which I did with a number of other professors I had as an undergraduate, and which my students do with me, for that matter. You went in with the idea that there was a clock ticking and that Voegelin’s minutes were important. He wasn’t just gassing around. He was concerned to do work, and to work constantly. Scurria: Somebody told me that Dr. Voegelin said that he would never go to

a Marilyn Monroe movie because he had a one-track mind and his mind would get off the tracks if he went to a Marilyn Monroe movie. I thought that was very unconventional—you wouldn’t think of him saying something like

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that! But then, too, he would go down and get his paper at the drugstore—of course he walked everywhere he went when he was living in Baton Rouge— and then go back home with his paper under his arm. And somebody said that he could be found at the local drugstore working the pinball machine. It’s just hard to picture him doing things like that. That’s a different side of Dr. Voegelin again. Did you ever attend a football game? L. Voegelin: We did in the first weeks when we were in Alabama. Eric said,

“We have to go to a football game. Everybody’s going, so we have to go too.” And we dressed really nicely for the game, and we went, but there were not too many people there. It turned out not to be absolutely necessary, so we didn’t go again. Caringella: And neither of you really knew who was winning. L. Voegelin: Yeah, that’s right. As we were leaving, Eric said, “Do you know

who won?” I said, “I don’t know.” Walters: We all had great respect for Voegelin. But because we had such respect for the man, we sometimes made fun of him, too. At that time there were no computer chips, so the game for college students and high school students was pinball. Now, this did not happen, but some guy made it up: “I think if Eric Voegelin came in now, he would bend over the pinball machine and say ‘Vat is ze problem?’” We all loved that, because it kind of typified his attitude. Voegelin was always looking at things in terms of problems. Now, the girl who talked me into taking a course from Voegelin was Dorothy-Ann Mitchell Doyle, who is the wife of James F. Doyle, who was a childhood friend of mine and who is now teaching at the U[niversity] of Missouri in St. Louis. She is extraordinarily intelligent, and she went on to do graduate work at Yale. Dorothy-Ann Mitchell was also very fond of Voegelin, but one of the things she questioned me about was, “Why is Voegelin so arrogant? He was a very arrogant man. In fact, his wife was too.” I said I didn’t know. And she said, “Well, we have a lot of excellent teachers at Yale, but none of them have the arrogance that Voegelin does.” I said, “All I can say is, I can’t refute anything he says, so I just accept the arrogance and go along with it!”

I can see how he might have seemed very formal to his American students. Walters: Well, I don’t think he was formal, he was just kind of haughty. And—Ellis would jump all over me if he knew I said this, because he knew

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Mrs. Voegelin much better than I did—but almost every time I’d talk with her, she looked as if she’d just eaten a raw persimmon and basically was wondering what in the Dickens I was doing around Voegelin. Do you know if he was generally viewed by his colleagues in other departments or in his own as being arrogant? Simpson: I suspect so. I remember that the first time I ever saw him, he was

pointed out to me. He was striding across the lounge puffing a cigar, and I thought, “My God, a Prussian!” He had that air, you know, of sort of an arrogance. He made that impression on people until they got to know him. I don’t think he necessarily intended to, but he had that sort of air. Pascal: I didn’t mind his arrogance at all. I think that he had to deal with a

lot of people who simply were not as learned as he. I can remember how we were both in an informal faculty organization here at LSU known as the Monograph Club. We had professors from different faculties throughout the university. We’d meet once a month, and somebody would read a paper— perhaps a preliminary draft of something he was writing—and try to talk about it with his colleagues from the university-wide group, and things of that nature. I do remember that Voegelin had very little time for the very pompous head of our philosophy department, Peter Carmichael, who was a logical positivist. Once, Peter Carmichael said to Voegelin, “I know what I am saying; I am a professor of philosophy.” Voegelin said, “Perhaps so, but I am a philosopher.” The arguments were intense at the Monograph Club. Voegelin stopped going, finally. I guess he just didn’t want to put up with people like Peter Carmichael. The purpose of the Monograph Club was to discuss philosophical questions? Pascal: It always turned out to be that, but frequently the subject matter

started out as being purely scientific. A discussion in science might suddenly come to be a discussion of whether it was possible to ascertain cause at any time, or something like that. Inevitably, the discussion moved from whatever it was—literature, or science—into philosophy. There was a man who did a painting of Voegelin named Conrad Abruzzio. Did you know him as well? Heilman: I knew him quite well. As a matter of fact, I have a picture of his

that we brought along from Baton Rouge.

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There is a fresco in the train station . . . Heilman: In New Orleans, yes. That was Conrad’s great contract type of thing.

And one of the figures in it is Eric. It’s recognizably him: he’s at a lectern, and I think his hand is up in the air or something like that. Eric got along well with Conrad, and he seemed also to have been a sort of confessor to him. There were some very personal letters that Conrad wrote to Eric. Heilman: Conrad revered Eric.

We talked yesterday about Conrad Abruzzio. How did Eric meet him? L. Voegelin: Well, I think he was a professor at the art department at Baton

Rouge. He was a colleague. I see. From the letters, it wasn’t clear. Is he still alive? L. Voegelin: No, he died many years ago. We met him once when we visited

Baton Rouge from Munich, and he was already living in a home for old people. And I remember that the family was a very rich couple, he was a lawyer, a beautiful house, and it was armed. And they gave a large party for us. We were already there when Conrad came in. When he saw Eric, he fell upon him and said, “Oh Eric, I love you so much!” Oh, dear. L. Voegelin: They liked each other a great deal.

Leo Strauss In the letters between Voegelin and Strauss, there are many statements about how they’re going to meet in Chicago, or going to meet in New York. Did they ever? L. Voegelin: Oh yes. I don’t remember how many times, but I suppose it wasn’t very often.

And they got along quite well? L. Voegelin: Oh yes. Walters: I had talked with Voegelin about graduate work, and Voegelin rec-

ommended that I study with Strauss. He simply said, “If you want to study

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political philosophy, there’s only one person to study with, and that’s Leo Strauss.” Now, this would have been late ’, early ’. Some years later, Voegelin came to Chicago. I think it was under the auspices of the Catholic group, the Newman Club. I went to hear that lecture, and afterward, they had a reception. I chatted briefly with Voegelin and with Mrs. Voegelin, but I don’t think Voegelin recognized me at first. As a matter of fact, after I’d been doing graduate work with him for a year and had studied with him for two years as an undergraduate, I saw him after a summer. And he said: “Well, Mr. Walters, what are you, a junior or a senior?” So, he was not all that great on practical matters. But I told him this time who I was, and he chatted with me and said, “What are you doing here?” I said, “I’m studying political philosophy with Mr. Strauss.” He then said, “That is very wonderful! You know, you are extremely fortunate.” This would have been well after their correspondence had dropped off—it was somewhere around the time of the Walgreen Lectures. So, this was several years later. But even at that time, he had a high opinion of Strauss. I’m not sure that it went both ways, though. I know this through a friend of mine who came to LSU and began to take Voegelin’s courses, and he was so fascinated by it that he then went up and worked with Strauss. And according to him, Strauss taught a course in which he made a frontal attack on Voegelin. This completely turned that friend off; he was convinced that Voegelin was right and Strauss was wrong. So, he went back to his previous class, finished medical school, and became a psychiatrist. Did Strauss ever mention Voegelin to you? Walters: Strauss never talked with me about Voegelin except on one occasion. Part of the reason was because I simply did not go in to see him. There were students I disliked because they would just go in and stay for hours with Strauss, and I thought they were depriving people of books that he should be writing. But I was talking with Strauss one time in his office just after Voegelin left LSU. And Strauss asked me, “Why did Voegelin go to Germany?” The way in which he said it was like, “How could he go to a place where the Holocaust occurred?” And of course, the Jews looked favorably on Voegelin because he had written these books on race and religion. So, I just said to Strauss, “I don’t have contact with Voegelin, and I don’t know why he did that, but I do know that he spoke of the beauty of Europe.” Strauss said, “Yes, it is very beautiful. In fact, it’s more beautiful than . . . ” Then he paused and said, “Now, you understand, I’ve never been to the South.” He knew I was from the South, you see. “But except for that, it’s more beautiful than what

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I’ve seen in the United States.” I started to say, “After all, he’s getting Max Weber’s chair,” but I didn’t really know whether that was a reason or not, so I just kept my mouth shut. Strauss then said, “I thought he was doing very well in the United States and was about at the point where he would move up in his academic position.” This was many years after my friend Duncan had taken the course in which Strauss attacked Voegelin. By that time, I think that Strauss learned that if you make a frontal attack, you may lose. So, by the time I got to Chicago, Strauss referred only indirectly to Voegelin. On a few occasions he’d mention his name, but most of the time he would merely say, “The best writer on the historicist position is Collingwood.” It was clear in certain parts of the work on Collingwood that he really thought it was a defense of Voegelin. And I think that comes out in the correspondence—I don’t mean necessarily about Collingwood, but about what he thought was the proficiency of Voegelin. Did Strauss’s other students say anything to you about Voegelin? Walters: Yes, they did in this sense. When I arrived at Chicago, Strauss was

over in Jerusalem. He had had a year’s sabbatical or something. It worked out well for me, because I was then able to take some of the more practical courses without getting into Strauss. And when I arrived at Chicago, I was a bit of a know-it-all. There wasn’t really anything else Strauss could teach me, because I’d learned it all from Voegelin. Well, the students there who had tried to read Voegelin let me know that they simply couldn’t understand his language. I said, “Well, it’s very interesting because I’m sure it’s difficult if you haven’t worked with Voegelin to know what he’s talking about.” Because he does use this strange language for which he himself only said, “This is just basic philosophical language, and you have to know it.” But his language was not characteristic of anyone else, and surely not of Strauss. So, they just said that they couldn’t understand it. I then came back and said, “I don’t want to tell you this, but I can’t understand Strauss.” This was before I’d had a course with him. I was trying to read Natural Right and History, and the problem I had with Strauss was that I couldn’t tell whether Strauss was saying the thing or whether he was just developing the argument as John Locke or whoever was doing. So, I didn’t know whether this was their argument or whether it was his argument, and I had great difficulty figuring that out. Do you think your having been trained by Voegelin and having learned his language affected your own scholarship or career?

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Walters: Well, when I was looking for a job after I finished graduate school,

I was told by a faculty member in Chicago, “Don’t go around telling people that you studied with Strauss; it may hurt you more than it helps.” But the same thing was true in regard to Voegelin: I went for an interview to a college, and they were having a little luncheon where people of different departments could meet, and one guy came up and chatted with me for about ten or fifteen minutes. After a couple of minutes he said, “I hear you were a student of Eric Voegelin.” I said, “Yes I was; I learned a great deal from him.” Then he said, “You know, I have the impression that he has a direct phone line to God, and God calls him up and gives him instructions on a daily basis.” Well, what could I do? How could I start arguing with this guy when I’m trying to get a job? So, I’m not sure that was even an important factor, but they just didn’t like me at that school and they never offered me a job. But it’s an instance of how people become very much enamored of Voegelin or Strauss and other people detest them. So, you have all kinds of problems one way or the other. But still, how fortunate can you be? They both were . . . Gosh, can you imagine anyone being as fortunate as I was? To have studied with Eric Voegelin and Leo Strauss? That’s just like the guy falling into the privy and coming up with a ham sandwich! Did Voegelin give you any advice on what you should do after LSU? Steintrager: He did; he and Walter Berns both did. At their advice, I went off

to the University of Chicago and studied with Leo Strauss. So, I had the pleasure of studying with both Strauss and Voegelin. Can you recollect what Voegelin might have said to you? Steintrager: He didn’t say, “You must go and study with Strauss.” He was actually quite cautious. He thought it was a good idea: if I was going to go to graduate school, this was a logical place to go.

Why was he cautious? Steintrager: Well, I think he probably thought that, if I were going to go to

graduate school anywhere, Chicago was as good a place as any. But I’m not sure how much encouragement he gave to any women students. Strauss also had very few women students. Why do you think that would have been? Steintrager: As I look back on it, I think that women students probably

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didn’t expect to be there in the first place. I mean, it was unusual. I know nothing about the German system. Were there very many women students in Germany? Okay, that’s probably it. If they needed an assistant, they would choose a male assistant. I never felt left out in the sense that I never felt like I was being discriminated against, but I really feel that the expectation was that the male students were the ones that were probably going to be the professors. The female students were there simply to get an education. Strauss had a lot of graduate students who did things for him—go out and get him breakfast and things like that. Now, whether it was because he asked them to or because that was the way they were toadying up to him, I don’t know. But all of the people in the inner circle were males. Did you notice any difference in the attitudes of either man toward women? Steintrager: I really didn’t, no. I did not notice any difference in the way I was called on in class or graded or whatever. They certainly took me seriously in terms of grading me in the same sort of way. There must have been something there, but it was not overt enough to make me get my back up and make me feel they were treating me differently from the way they were treating the other people. I brought this—I thought you might find this interesting. I found this in the National Review. It’s a letter between Voegelin and Strauss.

Oh, the thing on Popper. I edited this correspondence. Steintrager: Oh, did you? I just found that, having known both men, I found that I could see their personalities in the letters.

Well, let me ask you an obvious question. You certainly get a different understanding of the personalities of the two men from reading the things that Strauss would say in reply to some fairly demanding questions that he would offer to Voegelin. Voegelin would answer in a very open way, “This is what I’ve done.” But Strauss’s responses were always very guarded. Steintrager: That’s his secret teaching, don’t you know? You have to read between the lines.

How would you compare the two men as teachers, in their style as well as the substance? Steintrager: In terms of style, I think that Strauss was a clearer teacher than

Voegelin. He asked more of his students than Voegelin did in terms of responses in class. But I was a graduate student at that point, whereas I had

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been an undergraduate with Voegelin, so that might have been a difference. Voegelin teaching graduate students might have taught differently, too. Again, both men—although they were very important people—never talked down to students. They always made you feel comfortable. Strauss used much more of the Socratic way of asking questions and trying to get the class to respond; but at the same time, he didn’t expect the class to teach the class. You had a lot of direction. Voegelin was much more the straight lecturer introducing a lot of historical material. With Strauss, you’d be looking at the text of what you were doing—that would be a difference. As far as personality goes, they did not have the same personalities at all. You hear about the arrogance of German professors, but neither of them came across as being arrogant with students. I am sure they could be arrogant with one another and with their colleagues, but both were very kind teachers. In terms of substance, I suppose Strauss’s focus was always on the text. For Voegelin, part of his original way of looking at the history of political philosophy was to insist on the historical contextualization or the relation of the real life of the authors to these texts. I don’t know Strauss nearly as well—I just know what’s published, and I’ve read some of those transcripts of his seminars—but you don’t get the feeling that the individual that wrote them mattered. What matters is the argument that is found in the text. That’s why, for what it’s worth, I consider Voegelin’s approach to the topics to be more comprehensive. And, for me, it is more interesting. This is not a criticism of Strauss: I think he’s quite an amazing man as well. Steintrager: I did learn something—maybe different things—from both of

them. But they were enough in the same “conservative tradition” that I came out, not as a disciple of each, but being able to take something very important away that was similar: a way of looking at philosophy and the world that was similar. He and Strauss both are often categorized, usually by journalists or by liberal academics, as being conservative. Would you have any reason to agree with that kind of terminology—not necessarily that terminology in terms of political science, but as a kind of a general disposition? Steintrager: Yes, I would. They wanted to conserve a tradition. They were

cautious people, and they were also certainly ones to point out the problems with a theory of progress. In the name of “immanentizing the eschaton,” you could do a great deal of harm. And that could be considered a conservative viewpoint. So, yes, I would say they were conservative from that standpoint.

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The idea that human nature is flawed—that is probably a conservative notion. That might have been why Voegelin would have fit into a very Catholic community even though he was not a Catholic. Scurria: I always thought he was a Catholic until I saw his biographical info. In his thinking, and everything, I just assumed that he was Catholic. Steintrager: The label “conservative” has gotten skewed. Actually, I subscribe

to the National Review, and have for years and years. But I am also into “liberal causes,” and I think people like Strauss and Voegelin have allowed me to be involved in those causes, too. Because I know the limitations of what can be done, I don’t expect too much when I get involved in these causes. So there is a kind of radicalism to both Voegelin and Strauss? Steintrager: Yes, I think there’s also a radicalness there, which probably

appeals to my nature. Also, I really feel like there’s something special about southern Louisiana that allows people to be radical and in some ways even encourages it. I don’t know whether it is the French influence or what. But think of [death-penalty abolitionist] Sister Helen Prejean, for instance—people like that. There is something here, I think, that allows you to do that without being considered a kook. Walters: One final thing. Did you know that both of them had identical ways

of relaxing? Both of them read murder mysteries. Strauss said, “I cheat. When I open the book up, I read the last chapter to see whodunit, and then I go back and read from the beginning.” And Strauss would come out with these expressions in class. Voegelin may have done it from time to time, too, but I don’t have much recollection of that. But Strauss would come out with these quips that, once you knew he read these mysteries, you know that’s where they came from. For example, one day Strauss came up a couple of flights of stairs and before he went into his office, he looked at the secretary and said, “I think I have a bum ticker.” It was true: a couple of years later he had that heart attack right in the middle of a course on campus. But I thought it was interesting that they both relaxed by reading murder mysteries and they learned a lot of their colloquial English from them. How Voegelin Saw America I’d like to know how he and Strauss saw America. They both were very comfortable in the United States as a place to live. But so many of Strauss’s students have

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mentioned that it was no accident that he became a defender of the American founding, and that this was important. Simpson: The sense that Voegelin had of European order and lack of order, of

the construction of order and so on, he somehow had from the very beginning, from the very early years when he came here. He had been influenced by something like the idea of America. He picked up on it pretty early, and it made a difference in his understanding of Europe. In his early book on America, I think you can see pretty clearly there that he gained a perspective on European affairs that survived beyond his early writing. Simpson: Yes, I think it must have. He got certain ideas from what he’d call

American pragmatism. Well, one thing about Voegelin is that he was obviously very adaptable, if he adapted to the American South the way he did! But the ambiance of LSU, I think, was somehow . . . Well, he was also teaching at Bennington, but he didn’t like the teachers there; he said they were leftists and Marxists. Simpson: Oh, I see. So, he wanted to come to the more conservative atmosphere here. But it’s remarkable that he could be uprooted the way he was. He took on an enormous project, although he seemed to have been at home almost wherever he was. His ideas were at home; at any rate, he could make his ideas at home. But from what I heard, his wife liked Viennese life.

Did he talk to you about his adjustments, I guess, to life in Baton Rouge? Scurria: No, he never did. And I was always amazed that he seemed so comfortable in Baton Rouge, because when he was here. . . . Of course not that Baton Rouge hasn’t grown in some respects, but he seemed very comfortable here. And he lived on a street near downtown, and he would walk to wherever he wanted to go to buy his papers.

When I had breakfast this morning, I had Eggs Louisiana at a diner just off campus. It was pretty hot, like Eggs Benedict with crawfish and a bunch of other stuff on it. Louisiana food is pretty much unique. Did he ever mention things along those lines about cultural differences? Scurria: I don’t think I ever heard him mention anything one way or the other. He was just not the type to talk to you about something like food. I assumed that he was happy here, because he stayed here for so many years. But I never heard him mention anything about any of the activities here.

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Would you say Voegelin was in his own world and it wasn’t tied to anywhere? That he was in the same world when he was in Munich as he was when he was here? Scurria: He just seemed to be the type that just made himself comfortable

and was happy whatever he was doing and he didn’t have to have a lot of people around him. He always just looked like he was very satisfied, to me. I admired both of them. They were childless but they seemed to not miss out on anything. They were enjoying life. They just had each other, and that was all that they needed. And he had his work? Scurria: Yes, he had his work. And she let him have his work. I think that

some women are jealous because somebody is working too much, but I don’t think that that was ever a problem with her. She knew he had to have his work, and she let him have it. And what about what he didn’t have here that he had had in Germany or Austria? Did he ever speak of European academic life? Scurria: I never heard him mention anything. In fact, it was the longest time

before I found out that he was Austrian, because it just never came up. I always just assumed that he was German. I never knew anything about his life previous to LSU. He never talked about it with students, either. Certainly in some of the correspondence there is a great sense of gratitude to the United States for giving him a place to live and supporting him, and so on. And he was happy to teach American government for the same reason. Scurria: Well, everybody had to teach American Government. But he said

that he enjoyed it, because he obviously wanted to learn about America. McDowell: I went to university during the war, so there was gas rationing.

And I lived three miles from the campus, down Dalrymple Drive, which is by the lakes. And then you had to go all through Roseland Terrace, which at that time was a very nice, rather new, subdivision of Baton Rouge. Then my house was right on the far edge of Roseland Terrace. So, everybody who was going to school at the time, if they were town students, had to really consider how far the gas rationing would take them. Well, it wouldn’t take you more than half of going to school back and forth every day during a month. So occasionally, you would catch a ride, arrange a ride, and so forth. And for a time, I did that with a friend. But then I just decided that, with my classes and the times they

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were, I would just have to walk home half the month: go by shank’s mare, in other words. So, I started doing that. This must have been toward the end of my first class with Voegelin, toward the springtime of my sophomore year. As I was walking along one day by the lake, this person behind me was calling me. He always pronounced my name in a European way. My father was from Norway and my name was Klausen, but Dr. Voegelin said it “Klassen.” And he was calling, “Miss Klassen!” I suppose he was thirty or forty feet behind me. I was striding along, walking home, and he was striding along. Of course I didn’t know that he lived in Roseland Terrace. And he said, “Wait, wait!” Of course I waited. I was a little overwhelmed, though; I was eighteen or nineteen and I suppose I thought he was fifty or more. I don’t think he was now: he probably was in his thirties, or possibly in his early forties. And so, of course, I thought of him as practically a grandfather. But he was a handsome man, and particularly then. He had a beautiful complexion, a very blond and very smooth complexion. He had a very imposing build, too. He was sort of formidable looking and even a little bit cold looking, I think, to an eighteen-year-old girl. I didn’t quite know what this older gentleman was going to say. And really, I had been struck by how terribly brilliant he was. I thought I had followed everything he said, but I really had to focus. So, he caught up with me and we started walking. It’s not a good place to walk; there’s no real trail. But we made it. We walked all the way to his house, which was about three-fourths of the way. And I knew right where he lived, because I had known the people whose house it was, so we chatted about that for a few minutes. But then it seemed to me that he was very interested in asking me some questions. And of course, he was tremendously polite in the way he did it: would I mind telling him certain things? I don’t remember all the details of the questions in that first walk together, but we had several. The questions were: “Do you date?” “This dating, what is this dating like?” “Where do you go?” Well, I told him. I answered every question, and it seemed to me he was tremendously interested in getting a fix on “What do you young people do?” “What are your views?” So, we just chatted along and it was very friendly. He asked me why I took his class, and I told him I was minoring in history and that I just loved it and I’d always been interested. So, we talked about that. It was just really friendly, a very nice talk. But he obviously was interested in my responses, my point of view. He was interested in learning, I guess, about this culture he was in, which of course had to be quite different from the one he had come from. He was also interested when he learned that my father was from Norway. That intrigued him. I told Dr. Voegelin his

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reason for being here, and then I told him that he had been appalled because there was no Lutheran church here when he came. Then Dr. Voegelin made a few comments on where he came from, so we were gradually sort of exchanging, comparing cultures, as it were. Not in any depth, but a little bit. It was a very pleasant walk, and I told him goodbye when he went to his house and I went home. Did you walk with him home from school often after that? McDowell: It must have been a dozen or so times. Most of our walking

together was at lunch. Occasionally, though, I would stay at school until four or five. And once in a while, at four or five he would happen to be leaving the law school, where I think he spent most of his time. I think he was doing a great deal of research in the law school library, which at that time I think was a bigger library than it is now. So, occasionally, we might have seen each other in the early evening or late afternoon. But most of the time it was around lunchtime. It wasn’t a bad walk: once you got past the lakes, it was sidewalks and very pleasant. Around the lakes it was gravel, and we were walking on the verge of the water and looking at the cattails. I would say it was a total of ten or twelve times—no more than that. But we always chatted just like two friends, and he was a perfectly charming person. He asked me: Did my family ever go out to eat? If, so where? And he asked me about food: What did I like? What did my mother cook? Things like that. Now, my father had died when I was about thirteen, so my father was dead. And I lived with my mother and my grandmother, who lived with us. And he was interested in that: how old was my grandmother? Well, my grandmother was in her nineties, and she was a formidable old lady. I told him this one time, and he laughed at this: “You know, Dr. Voegelin, I don’t dare bring some of my boyfriends around because she flirts with them.” And he said, “Flirts with them? What do you mean ‘flirts’?” I said, “Well, she plays up to them. She takes them over, if you want to know the truth.” He asked me about my boyfriends, too. He said, “Who are you dating? You date?” “Yes, yes I date.” “Well, who are you dating?”“Well, Dr. Voegelin, there are not too many to date these days.” There was a company—ASTRP, if I remember the name. It was an engineer corps or something, and they had work to do from eight in the morning until eight at night. But at eight to nine or to ten sometimes you had a date with an ASTRP person. And of course, Harding Field was here, and it was terrible for me: the fighter pilots were at Harding Field, and most of them were smaller than I. I told Dr. Voegelin that, too. I said, “Well, I don’t have too many choices, Dr. Voegelin, because those fighter pilots are practically all the

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boys in town. And,” I said, “they’re all smaller than I am. When we dance together I don’t particularly care for it.” And he would laugh. He said, “You dance?” I said, “Oh, yes.” “Do you like to dance?” “Well, yes, I like to dance.” Well, he was really into what did I do. When you were together, did he ever tell you about how he liked life in America or about his life in Germany? McDowell: Yes, he did. Not a great deal, but he talked for instance about lik-

ing his house in Baton Rouge. I never understood if he had bought it, or was renting it; I am going to assume now that he was renting it. When you are seventeen or eighteen or nineteen you don’t really think of things like, “Hey, are you renting?” I just assumed that it was his house, and I figured it was rented because I had known the people who left it. And there were a lot of people in Baton Rouge who were renting houses and a lot of rented houses in that area. It was a pleasant house, an ordinary house, but—let me see, how would I characterize this house? It was just a one-story bungalow, very attractive— one of the more attractive of the bungalows. And he seemed to like his area. That’s an impression of mine. He never said, “I like my area,” or “I like my house,” but he seemed very, very pleased. It was certainly a very comfortable place and wasn’t all that far from the university. The South generally, and, so far as I know, Louisiana still, is concerned with religious questions. And religion has more of a major presence in the lives of individuals here, in this part of the country, certainly, than in Chicago. Steintrager: That’s probably why, when I was taking classes with Voegelin, it

didn’t seem strange at all that people might be talking about visions. I grew up in southern Louisiana in the Catholic tradition, where religion is taken seriously—but not too seriously, as they say! There was that element there, but I don’t remember it being emphasized unduly. It was just there. Was Christianity another topic to be discussed, rather than something that was major in his life? Steintrager: I didn’t get an impression that it was major in his life in terms

of his being a practicing whatever. Although he was a Lutheran, I never got any impression that he went to church. I knew he wasn’t Catholic, because I was and if he had been a practicing Catholic, I think I would have been aware of it. But I knew that it was a Christian tradition he was coming from and that he thought that Christianity, visions, and things like that were a very important part of this whole history of political philosophy.

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What about race relations in the South at that time? Did Voegelin ever mention any views on segregation? Steintrager: He was there when LSU was integrated, wasn’t he? Or did he

leave the year they integrated? Anyway, I can’t remember any comments about the whole segregation issue. Scurria: If there was anything that he was dissatisfied about with Louisiana or the way things were, he never mentioned it. Steintrager: Integration might have happened the year Voegelin left. He left

in ’, so that might have been the year. I remember: when the “White Only” signs went up over all the restrooms in the buildings, there were about five of us in the government department that took all those “White Only” signs down and put them on the trash cans. Some of us Voegelinites did that: White Trash Only. It was horrifying to me that they would have put “White Only” signs up. And I remember that somebody I liked very much—a professor who will remain unnamed—cautioned us about doing this: we might get into trouble doing this. He was a Yankee, very much ACLU, but he was telling us to be very careful. I still remember that: liberal in your thinking, but what do you do with your actions? But I don’t remember any real upheavals surrounding integration when it finally happened. What was the general attitude of faculty at LSU toward race relations in the South? How did Voegelin respond to that? Heilman: Race relations? I don’t think the subject ever came up. I left in ’,

when the old conventions were still holding. Harold Stoke, who was president of LSU from ’ to ’ and later dean of graduate studies here, told me that he could have integrated the university if it had depended on the students alone. The Supreme Court decision was in ’, and this was four or five years before that. But he said that the old-timers, the alumni and the board, were terrible. To me, it was very interesting that he thought the youngsters wouldn’t have cared. If you go to the LSU campus now, it’s full of black students. But I can remember that even by the time I left in ’, there was beginning to be some feeling in the South like, “Should we really let all these black boys go up North to play football, instead of keeping them down here?” And that alone might have produced some sort of educational integration in due time! But to answer your second question, I don’t know that Eric was interested in that problem. I don’t know, it may have seemed to him a contemporary situation that would solve itself in the evolution of time. And it didn’t particularly shed any light on the theoretical issues with which he was concerned.

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Henningsen: I think he did not buy into the acceptance of the practiced

racism in the South. He never did that. But there was no analysis either; there was simply a silence. It was not only a silence about the corruption, but a silence about this dimension of it. And that certainly has always troubled me. I remember the first time I came with them to the United States: for me, it was really a shock experience. You got off the plane at Idlewild Airport and went into the customs area, and there you had lines of white customs officers and behind them was a line of black porters. I will never forget that moment. For me it was a shock: it confirmed everything the radical left in Germany had said about the United States. This was a racist society. For me, it was one of the most shocking experiences because it violated my understanding of the United States and confirmed that the left’s critique was right. I had reviewed books and attacked them for their anti-American tenor, but there it was! But the Voegelins didn’t say anything, because, for them, it was normal. It was part of the life they had accepted. And for the next two months, I tried to confirm for myself that this was an exceptional experience. I wanted to suppress what I had seen there, but I didn’t get any help from the Voegelins on this. But it’s interesting: here you have a young German coming to America as a guest of refugees, seeing something and finding it very offensive, whereas the refugees had accepted it as part of American reality. That is an interesting contrast. They weren’t refugees so much as returning Americans, perhaps. Henningsen: Oh, I mean original refugees. But no, now they were Americans. And they were very proud of that, and Voegelin, whenever he gave an American politics class in Munich, certainly had to cope with this question. It was always painful to see him not fully addressing it. He was somehow uncomfortable with that question. He was too honest to not recognize it as a deep flaw in American society. Through his own studies on race and the events of the twentieth century, he was aware that he simply could not use any kind of intellectual justification for racist attitudes and institutions. It was very clear to him. But habitually, I think, his whole style was not free. And my wife, who is black, felt it—the only time she met both of them, she realized it. The discomfort was stronger with Lissy than with Eric; I actually think Kareda over-interpreted Voegelin’s behavior, because Voegelin very often was uncomfortable and a little bit gauche when he dealt with women. I don’t know whether it was the impact of his stay in the South, which became somewhat golden because of the black working-class in the South. I think he didn’t know how to handle it. Eric sometimes talked about blacks in

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his lectures in Germany when he was teaching American politics; sometimes you had this slip of European racism coming through, this kind of normal dismissal. A lot of German immigrants of that generation carried it around with them, by the way: Thomas Mann wrote about his black servants as if they were an indentured class. There was a German book called Conservative European Intellectuals I just read today. And Voegelin had written back and said that he wasn’t a European; he was an American. L. Voegelin: Yes.

And was he very proud of being an American? L. Voegelin: Yes. I remember a dinner party when someone asked Eric, “Mr.

Voegelin, may I ask you one very personal question? What do you consider yourself? Are you a European or an American?” And I thought, “Oh, now I’ll be hearing one of his speeches.” But he said, “An American, of course! I’ve been an American for such a long time and I’ve learned so much about America that I am an American.” But he was European-born—that was one aspect of him. But he did not feel alienated. L. Voegelin: No. Caringella: Or just like a poor émigré, a refugee, an exile. L. Voegelin: No. They wanted to make him that way, but he wouldn’t let

them. That’s one of the reasons why we went down South. In New York, everybody stays in exile for twenty years, but Eric didn’t want that. He said he wanted to be an American. He had moved to America, and he wanted to teach American government. And in the Eastern intellectual climate, we were even not American citizens, because it takes five years to become one. So, that’s why we went south. Heilman: Did I tell you about my problem with the naturalization board?

Apparently, the person being naturalized has to present some native as his official witness. And Eric nominated me as his official witness, so I went with him to the naturalization proceedings. I was then interviewed independently, secretly—oh, secretly is the wrong word, but I was asked very severely if he was a communist, a trouble maker, all that sort of thing. Needless to say, the answer to all the questions was easy. But on one problem, we ran into

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difficulties. The naturalization officer wanted to know when I had got to know Eric. This was in , so I had known him for just about two years. I couldn’t remember exactly when, so I said, “He came here in the second semester of the academic year –. So, obviously, this was some time early in . Shortly after he came, we became friends.” Then he said, “That won’t do. You have to be more precise.” And I said, “Well, he came for the second semester of the / year, which means he would have been here about February st. And I met him sometime between then and the spring.” Again he said, “That won’t do.” So, I said, “Well, I met him perhaps about the middle of February.” “Won’t do.” I said, “All right, February th.” Then I was hoping I wouldn’t be caught out. Later, Eric told me that they’d told him that I was a very good witness, that I was very precise on my facts. Most professors wandered all around and weren’t sure what the hell was what, but I knew! Did his naturalization process or hearing take place in Baton Rouge? Heilman: In Baton Rouge, in .

Did he ever speak to you about any, I don’t know what you’d call it—any prejudice against his being Austrian, or German? Particularly during the war? Heilman: No. If he felt any, I don’t remember his mentioning it.

I remember reading some letters that people my age would write to him asking about his views, because they were writing a book on European conservatism. And he would say, “I’m not a European and I’m not a conservative. I’m an American and I’m a political scientist.” And that struck me as a very strong statement. Heilman: I know. But that was definitely an idea of his. When he came to this country, he said, we resolved to be Americans. That was one reason why the South interested him: it was away from the Eastern centers, which were loaded with European refugees. They all hung together and sort of maintained a Europe out of residence, you know. In the Deep South there weren’t any—or, at least, there weren’t large numbers of them. That was important to him. He said, “We decided to be Americans.”

6 Vienna

7 Exodus Did Eric ever talk to you about his family in Germany or about how he left? Heilman: No, he never said as much privately as what now stands in that

autobiographical volume. I, of course, thought of his departure from Vienna as having been a very dramatic affair. The story I got somewhere was that, with the Anschluss, he was leaving town by one railroad station while the Nazis were looking for him at another. Well, it appears that that was somewhat dramatic and inaccurate. But he did leave very quickly. Apparently, he was interrogated in his own apartment by Nazi officers. And his stories always took the form of describing what terrible idiots they were! They’d look at books and say, “What’s that?” and they were just ignoramuses. That is what struck him: what dreadful ignoramuses were now running the place. And yet there was a certain amount of adventure, even of danger? Heilman: Oh, indeed. I think there was real danger after they confiscated his passport. He tended to play it down, and Lissy tended to make a good story of it. I don’t mean that she exaggerated it or anything, but she let us see the melodrama going on.

The reason he was in danger after the Anschluss was because of his two books on race? Hollweck: The two race books, yes. And I don’t think The Authoritarian State

would have helped him much either. 220

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This is an important, the most important single event where you have a before and after. And one would certainly want to make sure that that’s cleared up. Did he ever talk to you about his leaving Germany, or leaving Austria? Hollweck: We talked about it in more general terms, but not in terms of spe-

cific details. Lissy and I talked about that. But he perceived that he was in real danger. And I would think that he was. It’s also interesting to look at the letters to his family in regard to that, especially to his sister. She and her husband were Nazis. And the story is that, the day he left, his sister would only meet him in the street to say goodbye. And she was wearing the Parteiabzeichen, the party badge. Can you tell how you and Eric escaped from Vienna before coming to America? L. Voegelin: I don’t know where I should start. Hitler was in Germany, of

course, and Eric was really anti-Nazi; he gave lectures about it, and everybody knew it. One day, one of the Gestapo men came in and said he wanted to look at Eric’s desk and his books, and so on. And he did, and Eric was very nice to him. They handled each other like gentlemen, and the Gestapo man said, “This is the first time that I’ve really been impressed by a professor. Your desk is full of books, but the others were empty.” And they took some of the books—Marx, of course. And Eric said, “If you are going to take that, take this too,” and he showed him his own book. But he said, “No, thank you very much. We have that.” A few weeks later, the doorbell rang. Eric was in his room. We had a long corridor in our apartment, and he couldn’t hear the bell, but it was a Gestapo fellow. He said, “I want to talk to Dr. Voegelin.” I said, “He’s not here right now.” He said, “Well, it doesn’t matter, just give me your passports.” The whole time, I was hoping that Eric would not hear that there was somebody at the door, that he would not come out and show the fellow that I was lying. Then I said, “I cannot give you the passports, they are at the police station.” And they were at the police station. He said, “Oh, that’s really good. I can get them there.” I said, “Yes, you can.” Then he left. After that, I just went in to Eric and said, “I’m calling Walter.” My brother, Walter, had taken the passports beforehand and said, “Give them to me. I’ll put them between all the American passports and nobody will notice that these are passports from Austria. Then you’ll get your visa for Switzerland.” So, I called my brother now, and he said, “It’s very lucky that you called me. Come and get the passports. They are here, they came in two hours ago!” I put my coat on over the kitchen apron and took a taxi—there was a taxi-stand

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right next to us—and I went to my brother and got the passports. Then I said to Eric, “This is going to be dangerous now. You are packing your bags now, and you are going to Switzerland. Do not come to this apartment again, because I know they will catch you.” Oh, Eric was furious; he didn’t like what I said. He said, “I can’t leave yet, I have to put my desk in order, I have to do things with letters.” But I said, “You have to do nothing. You have to get yourself to Switzerland, and that’s it.” Then he gave in and packed his bags. While he was still in Vienna, he went from one coffeehouse to the other throughout the night, and he didn’t come home at all. Then, at seven o’clock in the morning, he caught the first train to Switzerland—to Zurich. I spent the night with my parents because I didn’t want to be alone in that apartment. Three days later, I followed him. And you had no problem using the passports? L. Voegelin: No, but we were very careful. Caringella: You flew. You went by airplane. L. Voegelin: Yes, I went by airplane. My father said, “You are not going on the train again. You go by airplane.”

Were you able to bring all of Eric’s books and papers? L. Voegelin: My father took over in Vienna. He, of course, had to pay some of the bills because we both left very suddenly. He paid the rent for the apartment, and he hired somebody to pack the books. Then, when I wrote him to tell him what furniture we wanted to bring over, that was packed and shipped to us.

There was also a journalist, Moural? L. Voegelin: Moural, Edgar Moural. He was a Swiss aristocrat from a very old

Swiss family, which is really rare. He had been a psychoanalyst in Zurich, but had hated the whole thing and packed it all in. Then he went to Vienna to become a journalist. He was one of Eric’s friends, and he was writing for the Zurich paper and for one of the Viennese papers. Did he help you get into Switzerland? L. Voegelin: No, but he did do something for us. When Eric was in America in ’ and ’, he had saved some money. It was quite a bit of money—two thousand dollars. And Moural said to Eric one day, “Voegelin, you must remember that you will have to leave with something, because they will be

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after you. And what are you going to do then? You can’t put your money in your pockets. They’ll take it, and then you won’t have anything.” Eric said, “Yes, that’s probably true. What are we going to do?” And Moural said, “Its very simple. You give it to me and I’ll put it away for you. Then, when you come to Switzerland—to Geneva, to Zurich—you can pick it up.” We had been keeping this money in a little cash box, but Eric took it out and Moural stuffed all this paper money into his pockets. Two days later, he went to Zurich and deposited the money there. So, when Eric went to Zurich, he went to Moural’s attorney, and the attorney said, “Herr Voegelin, I have some money for you.” How long did you stay in Zurich? L. Voegelin: About two months. We had to wait for the letters from Harvard

that appointed him as a teacher. Otherwise, we could not have gotten a nonquota visa. Artists, professors, dancers, and so on, could get them, but nobody else. So, from Zurich, you went through France to La Havre to get on the boat? L. Voegelin: Yeah—to La Havre, and from there, to New York. Caringella: One of the people on the boat was Harold Laski. And apparently, Mr. Laski and Eric intersected. They each took their morning walks around the same time, so they would meet and say “hello,” and perhaps chat a little bit. And then came the news—I guess you got daily news bulletins on the boat—and it was the report of Chamberlain’s visit to Munich. L. Voegelin: Oh right! And Eric, in his charming way, said to Laski, “Well, it

seems that England is going the way of Austria.” And that was it. Caringella: They never talked again. L. Voegelin: No, they never talked with each other again. Caringella: On the same voyage, another of the news summaries had to do

with the president of Louisiana State University, who was being sought by the state police in the bayous. L. Voegelin: I read in the paper. I was lying on the deck, and Eric came. I said

to him, “I just read the news report. What kind of country are we going to?” “Oh,” he said, “that was in Louisiana. We’ll never go to Louisiana.”

7

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Voegelin Recollected Why Exile?

It was you, I think, who told me this story once before. You were sitting at a dinner party next to Mrs. Bloch—is that correct? L. Voegelin: Oh yes. You mean much later in Salzburg.

And she asked you if you were Jewish? L. Voegelin: Oh, yes. One of the archbishops was giving a party, and I was sit-

ting across the table from Mrs. Bloch. After dinner, when we talked about it, Mrs. Bloch said, “I always wanted to know why you went to America. Are you Jewish?” I said, “No, we are not Jewish.” “Well,” she said, “then you must be Catholic.” “No, not Catholic.” “Oh, then you were communists.” “No,” I said, “we were not communists.”“So why did you leave, then?” We would have had to leave if we were Jewish, but we were not Jewish. I said to her, “You wouldn’t believe it, but there are some people who were simply doing something they didn’t like.” Eric was once said to be Jewish. L. Voegelin: Some said he was Jewish, some said he was Catholic, some said

he was Chinese, and I don’t know what else. Caringella: This happened at the university. One of his colleages at the

University of Vienna said something like, “I always thought you were Jewish, because you’re too smart. You must be Jewish.” Something like that. L. Voegelin: “We are not that smart,” he replied.

Do you remember how Eric got dismissed from the University of Vienna? L. Voegelin: Oh yes. When Hitler came in, he was immediately dismissed.

That was it? Caringella: I think that some of the students came to class wearing their

uniforms the day after the Anschluss. L. Voegelin: Oh, yes. Some of the students he taught came in SS uniforms.

So, they had already been members of the SS? L. Voegelin: Oh yes, but they still came to Eric’s lectures. They were dumb enough to sit there.

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Caringella: Or they wanted to show Eric who was the boss now? L. Voegelin: No, no. They did not misbehave, not at all. Heinz Barazon: I was a pupil of Voegelin. I went to the University of Vienna

in the fall of . And in the third stage of my study, there was political theory, state law, administrative law, national economy—all the public law things. And there was a lecture with Voegelin, who was at that time a private lecturer and was paid almost nothing for his activity. At that time, he was the assistant of Professor Merkel. But he did not carry out solely assistantship activities, he also held lectures of his own. To give you some idea of the political situation at that time: in January , as everyone knows, Hitler came into power in Germany. In Austria at that time, there was a halfway-functioning democracy still in existence. It had never functioned very well, for the simple reason that the Austrian people of that time could not understand the difference between an opponent and an enemy. There was, therefore, no corresponding atmosphere of democratic conversation between the individual groups; instead, they fought each other, using in part paramilitary organizations. And on March , , the parliament “dismissed itself,” as the official doctrine stated. What does that mean? Well, due to a nonsensical vote on some railroad question that interested no one but on which the Socialist government lacked one vote, Karl Renner, who was at that time president of the National Council, stepped down. Karl Renner had once been the Austrian chancellor, and would again be chancellor after the Second World War. Through his action, the Christian Socialists lost one vote. But then the Christian Socialist representative, who was the second president, also stepped down. The third president was from a nationalist group: not from the National Socialists, but from the German National Party (one must differentiate here, even if this, unfortunately, is not done in the literature). In what was obviously a panic reaction—I can’t actually imagine why he did it, and I once asked him why he did it—he too stepped down. Now, in the order of business of the National Council, there was no provision for a situation like this. According to the Constitution, the president of the Austrian federation would have to dissolve the National Council. And the president at that time—a middle school teacher, a good acquaintance and colleague of my father—was a very good man, but a political nothing. And Dollfuss, who was the chancellor, was provided the opportunity to declare that this parliament was through. Dollfuss was a fascist, not a National Socialist; there is a big difference. Then the president of Austria, that good

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man who was useless under the circumstances, decided to do nothing. So, the new regime then operated on the basis of a law that had originated during the First World War: a kind of crisis-situation law, the Enabling Act. The law had never been abolished because no one had thought to abolish it. It had actually been passed to hold solely for the duration of the war, but according to our constitution, a law does not disappear on its own but must be abolished. In this case, they had forgotten to do that. So, Dollfuss and his regime picked up this Enabling Act and enacted new laws on its basis. This was of course completely unconstitutional, et cetera, et cetera. The Socialists went wild about it, but it was useless. Then in February , the Christian Socialist government under Dollfuss determined that the Republikanischer Schutzbund, the paramilitary organization of the Socialists, was to surrender its weapons. When the Socialists refused to do this, it came to a shooting melee. Shortly thereafter, Austria was in a situation close to civil war. So, Austrian democracy was irrevocably carried to its grave. Then, of course, came the purging of offices. All the Socialists were released from their functions and offices. The mayor of Vienna was a Social Democrat; that Vienna was red could not be doubted. But the mayor was removed from office, the city council was dissolved, the Social Democrat members lost their mandate, et cetera. The situation was also critical at the universities, because there was a whole series of non-Christian Socialist and non-Fascist professors and students there. Hans Kelsen had already removed himself to Cologne, funnily enough, because he then had to flee Cologne from the Nazis. Kelsen’s successor was a certain Professor Adamowitsch, who had been a professor in Graz before he was called to Vienna. He was a somewhat staunch Christian Socialist, but the main disadvantage of Adamowitsch was that his lectures were so boring that his students fell asleep. The second political theorist at the university was Merkel, who had originally come from Kelsen’s school, but covered himself with regard to the regime. Occasionally, he spoke against the regime, but he basically did what it wanted. Voegelin, by contrast—and that was the refreshing thing about him—used to critique the regime in his lectures. I remember one of my favorite statements of his. At that time, Austria liked to call itself an “authoritarian state.” To this, Voegelin said, “If a state claims itself to be authoritarian, that is a sign that it has no authority.” This statement resulted in wild applause in the audience. Voegelin’s lectures were always refreshingly truthful; they were often also very funny compared to the atmosphere that prevailed at the Vienna university at that time.

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Schlesinger: I once heard some rumors that Voegelin was pro-Nazi. But that

is patently absurd. He was the exact opposite: he was very, very bold. I have never seen anything like it in my life. How did you know Voegelin? Schlesinger: I was a student of his in Vienna. I was a student of law and

political science at the University of Vienna. I attended a course on constitutional law that Voegelin taught. I never met him, never knew him, but I sat in his lectures. I only met him much later, at Notre Dame in the ’s. What kind of law class was it in Vienna? Schlesinger: Constitutional law: modern Austrian constitutional law, with many digressions where he discussed the new Nazi legislature and submitted it to scathing criticisms.

Do you remember any details of this? Schlesinger: Only very broadly. You see, it was a very heated atmosphere. The Nazis were on our doorstep, and there was enormous pressure to legalize the Nazi Party, which had been outlawed in Austria. So there was propaganda and terroristic acts and a very feverish atmosphere among many of the students. Most of them were nationalistic by education, anyway. And of course, there was the increasing pressure coming from Nazi Germany. In , Dollfuss, the chancellor of Austria, was assassinated, and there was increased pressure from the one side to control the Nazis. On the other, the Nazis were increasing their pressure to put their theories in force. There were terroristic acts: telephone booths, for example, were blown to bits. Not every booth, but there was still a lot of propaganda, a lot of agitation. For example, the German government imposed a special tax on German tourists who came to Austria, so that tourism in Austria was really terrorized by that. This was the terribly destabilized atmosphere in which I started his class. Barazon: He very openly criticized the political situation in his lectures, and

that was something the fewest professors did. Very few professors could wrestle through to a genuine critique, because critique was not entirely undangerous in the Fascist regime either. Brutal, the Austrian Fascists were not, or only occasionally. But they were not cozy either. After the Anschluss, of course, critical statements endangered one’s life. But even between ’ and ’, one could suffer disadvantages if one criticized the regime. There was even at that time a containment camp south of Vienna where politically persecuted people were detained—both reds and Nazis.

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Voegelin Recollected

The Dollfuss/Schuschnigg regime was strictly anti-Nazi; this should be remembered. Unfortunately, it did not have the necessary basis on which to succeed, because it conducted a war on two fronts: it waged a war against the Socialists, and it waged war against the Nazis. When Dollfuss was murdered in a National Socialist putsch attempt in , Schuschnigg continued to fight the Nazis. He also fought the reds, but he was much too weak to endure this fight. Most of it was beyond his control anyway. Mussolini had supported the Austrian Fascist regime, but after his Abyssinian adventure of , he drew closer to the Germans. The main mistake of the ’s was actually made by the Western powers, particularly by England and France. The conduct of these powers toward Germany was completely erroneous—completely erroneous from  to , during the so-called peace negotiations, as well as during the entire period preceding ’, when Hitler came into power. And when he was in power, they were even more in error, if one could put it that way. This is why Austria’s situation was extremely precarious from the beginning. It has always been claimed that a pact between the Christian Socialists under Dollfuss and the Social Democrats would have changed something. Certainly, it would have changed something for the internal relations of Austria, but it would have changed very little of the foreign political situation—which in my opinion was decisive. As the example of Czechoslovakia would soon show, the idea of democracy as a “protective shield” against a brutal dictatorship was simply a dream. Were there any Nazi sympathizers in his classroom? Schlesinger: Oh, many. And I often wondered about them: Voegelin always let loose these barbs against the Nazi constitution, against the laws they introduced, but they remained quiet. Why? In some ways, I think, it was because they didn’t understand what he was talking about. Because he didn’t in any way denounce the Nazis; there was no kind of lashing out at them. It was almost a kind of bantering about them instead. He would even smile as he said it: “Have you heard this and this?” There wasn’t really any accusation, so I think some of them didn’t know what he was talking about. You had to have some background, and mainly, the students had very little law background. Because many of the students were very strong Nazis, I thought that they would break into a demonstration at one time or another, but they didn’t. I thought they would start demonstrating against the government, or beating up on non-Nazi and Jewish students, but it never happened. But Voegelin seemed to have gotten a lot of fun out of the situation, too.

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With a smile, he would mildly insinuate this or that and indicate that it was absolutely stupid or unlawful. He didn’t say that they were stupid directly, of course: he just said, “Can you imagine it? They have done this and that.” And there were some who didn’t understand what he was talking about. It was an amazing experience, actually. I have never seen anything quite like it; it was really dangerous. Because at least some of them understood. At least a few knew what he was driving at, but he kept going. So, this was my experience. I thought it was quite remarkable. By that time, you see, not only was the government trying to control the Nazi Party, but it had become reliant on the support of Mussolini to do it. That’s what really kept Austria independent. But after ’, when Mussolini went to war against Ethiopia, he changed his policy because he began to depend more and more on Hitler. He withdrew his support from Austria, and Austria was really left with nobody. Then it was just a matter of time before Austria would be annexed by Nazi Germany, and Voegelin knew that. The Social Democrats had foolishly refused to support the Austrian government; they should have known they would have to support the weakening Austrian government against the Nazis. So there was no defense: as soon as Mussolini moved toward the Germans over Ethiopia, the pressure in Austria increased. When the Nazis came into power in Austria, then he was in danger. But that’s when Voegelin left. He knew he was in danger. And suddenly, this man was gone. Years later, when I met him again at Notre Dame, I mentioned it to him. I saw him again and related this thing, and I said, “How could you have done that? It was such a heated atmosphere.” He just laughed and said, “I was young and foolish.” But I thought about it again afterward: when he was in Munich, he gave this lecture, “Hitler and the Germans,” and he cited some Nazis that were in the church and so on. There again, it took a certain amount of courage. Sandoz: Lissy corroborated that Eric was without fear. That seemed to me to

be an extraordinary statement. He was without fear. Well, he professed himself to be fearful of being nabbed by the Gestapo as he went to the train to get out of Vienna, so he wasn’t totally without fear. But as Tom Hollweck put it, “He had balls.” This was a guy who thought the business of a professor was to profess something.

7

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Voegelin Recollected Political Affinities

Voegelin was a Social Democrat in Austria, wasn’t he? Schlesinger: In his younger days, yes, he was. But he did think it was a mis-

take that the Social Democrats, after the emergence to power of the Nazis, turned against the Austrian government instead of supporting it. Voegelin parted with the Social Democrats over this. He thought it was foolish not to support the government against the Nazis and the communists. So, he broke with them. In his autobiographical statement, he even mentioned that he had sided with the conservative government that was fighting against the Nazis. Henningsen: There are some talks in the s that Jürgen Gebhardt thinks are not so kosher: where he is playing with notions of community that he had not completely thought through or that he thought along Othmar Spann lines. An almost conservative, romantic idea of nationhood was sometimes there when he was not completely sure what to do with the race ideas. I disagree, as you know, with those who think that Voegelin was always clear about what was good and what was bad and that his race books are manifestations of this. I do not think they are; they are the productions of a guy who was not completely sure what this whole race literature was really about, and he was groping, searching, in order to give some order to it. He was not like Heidegger, thinking of the Nazis as the new movement of meaning. But some of the formulations you find there are rather peculiar still. The most rabid leftists were incapable of calling Voegelin a fascist. I’ve seen interpretations of Voegelin indicating that he was a guy who was always—according to a left reading, at least—on the edge. But he didn’t fall. And he then actually moved in the other direction when he realized that there was no future for him in Germany. It would have been awful if he had received an offer from some university in . Jürgen has found some correspondence that seems to indicate that Eric was keeping his options open. But I think some of these texts have to be interpreted in the sense that, despite the American background, Voegelin was really trying to make sense of what was going on in Germany. He tried to give it a reading that allowed for some kind of changes. In the speeches he gave, he sounded a little like Othmar Spann. These speeches surprised me when I found them. But in that sense, you could say you have a Plato playing with all kinds of options, even with the option of the good tyrant. In a way, you could say that Voegelin’s Authoritarian State was that—an account of his Sicilian despot!

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Reinhold Knoll: My father was a friend of Voegelin’s in the ’s and ’s.

Voegelin dedicated two books to him: Rasse und Staat and Die Rassenidee in der Geistesgeschichte. The latter was a very prophetic book, because Voegelin was one of the first who understood that there is a connection between the modern kind of scientists and the French Revolution. The later combination of politics and the tradition of the French Revolution produced this harsh and horrible change of sciences into ideologies. And it was very impressive, because Voegelin saw the various connections between positivism and philosophy and this horrible development. In the race books, Voegelin saw the connection between positivism and ideology: I don’t think anyone else had made the observation. But Voegelin must have seen it in his formation in Vienna in the ’20s and ’30s. What did positivism mean in the ’20s and ’30s in Vienna? Knoll: Yes, perhaps a reminder is useful. Voegelin saw in the tradition and in

the circumstances of the French Revolution that an assimilation between political theory and the natural sciences had occurred. As we know from the history of science, the natural sciences took the lead with regard to methods, questions, knowledge: it was all our interpretations of observations. And the hard point that Voegelin saw as a scientist himself was that the new kind of science consistently made the mistake of mixing natural and social ontology. This was the hard point that Voegelin saw, and that, as a consequence, ontology took on a social nature. You have the same mistake in Karl Popper’s The Open Society and Its Enemies. Here, too, is a great mistake in philosophical thinking: if you have a natural ontology, like a natural science, it is perhaps possible to develop his method of falsification. But the standpoint of Voegelin was always, “Take care: social ontology requires quite another path.” In his two race books especially, as well as in Die politischen Religionen, he saw that this mixture produced the style of human sciences that had prevailed since Gobineau or Houston Stewart Chamberlain. From his standpoint in political philosophy, Voegelin saw French positivism to be like an imitation of the Church. It was constructed like a little religious community: Auguste Comte wanted to be the pope of the positivist movement. And this was the type of positivism Voegelin criticized. Not the kind that Max Weber did or the kind the Wienerkreis did: that was another kind, that was the British kind. The main point in this British kind of positivism is that there is always discussion in the theory of sciences. It therefore is possible that Wittgenstein becomes like a mystic saint, because he has the impression that perhaps there are also other dimensions to our thinking.

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Therefore, we must distinguish between French and Central European positivism in the last decades of the nineteenth century, especially for the human sciences combined with natural sciences, for anthropology or sociology. You can see what it means with the pupils of Durkheim, Malinowski, and others, for whom the social clashes became an ethnological drive. And that is what I said: that was a natural ontology, not a social ontology, which is what Voegelin thought we need. That Voegelin was a Social Democrat in the ’s was very normal. But he saw that, in the legal philosophy of the neo-Kantian Hans Kelsen, you lost the tradition of the Austrian-made customs. You read his book on the race idea, and you see that he had to write a lot about what Max Weber also wrote about: about the difference between society and community. That is a very Austrian question, and Voegelin saw it: it meant the breakdown of the Austrian institutions, not only through the First World War, but also afterward. Voegelin suggested that we have to do more in the research, because we have to understand why this instability and precariousness increased. In those anamnetic experiments in Anamnesis, a lot of those records of his early experience are concerned with the precariousness of things, of everything. And there are risks and miseries and uncertainties. Knoll: In his analysis of the social circumstances, Voegelin had not only these

family circumstances of being part of a German family living in Vienna, he also had the horrible impression of the First World War. After the war, he wasn’t so optimistic as to say, “We’ve built up a new republic, a new form of civitate, and now it will go on.” That would perhaps be a typically Viennese preamble, to be a little bit satirical. It is the expression of dissidents and outsiders, on the other hand, to look better at the things without any emotions. That is really hard to learn. So, it is correct to say that Voegelin had this special socialization that lent him a broad view of the situation. From the standpoint of someone who was not entirely within Austrian society, Voegelin analyzed very clearly the Austrian situation. And his sketch was very similar to that of Karl Kraus—very similar, in that both men stated that no Social Democrat understood the great danger of Hitler.

Family, Marriage, In-laws Knoll: Look at the letters between Voegelin and his sister. Voegelin was a very

remarkable person: he wasn’t a Jew, but he left Austria like a Jew. But it is

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horrible to read this letter, because his sister didn’t understand why Voegelin left Vienna. She wrote to him about Hitler, and Voegelin answered her with a very, very angry letter that he wanted to have no connection with her any more. So, this was a breakdown in his familial relationship that was very hard for him and also for his wife. L. Voegelin: My parents became very good Nazis, I remember that. Caringella: Did they become Nazis before Hitler? L. Voegelin: Even before . My father became a Nazi and my brother, too.

Was this the same brother that helped Eric escape? L. Voegelin: Yes.

Did he know the Gestapo was after him? L. Voegelin: Yes, of course.

And he still helped him get out? L. Voegelin: Well, he didn’t help much, he just got our passports stamped. We

had to have some stamp to get out of the country. Caringella: And I guess they would have had no way of tracing that. The Nazis would just have said, “He got a stamp from the police department somehow.” But they probably were not able to check, or they weren’t concerned. Once the people got out, they didn’t care. And your parents did let you go, although even toward the end they were saying, “Well, you can stay.” L. Voegelin: Oh yes. They offered several times to let me stay with them and

never mind trekking back and forth across the continent. But I said, “No! I’m so glad I finally got him!” When you were first in America, were you nostalgic for Vienna? L. Voegelin: Never, no. I was happy not to have to live with my family. There

was nothing wrong with my family at all, but everything you did was discussed. And nobody liked Eric. When did you meet him? L. Voegelin: .

So, after he had come back from America. After the Rockefeller grant.

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L. Voegelin: No, when he came back from France. In ’, ’, I first met him.

In Vienna? L. Voegelin: In Vienna, yes.

And you got married in the ’30s? L. Voegelin: In ’.

So, you had three years with your family not liking this. L. Voegelin: Yes. Eric didn’t make any money at the university, because he

wasn’t a full professor, and they didn’t pay private lecturers anything. It was just a stipend. So, he had to make some money—which he did. How? Caringella: He also gave private seminars at home, in your apartment. L. Voegelin: For ladies. Caringella: It wasn’t ladies only, but it was ladies who came.

And those continued after he was dismissed? L. Voegelin: Oh, no. They were mostly Jewish, these ladies, and they all went

away. Caringella: Eric was also giving lectures at the Volkshochschule, and he was

writing some things for the newspapers. He also did a little bit of translating, all of it in order to make some money. He translated some economics things: The Gold Standard, for example. But Eric’s mother had warned you against marrying Eric, too. L. Voegelin: Oh, yes. Our parents knew each other, you know. They were all

from the Rhineland of Germany, and there was a group called the Rheindeutsch in Vienna. They were all members, and they saw each other every other Friday. And they always told each other about their children, of course. Frau Voegelin always told my mother that she had a son and that she was instructing him to be a gentleman, but otherwise he was just a nasty fellow. Caringella: She even told you, “He’s going to leave you if you marry him.” L. Voegelin: Yes, she came to me and said that I could not love him because

he would be like his grandfather and be with very, very many women. She said, “He will keep you for a while and then leave you.” I said, “No, I have

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another opinion. Eric likes to collect things and he doesn’t throw anything away. So, I think he’s going to keep me!” So, we were married. After we were married, we had to live with my parents for a few years. We had two rooms. My parents had a large apartment and didn’t need the space anymore, so we could have two rooms. One room was an apartment that was meant for having servants. There were two rooms for servants, and we got one of the servants’ rooms, and one of mine. There was one room, my room, for a study. But if your family were Nazis, and Eric was not, then they must have had quarrels. L. Voegelin: Oh, yes. Caringella: Or they agreed not to talk about such matters. L. Voegelin: But they were still willing to help me. I had insisted on marrying

him, and they wanted to make things work for me. Do you remember how they received his race books, or the book on Austria? L. Voegelin: They didn’t read them. Caringella: It’s not the kind of thing they would have read, anyway. L. Voegelin: No, not at all. My father was a business man. He was a very pros-

perous man, and didn’t care for that kind of thing. Do you know about Eric’s father? About what he thought of his son’s work, or his books? L. Voegelin: He didn’t care much, but his mother cared very much. She was

an educated woman. She had been educated as a schoolteacher before she married Mr. Voegelin. And at that time, of course, that was the end of it with teaching. Did Eric get along well with his parents? L. Voegelin: With his mother, yes. He loved his mother very much, and they got along very well. He didn’t particularly like his father, because his father always expected more of him than was available, but he loved his mother very much. She was a very nice and interesting woman. I didn’t get to know her so well myself, though. Whenever she got me over to the Voegelins’ [home], she always told me bad things about my parents and made bad remarks about them. So, I finally broke with her and told her I didn’t want to see her again at her house.

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Caringella: There is a story about Vienna and Eric’s farewell to his father. L. Voegelin: Oh, yes. When Eric went to say goodbye to his father before we left, his father was already living in an empty room somewhere. And I think Eric never used to visit him at all, only his mother. His mother was a very thoughtful and enormously wise woman. But this time, he went in to say goodbye to his father, and his father had pictures of Hitler and Göring. Eric took the pictures and threw them on the floor so that the glass broke. And he said, “You’ll have to get some new pictures.” He didn’t have any pictures of his family, just those pictures. No pictures of Eric or Klara, no pictures of his wife. Oh, those were tough times, I tell you.

That would have had quite an effect on anyone. But particularly on a scholar, in that he would have seen it as being of a broader significance, when someone else would probably have seen it as being simply stupid. It would have meant he repudiated his family as well. When did Eric’s father die? L. Voegelin: His father died during the war. We learned about it only after the

war. And he had one sister? L. Voegelin: Yes.

Did they get along well? L. Voegelin: Oh, Klara was the absolute opposite of Eric. She was a tremendous showoff, a very fat woman who was interested only in her household and, in a way, in her husband. She read all day, but only junk. Caringella: There is one particular story that is very sad. I don’t think any-

body really has recorded the facts of it, but Eric’s mother died just before one of Eric’s lectures. L. Voegelin: Yes, that was when we were still in Vienna—in  or there-

abouts. We were all waiting for Eric to deliver his lecture, and the lecture hall sloped downward. It was held in a long hall in the School of Medicine. His mother came in, and she wanted to go down the steps, but she fell down all the whole steps and was gone. The doctor later said that she had died already before she fell. Eric had been looking forward to lecturing so much, but he couldn’t give this lecture. Caringella: When you went back to Vienna in , you went to his mother’s

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grave. And that was one of the few times, I think you said, that you saw Eric really . . . L. Voegelin: He cried. Caringella: He cried. And he rarely cried. L. Voegelin: Rarely, rarely.

Childhood Caringella: Didn’t people think that Eric was a foundling? L. Voegelin: He said that himself. Caringella: What was it he said again: that he was a gypsy-child, or some-

thing? There’s a saying in German: “Your child was stolen and replaced in the crib by another child.” That’s what Eric was. Did Eric ever talk about his childhood? Caringella: Well, one story that went down in the family history was about

the party. This was a wedding party or some family party where the children ate off in one room and the adults in another. L. Voegelin: Yes, the dishes came into the children’s room only after they had

been served in the other room. And suddenly, little Eric appeared in the doorway with his red hair, and he was yelling, “Ich habe keine Kartoffeln gekriegt!—I didn’t get any potatoes!” Caringella: With great fury. L. Voegelin: Yes! Well, he loved potatoes.

And I can tell you another thing, but it is not very appetizing. I don’t think Eric ever told anybody else about it except me. But when he was a small child, his mother was very angry with him, because he had done something wrong. No, he had said something wrong: he didn’t do bad things, he said them. And as a punishment, she put him in the dining room and locked the doors. So, Eric was alone in there. And what did Eric do? Instead of going to the bathroom, he sat on every chair and made a little bit of kaka [poopoo] on each one. He was very, ah, rebellious as a boy. Very spirited.

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Voegelin Recollected Hans Kelsen

Was it when you were living with your parents that Eric was Hans Kelsen’s assistant? L. Voegelin: Yes.

And did they get along quite well? L. Voegelin: Oh yes, very well. They were very good friends.

And yet later, Kelsen had some criticisms to make of Eric’s work. L. Voegelin: Oh, I know. He sent us the manuscript, and we both read it. Eric then asked me what I thought of it, and I said, “It’s wonderful! I like to read a book that says on every page, ‘Voegelin, Voegelin, Voegelin, Voegelin’!”

Voegelin, as you know, was Hans Kelsen’s assistant in Vienna. Could you say something about Kelsen’s position in the Viennese milieu? Knoll: Kelsen was a very impressive man and one of the first who had an

appreciation of Max Weber. He was very worried because the University of Vienna had not paid much attention to Max Weber, even though Max Weber had been a professor in Vienna for a short time two years before his death. Through Kelsen, Voegelin learned a lot about Weber, and he came to understand very well the dangers of his kind of positivism: it’s based on building up a framework of values. Kelsen introduced him to Max Weber and to the historical scope of Max Weber’s knowledge, the importance of comparative sociology, and so on. Voegelin wrote his first English article on Kelsen in 1923, and it was filled with praise; it was very laudatory. But sometime between 1923 and 1937 or so, he changed his view: not toward Kelsen the individual, but toward legal positivism. Knoll: Yes. Well, I think it was because he was a very good observer of the

political situation. You know that he had had a very good relationship with the Austrian Social Democrats in the ’s. And he saw in the connection between Kelsen, the constitution, and the Social Democratic Party, that it was not only a question of ideology or social welfare. He saw that, at the heart of this political constitution, this kind of legal philosophy of Kelsen became increasingly a toy of the parties. And he saw that it is very dangerous to make a toy of the constitution. This, therefore, is why he changed his position toward Kelsen through the years: you had for the first time a principle of reality in his legal philosophy.

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But you must also understand the tradition of Austrian politics: the monarchy was faced with a very difficult society. It was very difficult to rule Austria politically. And the Austrian kind of positivism was very important, because in the seventeenth, eighteenth, and nineteenth centuries, it was necessary to think this way in order to govern the demagogic societies, the demagogic economics. You can read about it if you know Robert Musil: you had to think, especially in the historical situation of the nineteenth century, in terms of conceivable possibilities. This was the so-called “man of possibilities” of whom Musil wrote. If the intellectuals in Vienna wanted to do anything at all, it was only possible in that political situation if you thought in a positivistic way. They had no anchor, no foundation in the political atmosphere of the government or of Franz Josef, this emperor who understood nothing, who was a very good administrator in the wrong way. So, you must imagine that Austrian positivism came about in this difficult historical situation. So, this was Voegelin’s intellectual situation. But he was one of the first to understand that if we are to reform our political thinking, we must do it according to a rigorous political philosophy. And this was the influence of Kelsen on Voegelin: he learned from Kelsen to be very concrete in his political thinking. Kelsen’s kind of legal philosophy was an experiment in doing the best one can to create a new state with concrete steps and a concrete framework. The mistake Voegelin saw was that, in doing so, you forget the old traditions of societies, cultures, and institutions. Kelsen is still influential, isn’t he? Knoll: Yes. His is a mainstream of legal thinking. Whenever discussing con-

stitutional problems, Austrian professors of law take Kelsen as the norm. They discuss the norms given by Kelsen and the positions either for or against Kelsen. And that is it; that is political philosophy and legal philosophy in Austria. It’s horrible! It is better in Germany, especially at the Marburg Institute, where there is a very interesting debate surrounding Carl Schmitt. It is very interesting, because Carl Schmitt, like Voegelin, knew about the social and cultural dimensions of the law. He was also a member of the same scientific community. It was a very problematic one, of course, but that is history. Did Voegelin ever visit Kelsen when the two later lived in California? Schabert: No, no. Kelsen was his teacher, and he was Kelsen’s assistant. In one

conversation, Voegelin spoke of Kelsen as someone in his past, even though Kelsen was living at Berkeley at the time.

240 Voegelin Recollected

Have you read that review that Kelsen did? Schabert: Yes, that was the subject of our conversation. At one point when we talked about it, Voegelin said with a tincture of nostalgia, “Well, Kelsen wrote it.” That was his phrase, “Kelsen wrote it.” But it was never published: he never dared to publish it, and that was in .

Well, that’s interesting. Even the psychology of that is interesting.

The Arts In Vienna, Eric’s friend Winternitz was a good musician. L. Voegelin: Winternitz was very good, oh yes.

And Schütz? L. Voegelin: Schütz was too, yes.

Did they ever play together? L. Voegelin: Oh, yes: Winternitz and Schütz played together. They both gave

house concerts, which was very nice, I remember. But they did not play in public. Did Eric ever play in the house concerts? L. Voegelin: No, no.

But both you and Eric played the piano. L. Voegelin: Oh, yes. I played some of the Beethoven sonatas, but I really had to practice until I could play them. Eric, who could really play, just sat down and grabbed the notes and played them just like that. But he thought that we had too little money when we moved to America, so we didn’t replace our piano.

There are a couple of places where he makes comments about art, sculpture, and things. What were his tastes like in art and music? Schabert: Quite simple in attitude, not sophisticated. At Stanford they had a subscription to the San Francisco Opera on the insistence of Lissy. Lissy wanted to get out of suburbia; she wanted to find Vienna again. So once in a while, they went to the opera or to a concert. But that was a pure concession

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to Lissy. Lissy was to have the opera every six weeks or so, okay, but then it was over. And once it was over, that was it. I wouldn’t know of any manifestation of real interest in music, not any sophistication. Whereas art, that was better. Of course, he had a great love for literature; that we know about. And he recommended extensively: He recommended a great deal and very excellent things. But we never talked about music. His discussion of art was somewhat better than music, but not so good as literature. I think really he was a man of letters, that’s what it was. Hereth: I had one social event with him when he came to Hamburg in .

I went to the opera with him. I had to spend four days with him and we had to do something! The opera was Fidelio, and Voegelin was looking through opera glasses the entire time. Now, I don’t know if you know it, but Fidelio is a Gnostic piece. I saw it for the first time then: there were people liberating themselves, so this was a very Gnostic enterprise. I thought I could discuss this problem with Voegelin after the opera, but he was only talking about one thing. He said, “Donani did not direct the orchestra without looking at the paper; he was always looking at the paper and turning the pages!” That was what he had been watching through the opera glasses the whole time! I don’t think he had any sense for music. But he knew as a bourgeois German professor that you have to go to the opera, at least when you go to Hamburg, because Hamburg has one of the most famous operas in Germany. Did he talk to you ever about music? Vondung: I can’t remember that he talked to me about music. I wouldn’t say

that he was not interested in music, but that’s probably not saying too much. Once in a while, but not too often—only three or four times when I lived in Stanford—I took Lissy to a concert at the Dinkelspiel or Memorial Auditorium. Once, we also went to San Francisco, but Eric never would join us. That does not necessarily mean that he was not interested in music, you know. Thomas Mann, when he lived in Munich, never went to the theater either: he sent his wife or his children. And when they came back home, he said, “When you were at the theater, I read the play and it took me less time. Now you can tell me how the performance was.” So, that didn’t mean that Thomas Mann was not interested in drama! Similarly, I would say that it didn’t mean that Eric Voegelin was not interested in music, but maybe he was not interested too much. At least, he didn’t talk to me about it. Sandoz: He didn’t have anything to do with music. As far as I know, he went

to no concerts in Munich, saw no operas. Alverne and I were always going to

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the opera, and we took in all kinds of musical events. I would tell him about various musical events in Munich, some of them just absolutely marvelous performances, but he wasn’t interested in that. He liked theater, but I don’t think he liked music in terms of being willing to spend the time to go. Lissy was always wanting to go somewhere, but Eric wanted to stay home because he had work to do. It was always the work, the work: he couldn’t be flitting around with the butterflies. So, he might set aside a minimal amount of time that he would go out—one or two nights a month—but it wasn’t to concerts. Now, Heilman claims that he played piano very well, but I never saw him play the piano and I would never hear any music when I was at his home. Caringella: The one musical association you might make with Eric occurred at Northwestern, where he gave a lecture at the Baptist church one Sunday evening. Europe was at war, and he was to talk about Europe and the European political order. The occasion took place in the summertime, so I guess Eric had a white suit on. L. Voegelin: Yes, he bought himself a white suit and the white shoes that were

in fashion at the time. He would not permit me to buy the suit, he got it. Caringella: And when they introduced him, they played “Roll Out the

Barrel.” L. Voegelin: “Roll Out the Barrel,” yes. I wasn’t there, but he told me about it.

How very appropriate! Just before a lecture on the situation in Europe. What about the visual arts: was he interested in them? Sandoz: He would always go to art galleries; Eric would always go to art gal-

leries as long as there was something to take in. He spent a lot of time with his friend, Winternitz, who was a curator at the Metropolitan in New York, and they maintained a lifelong friendship. So, as far as I know, he was prepared to spend much more time on visual rather than on musical arts. And he liked everything from cubism to the old masters. I don’t know whether he just shifted gears or what, but my impression was that he enjoyed visual art of all kinds. Whether he related this to the work he was doing, to the problems of order and disorder and deprivations, so forth and so on: that’s not at all clear to me. Was he interested in painting and sculpture? Vondung: I think that was different. I don’t know whether you ever have been

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to his home in Stanford. You have? So, you will have noticed that there are some very interesting paintings on the walls. So, I think he was interested, but again not, I would say, in a systematic way that he really studied it. I think it was more that he was interested in what came across. He noticed, became interested in, and bought some pieces of paintings he liked, but he did not follow it systematically. That’s my impression. The only piece of his writing that I can recall where he mentions the arts apart from literature is in the postscript to the Henry James piece. And he talks about going to Brancusi’s studio in Paris and the feeling of oppression because there’s so much repetition, always the same thing. Vondung: Well, it’s very difficult to say this in a balanced way so that I wouldn’t be being unjust. But I think he was very interested in all kinds of things in a very general way, in a very broad sense: in literature, probably also in music, probably also in visual art. Otherwise, he couldn’t have followed his interdisciplinary method of looking at things. On the other hand, I feel that there were also certain limitations. I think that with respect to music and the arts, he was probably interested only in cases where a certain piece of music or paintings or certain pieces of art were relevant for a particular problem. But if there were some things that weren’t interesting to him, he probably wouldn’t have taken notice. He was very interested in the Warburg school and members of the Warburg family and the people connected with the Warburg family. But again, I think his interest was not so much in Renaissance art, but in the special way the Warburgs and people of the Warburg school were analyzing or interpreting art. He was interested in their method: in how, for instance, they would interpret certain icons, certain symbols in paintings in a new way. The method was revolutionary at that time and very new. And he was interested also in talking about the Renaissance, since he was interested in hermeticism, in alchemy. He was interested in several pieces of art where things like that could be traced, could be interpreted in terms of the hermetic tradition or the tradition of alchemy. But he had his perspective, let’s put it that way. He had particular questions he wanted to get answers to, and he followed this in a strict way. Schabert: Once in Chicago, it was at the end of the APSA convention in .

We went together to the Art Institute on North Michigan Avenue. There, they have an impressive collection of Impressionists, and it seemed to interest him greatly. Our conversation in the museum was very personal, very open, very

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warm. But it was I who would talk about the pictures. I can’t recall that Voegelin was very much touched by them. I mean, the reason why he went to the museum in the first place was very prosaic: there was time before the trip to the plane, so what would we do? Hereth: When he was in Hamburg, my graduate assistant took him to the

museum where the big paintings are shown. And he told me the story, so this is a second-hand story, but I must tell it anyway. Which museum? Hereth: The Kunst-Halle. It has modern art. And after they got there, they looked at the wonderful paintings for a while, then Heinz-Werner went off into a different room while Voegelin continued following through the rooms. And at one point, Heinz-Werner looked into the next room and saw Voegelin approaching a picture. He first looked at the description of the picture, which stated who it is, why it is, and what it is, then he moved back to look at the picture itself. When Heinz-Werner came in, he said, “Ah, this picture is a landscape by so-and-so.” So, he was informing him, you see! Unfortunately, Heinz-Werner had seen him reading the descriptions beforehand. So, I don’t think that Voegelin was so much the connoisseur of painting as he pretended to be. Voegelin went to the Kunst-Halle because it is important to go there: a German professor goes to the opera and does all these things, so he did the full program in Hamburg!

Well, there were some places where he wrote about the paintings. For example, in discussing the theory of consciousness, he talks specifically about what someone’s consciousness is doing while one is looking at a painting. But as far as music goes, everyone has said that he had not a bit of interest. Which to me is very interesting, if only because Plato talks so much about music. Hereth: Exactly, exactly. And you know, as I mentioned, the funny thing about Fidelio was that the story was Gnostic, but he didn’t look at the story. The stage settings were also very Gnostic: there was darkness and there was light and there were all these symbols represented on the set. But Voegelin was just looking to see whether Donani was directing it from the paper or by heart!

That is odd! Because, on the other hand, he went to look at petroglyphs and old cave paintings, from the United States to Turkey, to try to look for some sort of evidence behind his theory of consciousness. Hereth: He was interested in cave paintings, that is true. But I think that rea-

son itself is not so uniform that you can talk about only one kind of reason.

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There is a kind of reason that is verbal, a kind of reason that concerns space, a kind of reason that concerns perspective, which is different again from space. And I don’t think that Voegelin had a very well-developed reason on questions of space and perspective. And music? Hereth: Not at all. Listening was not his main business. Music was not what

he was really interested in. In his Plato seminars, the problem of music in Plato was never discussed. I don’t remember a single session where he made that a topic of his seminars. It was textual, as you say. Literature, certainly, was a major interest of his. Hereth: Literature—everything, both novels and poems. There, he was really

interested. He really loved literature. Once, for example, he recommended that I read Nabokov before I left for a trip to America. He said, “This is one of the most exciting and best books I have ever read about the United States of America.” Which book, Lolita? Hereth: Yes, Lolita. He said, “This is an excellent book for learning about the

United States of America.” You learn a lot about Europeans too! Hereth: Sure! And he recommended it. I was about to go traveling around in the United States, and I remember one conversation I had with him before I went to Harvard. He said, “If you want to prepare yourself for the United States—or for any other country—read three or four novels set in that country. There is much more information there than what you get in any sociological textbook.” And I think he was very right there.

That he would recommend a book like Lolita shows a certain . . . Hereth: Yeah, I think he was not only this armored knight of truth, but he

had also these other qualities. Fortunately! One of the things Voegelin has done that most political scientists haven’t done is to deal with literature. I was thinking in particular of von Doderer and Musil: both are Austrians and both are dealing with the symbol of second reality. First I have a philological question: was it von Doderer who developed that symbol more extensively than Musil?

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Hereth: Yes, especially the term Apperzeptionsverweigerung—that means the

refusal or the resistance to perceiving reality. Yes, that’s a very interesting phenomenon. I learned about it and became motivated to read Doderer through Voegelin. And apart from Musil and Doderer, also Elias Canetti, for instance, who now is very famous in Germany. He received the Nobel Prize; but in the ’s, not many people knew about Canetti. And I learned about Doderer and Canetti and was induced to read them because Voegelin mentioned them again and again in his lectures. I didn’t learn about Doderer and Canetti from lectures on German literature! Nobody talked about Doderer or Canetti at that time and only very seldom about Musil or Hermann Broch, who also belonged to this group of Austrian writers—well, Canetti was not Austrian, but he did live in Vienna for some time. But that shows the wide range of Voegelin’s knowledge and interest and his interdisciplinary approach to problems. Do you think he would have run into them in Vienna? Hereth: I don’t think that he knew them personally. I don’t think he met any

of the people I just mentioned in person. Of course, he did meet Thomas Mann once. He first went to Switzerland, as you know, when he emigrated from Austria in . Thomas Mann was already very famous by that time, and they had exchanged letters before about Die politischen Religionen. In fact, that was the background of the preface he added to the second edition that came out in Sweden. Then, when they left Vienna, Thomas Mann still lived near Zurich, and Voegelin met him there. Did Voegelin’s concern with literature first develop in Vienna? So that just keeping up with the literary movement would have been for him a matter of course? Hereth: Well, that’s possible. But I think he was just interested in literature.

And you must also remember that Vienna really was, from the turn of the century onward, a city full of arts and literature and sciences. So, I think that anybody who was only a little bit interested in what was going on in the arts and literature read a lot. Somebody we haven’t mentioned is Karl Kraus. Voegelin owned many, many issues of Die Fackel, the famous journal that Karl Kraus edited and wrote entirely by himself. So, obviously, he was very interested in Die Fackel. And when there was a reprint of Die Fackel in the ’s, he wanted to have it. This might have been in ’ or so that the entire series was reprinted. He wanted to have it, so I ordered it for him, and it was sent over to Stanford. So, he still was interested in having things like that.

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Babin: Eliot’s The Wasteland was published the year Voegelin got his doctor-

ate. We once talked about that. When we were in New Orleans on the occasion of a series of lectures he gave at the University of New Orleans, he told me that he really liked Eliot’s poetry. Particularly, he thought that the Four Quartets were amazing poems, and he read them every year. I think that, with Eliot, the conscious effort of recovery is the reason for the density of allusion. But that was precisely the motive of Voegelin, too: his increasing sense that one had to recover a past in order to move on with the present. I certainly think that Voegelin perceived something of the fullness of the recovery in the Quartets. I got the impression that he thought he could come at the issues he wanted to deal with better by studying literature. And he read very widely. He had read a lot of Poe, for example, and he had read things by Poe that most people don’t read: Poe’s essays, various ones. He said, “One of the things that really amazes me about Poe is how well-rounded he was in philosophy.” He said, “Poe understood philosophers like Descartes, and in a way that most of our contemporaries don’t. Where did he get that?” I said, “I don’t know. Poe was largely self-educated, I think.” He said, “When I read his works, and he is alluding to these things or working with them, he clearly understands them.” As a possible ground for his interest in literature, it seems to me that the language of literature is peculiarly a language that tends to express experiences, as Voegelin says. You can’t reduce its symbols to scientific terms representing concepts. You can’t be an ideologue as a student of literature. You must instead say, “Okay, everything in this story intends to express an experience. And it makes sense only in the context of that expression. So, I’ve got to try to penetrate to the experience that is being expressed.” That’s a very layered kind of thing, because the writer never ultimately expresses only the experience of the character—that is, the experience of the character living, loving, and dying. Instead, you find yourself in the meditative ambiance of the text that you are being invited to share. But the expressed meditative sense of the experience gets thoroughly flattened and lost if one doesn’t always attend to it, as I think Voegelin did magnificently. Did Eric ever write poetry? L. Voegelin: Yes, he did, but he never showed it to anybody. He didn’t do it

often. But we had a friend who wrote poetry, and she always sent it to us. Eric told me, “This is awful!” Then he sat down and did it himself. But he never showed it to anybody. He did some translations, I know, of Santayana’s poems.

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L. Voegelin: And when he went to bed, it was always two o’clock in the morn-

ing. But what did he take with him to read? Shakespeare. You should have seen his Shakespeare, how it looked. Lissy said that he would read Shakespeare—particularly the sonnets—for relaxation. Simpson: I had heard that he liked the sonnets. I think Voegelin’s reading Joyce was in a way something like that. So, I guess it was for relaxation that he read poems and novels. But it was all part of this total mentality of those European scholars. He was into that sort of thing. I don’t know enough about his background, really, except that he was from Vienna during a very intellectual and very artistic period in Vienna—with Freud and everything else.

His German students have made similar observations, that he was very much a Viennese professor.

Scars Schlesinger: It’s interesting, in his Autobiographical Reflections, Voegelin

mentioned the Austrian writer, Karl Kraus. In the book Voegelin mentioned, Dritte Walpurgisnacht, Kraus makes a big point about lucidity and clarity of style. In fact, I was very sorry after I read the Autobiographical Reflections, because all sorts of names appear there that I would have discussed with him. But he never talked about them. He never talked about this older Austrian milieu unless I brought it back to him. There were a number of other Austrian professors I knew and I could at least talk about it with them. Did he just not think of talking about it, or do you think he preferred to forget it? Schlesinger: I don’t know. I mean, he knew I came from Austria too, but he

was not interested in talking about these authors or about Austrian politics. Now, Gregor Sebba and Voegelin knew one another. The earliest exchange of letters I know about—and this may be incorrect, but I think it was from about 1940. Hollweck: No, they knew each other in Vienna.

They knew each other in Vienna?

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Hollweck: Yes. Sebba had been peripherally a member of the Geistkreis.

There are some very amusing letters, when Voegelin was in Alabama I think, and Sebba wanted to get him involved with Austrian politics. Did you ever have occasion to discuss any of this with either of them? Hollweck: Yes, I heard this from Sebba. And of course, yes, basically these letters show what happened! If you have looked at Voegelin’s own very carefully worded letters to more visible representatives, you know exactly where he was coming from.

Sebba seemed to be much more willing than Voegelin to get involved in politics. Hollweck: I’m not sure of that. Sebba was perhaps at that point in his life less sure of what he was going to do in America. Although he was drafted and joined the army, his attitude toward the United States probably was, at that point at least, different from that of Voegelin. As one can see from the letters, he and Lissy said that, as soon as he was here, he knew that he was going to be here as a citizen and a member of the American political community. I don’t think Sebba looked at his own involvement quite that way. He certainly might have still been wavering.

Voegelin’s leaving Europe had a kind of metaphorical significance for him. That was why he insisted he was going to be an American. Hollweck: Well, there was all that talk in Germany about exile and emigra-

tion. And there he gives, I think, a very precise formulation of the exodus. The discussions of exodus in Order and History are also, it seems to me, informed by a kind of real-life experience: it’s not just textual exegesis here. I guess I’m wondering: is it up to us to figure this out? Or has he left a few other clues? Was there anything he said to you about any of those kinds of questions? Hollweck: No, I think we never in that sense talked about it.

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Voegelin Recollected Two Clues Dr. Erich Voegelin  Forest Street February ,  Hauptmann Fritz Ruehl Ringstrasse  BERLIN - Mariendorf GERMANY

Dear Fritz: Klara wrote me of your visit to Vienna, and I was very sorry that I could no longer see you and show you something of Vienna and Austria—both no longer exist. It is now exactly a year since the Austrian affair began, and my wife has sent a brief circular letter to her relatives informing them of our experiences during this past year. I enclose for you a carbon copy of this letter because it contains all the essential information on us for you as well. We have thought of you often during this time: I am sure it is neither an honor nor a pleasure to belong to a corps of officers whose courageous readiness to attack a defenseless country made this filthy trick of world-historical proportions possible—but we are all, of course, caught up together in the collective events of our era. A warm greeting to you and your wife from both of us, Erich LISSY’S “CIRCULAR LET TER”

[NO DATE] [NO ADDRESSEE] It is now only a year since the destruction of Austria began, and one now thinks back on what has happened during this period. I want first to tell you a little about how things have gone with us, because I know that my parents write nothing of these things to you. Soon after  March, Erich—together with half of the faculty members (almost all of them Aryan, by the way)—was fired. The 1. Voegelin to Fritz Ruehl, February 5, 1939, in Hoover Institution, Voegelin Papers, box 31, folder 10.

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reason was not political activity of some kind or membership in a political party; all members of the Austrian elite that had intensively defended the freedom and independence of our country were thrown out of the university, as well as out of all other institutions and offices. The economic existence of almost every member of our large circle of acquaintances—consisting of hundreds of people, the majority of them Aryan—was completely destroyed. Because it involved in many cases highly qualified people with outstanding reputations abroad, many have left the country in which they no longer have any chance of living. Today, therefore, we literally know scarcely a single person in Vienna. If we were to return, we would be returning to a foreign city of which we know nothing except for the houses and streets. All of us were robbed of almost everything and were forced to leave the country with twenty marks. Only the very wealthiest of our friends were able to save enough to be able to finance at least a meager existence for half a year. As for us: before we received the permit to enter America, some Swiss friends and the Rockefeller Foundation kept our heads above water during the first two months, when we were in Zurich. Many people we know now live in exceedingly difficult circumstances, supported by small contributions provided by Catholic and Jewish relief committees. We remained in Vienna until the middle of July. This period was horrible. Every day, we received news from our acquaintances that one had committed suicide or that word of the death of another had arrived from the concentration camp. An old female friend of ours, sixty-five years of age, was in prison for three months and wrote us the most touching letters. Particularly horrible was the fate of our Jewish friends: almost all of them spent at least a short time in prison, and many are now still there. We have just now received news that a few of them have gotten out. One who was in Dachau for seven months has now arrived in Geneva; another has just been released with frozen and festering legs; a third has safely arrived in Brussels after having survived a six-hour flight through the snow-covered Ardennes. A great many of them were beaten and spit upon by SA troops, hauled from their houses into jail in the middle of the night. An old married couple was given a half-hour time limit to leave the apartment in the middle of the night and was forced to give up everything. A very rich old married couple, the husband eighty years old, was completely plundered and left the country with two small suitcases.

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Voegelin Recollected His seventy-year-old wife died soon after from a heart spasm. The old man found sanctuary at a small family property in Czechoslovakia, but he is now homeless again because the property came under German rule with the destruction of Czechoslovakia. These are all only cases that we ourselves have experienced within our circle of acquaintances. The entire Austrian elite has been completely destroyed, and nothing more of this branch of Germanness remains today beyond the worst sort of rabble, the ones who collect the loot. But how it has gone here you already know yourselves from the decrees and punitive measures of Gauleiter Bürckel. We also know the people who have risen into the heights. A typical case is my brother-in-law, a man who is now forty years old. He studied chemistry, but did not finish his studies because he was too lazy and too cowardly to write the final exams. He was barred from his student dueling society because he was too cowardly to fence. He cannot swim because he is afraid of water. He has not worked a day in his life but has lived off his mother’s pension and the work of my sister-in-law. Yet he is an “Old Fighter,” because he was in prison for three months shortly before the raid on Austria. Now he is a “Political Leader” with an income of five hundred marks. Beyond this, he has received two thousand marks in “reparations” and a car stolen from a Jew. Very fine indeed. I could write a whole book along these lines, ones describing only things I have seen and experienced myself. Now you will perhaps have a hint as to what a dreadful period we have been through. For us personally, things have gone relatively well despite all the horrors. Fortunately, we had saved a little, so that we were not exposed to immediate concerns about food and shelter after Erich’s dismissal (without salary; the pension owed him was withheld by the National Socialist civil servants). The worst experience for me was probably the indifference of our closest family members, who were so delighted over the unification of Germans that they were not at all aware that a terrible war of annihilation was being conducted against hundreds of thousands of people and that our own lives were in danger. They probably believe to this day that we have only ourselves to blame for having been so caught up in the events. This is indeed correct to a certain extent: only diligent people, those who had gained a well-respected position as a consequence, were mercilessly destroyed. In this, we—my parents and myself, that is—have always tried not to

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let politics intrude too far into our relationship with one another, and my great affection as well as my parent’s visible love for me have repeatedly found a way. The conduct of my sister-in-law, Elga, aggravated things; I enclose a letter about this to Walter, because everything began with him. These are all disagreeable and nerve-wracking matters. The giving up of our beautiful new apartment, famous in Vienna for its refined, authentically Austrian combination of Biedermeier with modernstyle furniture; the sale of all the things that were so dear to me and that I had only just acquired; the farewell from the streets and squares that I had so loved: these are all part of it too, but only secondarily. . . . But now, the tears of joy begin: Erich, whose books are very well known and appreciated here, immediately got a job at Harvard, the largest and most famous American university. This year should give him the peace and opportunity to create a lasting circle of influence for his work. He is employed in the Department of Government. To this point, we have good prospects: negotiations with four large universities are now under way; and for summer school he has a position at Northwestern University at Chicago with the very nice salary of $, for eight weeks of teaching activity. Thanks to Erich’s diligence, abilities, and reputation, and thanks to the great helpfulness of the American university circles, we face the future with joy and hope. We have also already obtained our first papers as American citizens and are happy each day anew to have escaped the bedlam of Europe. You will certainly have heard the trivial details of our situation from Mom and Dad. I would be glad to hear from you sometime and would be happy to send news of us from time to time. Affectionately yours, [NO SIGNATURE]

2. This letter was written by Eric in the spring of 1939 and sent over Lissy’s signature to her relatives. For a discussion, see Barry Cooper, Eric Voegelin and the Foundations of Modern Political Science (Columbia: University of Missouri Press, 1999), 11.

7 Enigma Variations

7 Dark Spaces Schabert: Very often, Voegelin was someplace alone for a long period. And

he must have done something besides study. In Paris, for instance, the libraries are not open all night; they close at five or six in the evening. But he never talked about this. He never talked to anyone about what he did. Whether he went back to the hotel, what he was reading, he never mentioned it. It is interesting! Imagine Voegelin: he was alone maybe for one year in Paris. And what did he do all this time? You can’t read for twenty-four hours or sixteen hours every day. You study in the library for maybe ten hours, but there are still six other hours unaccounted for. Hollweck mentioned a letter to Elizabeth DeWaal. I’ve read it; it said something like, “You will remember that time when we were in Paris.” Maybe she was there for a while. That could have taken some time. But I know what I did when I was there: I read in cafés and bistros. Schabert: Yes, yes, but you would do other things: you would go to museums,

you would go to the cinema. What about Voegelin? He was in Florence for about three months in 1980, and what would he do? He would sit in a very damp place, almost primitive. Not one night did he go out. But he never talked about these things, or about what he did in the United States when he was alone. And he must have had some free time. One time, in Chicago, he took me to a breakfast place at the YMCA. It was 254

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a great place, but there again, not a place where I would go by myself. It was cheap, of course, but cheap in a double sense. He took me there, and he must have known it beforehand. He had a sure sense of orientation, because he led me to this strange place, and he was sitting there and felt at home. I did not feel at home, but he felt at home and he relished that. So, perhaps he knew all the YMCA places in the world! For me, that is where this question breaks down, because he was familiar with these kind of places and experiences. But there were kind of dark spaces in his existence. I would say by a few clues that there must have been something more. There are other things I would know, other items, but these only would be more pieces of a puzzle where there are large gaps.

Humor, Wonder, Trust Simpson: At one point, he came back to Baton Rouge. I don’t remember quite

what year it was; it must have been in the early ’80s. I was supposed to be in charge of his appearances; I was responsible for getting him around, and so on. Voegelin stayed in what’s called a residence suite over at the Faculty Club, which is a little suite. He was to appear first that night; then the next day, he was supposed to do a lecture or something. I was supposed to go to get him and bring him over. The distance wasn’t too great, but it turned out we had one of those torrential Baton Rouge rains, just pouring down in the morning. I explained to him that it was very bad weather outside, and I didn’t know how he was going to quite manage to get on over to wherever he was supposed to go. He was very agreeable, put on his raincoat and so on, and we managed to make it somehow. Then it quit raining later on, and he was concerned because he had lost his beret. He said he always liked to wear his beret, particularly on airplanes, because it kept his head warm. And he wanted to know where he could buy a beret. The only place I could think of was a fashionable men’s shop located very close to the campus. So, I took him over there, and he looked around, and the clerk said he didn’t have any berets. Then, at one point, he picked up one of those four foot high hats, put it on his head, pulled it down far over his forehead, and just stood there grinning. It was something else! But I can’t remember for the life of me whether he actually bought that hat or not. One of the things I remember when we talked a couple of years ago is that you told some stories of your walks with Voegelin.

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Schabert: What, in the mountains?

No, going back and forth on the walk toward the Bavarian Parliament, the one with the statues. Schabert: Oh, yes. Well, once we advanced to the statue of Schelling on

Maximilianstrasse in Munich, but that was only once. And that was typical Voegelin. It is an intellectual anecdote that explains a great deal, I think. It recreates this picture in my mind of his seriousness and irony. There were some statues of famous people and there was one statue with an inscription that read, “Schelling, der grosse Philosoph.” Voegelin was so amused by this. Because, in some ways, it explained one of the common dictates of statues. One must be great, otherwise there would be no statue for you, right? So why “der grosse?” On the other hand, the fact that they had put “der grosse Philosoph” reveals that the ordinary person doesn’t know Schelling. So, in order to admire the statue, you cannot just write “Schelling,” you must also write “der grosse Philosoph.” And now you know whom you are seeing. You see? That was his kind of irony. With Schelling, you had to underline that he was famous, otherwise people didn’t know that he was famous. Voegelin stood there, looking and grinning about it. And I was struck by a kind of amazement about his innocence in an elusive way. Was he a very good judge of character? When I went to Munich, it was suggested that he was fooled sometimes. Sandoz: I think maybe he was. He himself was a very forthright kind of guy,

and he made the bad assumption that other people were too. I don’t know that he had been in any administrative positions before he accepted the one at the institute in Munich. Dealing in an upright and open way with people was the way he wanted to do business, so he dealt with his assistants that way, and he dealt with everyone that way. He admired somebody with intelligence and talent and didn’t know that he might be a skunk. I really don’t know the details at all, though—I just have a sense. So, I don’t know whether you can say he was a good judge of character or not. In a way, he was somewhat cautious. He certainly discouraged people from studying with him, because he thought that if they weren’t really very promising, then ultimately, it was a waste of his time. He only wanted the smartest students in Munich—that was what he was looking for—and not the others. But you can’t necessarily tell whether somebody is devious or not. So in that, I think, he was duped from time to time. You can see in the correspondence with Strauss, how Voegelin has a prac-

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tically boyish exuberance in communicating to Leo Strauss. Which apparently scared the hell out of Strauss, who was always covering up and backing off. But you could see how he took something and ran with it and laid it out far beyond what was called for on the basis of what had been asked. This kind of exuberance, this expectation that the partner of the discussion was going to respond in a similarly exuberant sort of way, was constantly having cold water poured on it. He had reasonable aspirations in the professional life of American academe to go to a stronger and better-known institution than LSU, and he was thwarted from that repeatedly, and sometimes probably with a kind of underhanded complicity with people that we know that we had best not mention. It is pretty well documented that a letter came from Chicago to Johns Hopkins saying that this man is on the fringe and is too controversial and he probably shouldn’t be awarded a chair at Johns Hopkins. That killed him, from the account I’ve heard from Lissy Voegelin. He knew about this letter. He learned about it after the fact. Hollweck: Was he a good judge of character? That’s a real question. In a gen-

eral sense, yes. But like most of us, he also made major mistaken judgments. That happened quite frequently, as a matter of fact. I sometimes wonder to what extent he was sometimes maybe a little distant from reality when it came to other people. You know, sometimes it didn’t really matter, but in other cases, genuine harm was done. But that’s a good question. And if he wasn’t a good judge of character, was it because he didn’t care? I can’t imagine that. Or was he sometimes really naïve? From reading some of the letters when he was searching around for employment, I had the feeling that he was writing to people in the expectation that they had a certain amount of good will. Simply on the basis of, say, his relationship with the Rockefeller Foundation: they would be helpful, at least as far as they could be within their rules, and so on. It was as though he thought, “Well, these other people will see the same sort of things that the Rockefeller people did, and they’ll help me too.” But very often there was nothing. Hollweck: I think the abortive attempts at Yale and Johns Hopkins, for

instance, show that Voegelin didn’t understand the situation in either case when he was interviewing there. He thought he was playing the game, but they thought he wasn’t. So, something went wrong there!

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Voegelin Recollected In Search of Scientific Community

Sandoz: I wrote a piece that was published in Modern Age in . It was

called “Voegelin Read Anew: Political Philosophy in the Age of Ideology.” In this essay, I played on a phrase I remembered from a letter that he wrote, “Work in silence is a free enterprise.” He said, “You misquoted me. I never said work in silence is a free enterprise. I said work in science is a free enterprise. You portray me as an isolated figure out doing these things. But in point of fact, I have an enormous correspondence with all of the leading scholars in the world dealing with the issues that I am dealing with. Science is a collaborative enterprise. I am only doing my work, but always in consultation with other scholars—whether here or anywhere else in the world— who happen to be addressing issues that are of concern to me. The idea that I am a lonely voice out here in the wilderness doing my own little thing is wrong.” So, he bawled me out, and suspected me of a certain skullduggery in purposely misquoting his words. I assured him that he had said, “work in silence.” I think it was probably in one of the letters he wrote to me. Hollweck: I think Voegelin always hoped to be able to think of himself as a philosopher who was doing work in a larger context, working on things that other people, as he thought, were working on too. He looked at it really as— well, teamwork is a superficial term, but I think I can say it from personal conversations. We did talk about the German situation in later years, and there was a great sense of disappointment on his part. He was not able to work with his German colleagues, because of the social structure and because of the mentality of people who were tenured and yet who did no original work. But I think this was the paradigm he had adopted from Vienna and from the comaraderie of the Geistkreis: the idea that important intellectual work is not done by one man or one women. It cannot be done that way.

I recall listening to lectures that Voegelin gave about how there was a scientific community outside the university. I had no idea what he was talking about. But he was thinking about some kind of formal structure in the same way that universities were structured. I thought, “Of course, Voegelin knows all the important people because he goes and visits them. Maybe that’s what he’s talking about.” But he had, I guess, something in mind like this organization put together by Fischer-Barnicol. There was a long flirtation with Fischer-Barnicol. And from my reading of that conversation—I don’t think I’m particularly insightful but I may be suspicious—I thought this guy was a fraud.

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Hollweck: He was a little bit naïve about that, there’s no doubt about it. He

really believed, as you said, that such structures could exist outside the established academic world. My explanation would be that it goes back to his years in Vienna. There were people there who could not find positions in the academic environment because there were none. They were extremely welleducated people: Alfred Schütz was a banker, you know! Winternitz, fortunately, had money. These people could have held a chair in any great university with their expertise, but they couldn’t get a job in Vienna because Austria was in a tight situation economically. So, I think that his original perception was, “Of course there is a world outside the academic world, and that is where the really interesting people are.” This then translated into his later understanding: “Well, there are probably good people out there and if one could form some kind of coherent structure, that would be great.” FischerBarnicol obviously played on that, and Voegelin, fortunately, caught on relatively quickly. Schabert: I think Voegelin was always in a search for this Vienna Geistkreis he

had experienced as a young scholar, which of course was pure historical coincidence—sometimes these kinds of things happen, but usually they don’t. You can’t cause them. They’re there for the taking if they come along, and if they come along, you are lucky. If you are intelligent, you profit from it, and if you are dumb, you don’t take advantage of it. So, of course, there are two possibilities when something no longer exists: you might either try to recreate it, as Voegelin to some extent tried to recreate it with his students in Munich. He tried to create his happy, scholarly world with his students. Or the other way is that you would look at it on an international scale, you would see it as a kind of cosmopolis. There was a sequel—at least I’ve always thought it was a sequel. It must have been after he had sorted things out in Munich, because I remember him saying that the universities are ruined, but there is still an international community where science can be found. I wondered about that. From what I could tell from the correspondence, a lot of the people he seemed to be referring to were conmen, academic entrepreneurs. It was as if he was searching for a community of scholars that can’t be found anywhere. Schabert: Yes, that’s what he told us. I remember we had our very last dinner

together: Voegelin and a group of his Munich students founded this society, an international society for the study of politics. And he wanted someone to found an organizational shell for political science in Germany, a continuation

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of Voegelinian political science even after his departure for America. To some extent, it was a pathetic idea, but Voegelin himself was extremely enthused about it. As it turned out, of course, it was a complete failure, because everybody thought they should profit from it. Everybody thought money would come for stipends and so on, but nobody put anything into it. But this was typical for him: he wrote letters and said, “Well, this is a good thing.” Hereth: When he came to Hamburg in the early ’s, that was the last time I saw him. And he liked me very much at this time. Before, there had obviously been a certain distance: there was an inner circle, and I was not part of this inner circle. But now, he saw me in a more appreciative light, I suppose. He saw that I had entered into an academic career with Peter Weber-Schäfer in Bochum. But when he came to Hamburg, he had one regret—this was apparent. It was that his former students were dispersed all over Germany and did not connect much with each other. I am perhaps a very sociable person, and at this time I was in touch with all of them. Not with Peter Opitz, but with all the others: Weber-Schäfer, Gebhardt, Schabert, Büttner, and von Sivers. I knew all of them and I was in touch with all of them. And he knew that. So, he said, “Why don’t you organize something so they can meet from time to time, just in order to see each other. You are the type who could do that. You have relations with them all, and you are a sociable type, which Gebhardt is not, you know.” So, he wanted me to do it. But by then, I was no longer very much interested in this kind of involvement.

Did he say why? Hereth: He didn’t say why, but for me, it was clear: he had the impression

that these people were all conducting academic careers but didn’t have the exchange with each other that was necessary to conserve and propagate and differentiate his teaching. He was thinking about this question; he was clearly thinking about it all the time in his later life. Do you think that he was concerned in some way about his ideas being dispersed in German society? Hereth: I don’t know so much if it was in German society. But at least he

wanted his ideas and his ways of thinking and his differentiated way of understanding political or philosophic reality to continue after his death. At this time, Voegelin was old, and he knew that soon he would die. And like every human being, he tended his little dream about immortality. Although the philosopher

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thinks about truth, goodness, and eternity, there are also these mundane kinds of immortality. For a German professor, it is the continuation of the scholarship! So, sure he had this idea. All of his bad experiences in Germany didn’t change the desire of the German professor to create his school. Now, there could be two ways of interpreting it: the one would be immortality in the mundane sense, and the other would be the simple thought that his ideas out in German society could do some good. And if he were political in any way, it would have been in that way. Hereth: Well, both together! The vanity is not to be forgotten, the desire for

immortality in this mundane sense, but also he was sure—and I think he was right—that he had a clear understanding of political reality and of the relations between the mundane and the divine. And his ideas are certainly helpful and sane for a society in which people know about that.

On Discipleship D. Herwig: Voegelin, I think, was similar to all educators in the sense that all of them more or less want to proselytize. Of course they want to transfer their thinking to another generation. So, that’s one interpretation of why people recruit disciples. But that’s only the outer form. The inner truth with him was that, if you wanted to follow Voegelin, you had to think for yourself! Actually, he was someone who made that quite clear. It was no good just to repeat what Voegelin had said. There are teachers for whom to repeat what they say is just fine; you believe what they say and you just reproduce what they say. That’s all, and they are satisfied with that. But Voegelin was not that kind of a teacher—not at all. As for his students, the Voegelinianer were interested in truth and were lovers of truth, so they were of course searching for truth. Or maybe truths: there was not necessarily one truth, maybe there were many. But you were always searching for truth, even if you were maybe never finding it. So, in a good way, I think, all of Voegelin’s good students had this sort of Platonic attitude in their mental lives. H. Herwig: The last time I saw him was in . We had a symposium: it had

been meant for his eightieth birthday, but Jürgen Gebhardt didn’t arrange it quite in time, so it came too late. I gave a lecture that challenged him and Peter von Sivers also gave a lecture that was critical of him. But it was very funny, because he wasn’t upset! To those who had delivered lectures along his

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line, he said, “Hmm, I have changed my mind.” So, Peter von Sivers and I were spared! I lectured on Paul and Plato because he had preferred Paul to Plato in Volume IV of Order and History. Walsh: I remember that, while I was studying at Virginia, I was invited to be

on a panel at the APSA meetings that was going to deal with Voegelin’s work. And Voegelin was going to reply to the panelists. For a graduate student, this was intimidating, to say the least! The funniest thing about it was: I diligently wrote my paper and sent off the five copies or whatever. I had it all lined up. But about a week before the meeting, I got this call from Voegelin and he said, “I got your paper. It’s excellent as an exposition. But really, we’re going to have to disagree about something!” So, he insisted that we all come with something to disagree about. And did you find anything to disagree with? Walsh: It was tough, because my side of it was “Voegelin and Philosophy,”

and I thought his interpretation of philosophy and the classical position was more than adequate! Lippucci: Do you want to say that thing about the disciples? We should prob-

ably say it for the record. He did say something important to us. Maybe you’ve heard it before, but he said, “I wish these people would do their own work!” Edwards: “I wish they would stop writing about me.” We went to one of those

meetings, and I guess maybe he asked what was on the program. Dante Germino was giving another introduction to Voegelin, and he just said: “I wish these people would stop writing papers about me and start doing philosophy, start advancing the work.” Lippucci: But he might have been of two minds, you know? I think that probably he was smart enough to know that someone should keep the basic text alive—his text. The way he kept other texts alive, somebody should keep his texts alive! Ellis Sandoz has kept his texts alive; he has done a great job. And that has been absolutely important: he has performed a very important role. But part of him must also have realized the way of the true philosopher: when you’re searching, you have to do that on your own, like he did. So, he could probably see it both ways, but he did utter those words.

He was very serious in his scientific work. And he spoke with confidence, on the one hand, but with gravity, with authority. It’s hard to know where that came

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from, except to say that he spent a long time thinking, and thinking along with, say, Plato, or Bodin and all the others. He could understand a thinker, so to speak, from the inside. This is not really a question, but a comment on how seriously Voegelin seems to have taken his work. L. Voegelin: The reason for it was that he couldn’t do anything else. Caringella: He sometimes wondered why other people didn’t do that, too. L. Voegelin: Yes, and he was always looking for somebody, but every time he met somebody, he was so disappointed. He never enjoyed the people who did not do serious work, you know. So many people who themselves do serious work enjoy to see the others not succeed, but Eric did not. He was always looking for somebody better than he was, somebody doing something more interesting. Caringella: He could write and speak with confidence, conviction, and

authority because he really worked on the material. But he was looking for a good critic, someone who would say, “Ah, but you’re wrong! Because I’ve figured it out this way.” He would have been very happy to say, “Now I’ve learned something from someone else!” But it was quite rare that he did. L. Voegelin: He was very depressed about that, too. Very depressed.

The Outsider You mentioned that Voegelin was an outsider with respect to Viennese society and also with respect to the University of Vienna. When he went to America, he determined to stay away from the émigré community, so he remained an outsider in America as well: he was a foreigner, and he was teaching at a relatively small Southern university. His social conditions perhaps were hard, but at the same time they were a challenge he could use. Knoll: One could compare Voegelin to the dissidents from the Soviet Union in the ’70s or ’80s. On the one hand, the dissidents were very busy and also very successful symbols of freedom, but on the other hand, they were like strange animals in a zoo. These people were very interesting. When asked, “Please tell me about the Soviet Union and what happened there,” they told about it. But look at Solzhenitsyn! These émigrés were living under the pressure of assimilation, yet they still wanted to be the supreme representatives of their cultures. You can imagine the very problematic situation of Thomas

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Mann and his emigration: on the one hand, he is a representative German, but on the other, he is living as a German in a foreign country. There is your beloved fatherland, but every tradition of this fatherland is wrong. It is really hard. As a European émigré, Voegelin remained an outsider in the United States. He was an outsider there, and later he became an outsider in Munich. If you look at the history of Voegelin in Munich, he became an outsider in five minutes! The Social Democrats in Munich had supported Voegelin’s candidacy, but at his inaugural lecture, they left the auditorium angrily after ten minutes. After ten minutes, he became an outsider again. When Voegelin left Munich, when he returned to America, some of his students said, “He wanted to go home.” So, his intellectual home was America. But it seems to me that what you just said is correct: he couldn’t talk to anyone, even in Munich, even at his own university. Knoll: Yes. It is a very pervasive situation, the depolitization of intellectual life. And you have it especially in the thinking of the students. They seem to be political, but they only seem to be. You find the same thing in the consciousness of the professors: a large number of professors are capable of dealing only with the kind of student that is critical without any method of criticism. But in this situation, political philosophy is quite impossible; it is bathed in a well-informed ignorance. Of course, the greatest enemy of wellinformed ignorance was Voegelin. He was always an outsider, and he also thought that you have to be: this is the problem you have to deal with as a political philosopher. That is the character of a very special kind of scientific community today. Sandoz: I think, in a way, you can transfer the discussion of the Gorgias in the third volume of Order and History to Voegelin’s biography in the sense in which Voegelin became, whether rightly or wrongly, very dubious of the integrity of most of humanity. Here, he talks about the transfer of authority from Athens to Socrates. The major institutions that are the truth-bearers, the universities, are where you are supposed to be interested in science and truth and their propagation in the educational process as well as through research. But these are often ideological hotbeds of people who want power and have their own agendas to serve. They haven’t really the foggiest interest in truth, unless they happen to be natural scientists whose search for truth is what Voegelin called impersonal or “person-peripheral”—in other words, has nothing to do with human beings and the existence of humanity.

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He thought, in other words, that, with many of the sources of intellectual, political, and spiritual health, the fountains were being polluted at the fountainheads. The truth was being obscured—whether by papal machinations or political figures in whom trust is vested or whatever—and that the last partisan of truth was hard to find. But truth needed a partisan. Increasingly, to the same degree to which he savored the depth of this crisis, he was intent on finding a way of understanding what the truth is, beginning with the conviction that there is a truth to be found and a reality to be understood. I remember when he lectured at Harvard during the fall of . He took Carl Friedrich’s place that fall, and apparently there was a big blow-up. I remember Voegelin saying when he came back to Munich in the spring of ’65 that he had started out with a very large class; then there had been a blow-up because he had told them that there was such a thing as truth and it needs to be served by professors at Harvard. And that, since he was a visiting professor, was what he intended to do. And they said that they had never heard from anybody before that they were supposed to find out what the truth was and to learn it and observe it. Then he said, “About half the class walked out and left or dropped the class. But at the end of the semester, the students that remained gave me a very nice dinner party, and thanked me for having been there.” Friedrich read this as having been a very gauche sort of behavior by this boorish sort of guy who had come in and substituted for him. Bad stories were told about it. But this was Eric’s reaction, which doesn’t surprise me a bit, given all the phoniness that we encounter in our academic dealings. To be a spokesman for truth, then to accept the implications of it: this seems to me to be what Voegelin was, the major impulse of his life as he became disillusioned with the supposed voices of truth in the modern world, each of which seemed to be polluting rather than clarifying.

On Technology Walters: As far as I know, his wife always drove. This I did not witness, so I

can’t swear to its truth, but one day, the car wouldn’t start. And after Lissy tried it for a while, Voegelin said, “Wait, we will teach it a lesson. Don’t try to start it.” So, they sat there for about five minutes. Then Voegelin said, “Maybe it has learned its lesson. Now try.” And it started up. Of course, the problem was that it had flooded. Now, that’s a story that was told as the truth. I don’t know whether it was, but it kind of reflects Voegelin’s attitude: he really

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disliked machines. I remember when the Korean War started, the Chinese crawled on the back of tanks. As he was telling us about that, his laughter was almost hysterical. Of course, it had nothing to do with which side ought to win, it was the fact that men were better than machines. But I wouldn’t say that he sided wholly with the proponents of the human spirit, either. One day at LSU, I was standing in the hallway, and I ran into Voegelin. I then asked him if he was going to take up Immanuel Kant. He said, well, he hadn’t thought about that. Then he asked, “Why do you want me to?” I said, “Well, I know nothing about Kant and the German idealists.” Voegelin said, “That’s where I started, and I spent my life trying to extricate myself from those idealists.” And I thought about it today when we were talking about freedom: Voegelin once said in class that the greatest writing on freedom was Schelling’s essay on human freedom. So, for quite some time, I wondered if Voegelin really had extricated himself from Kant and from the sort of teachings that came after Hegel and Schelling. But I thought that was rather revealing, that he would have said something like that to me. Hollweck: He said this repeatedly: “Exploration of the physical cosmos was

begun with the Greeks and then neglected for over twelve hundred years.” I don’t think he had a problem with the exploration of nature. What he had a problem with, as he said, was that ontologically—I’m using that word guardedly, but it’s a convenient word here—exploration of the physical cosmos is mistaken for something else. In other words, if one had continued philosophically, the way the Greeks did except with increased effort, so to speak, everything would have been fine. The results might have come out somewhat differently, that is true. And the question as to whether the magic conversion of substance into phenomena and phenomena into substance gave science the dynamic that then led to the technological, or vice versa. How this happened, he never explained in detail. In other words, would we have been as interested in pursuing science had we looked at it as mere phenomena? Did it take the magic operation? I don’t know the answer to that question! I think that’s something Voegelin also left somewhat unclear. But there was nothing wrong with exploration of the physical cosmos. What’s wrong with it? We are allowed to explore the physical cosmos; there is no law that tells us not to. But we have to know what we’re doing, and the technological results of that. With The History of Political Ideas, it was a very odd thing to end the chapter on Schelling and say that he wrote the thing a week after the atomic bomb was dropped.

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Hollweck: But it makes a point. After , the autobiographical statement is

incredibly clear. There was a sense of directionlessness, which he points out in the autobiographical memoir. The war was over. Now what? Then seeing, of course, what could happen after the end of the war, the ferocity with which he attacked the American’s Germany policy, saying, “We are giving the Russians everything.” It was the reaction of somebody who had fought this war and now they were losing this war. Walsh: I think that the experience of the war colored Voegelin’s outlook and

sharpened his view of the world and his view of the modern era. But it also distorted it to some extent, because obviously, not everything in the modern world leads toward totalitarian National Socialism. Certain things did. But many readers of Voegelin—unfairly, I think, but not surprisingly—gain the impression that Voegelin dismissed the whole modern world as Gnostic and as inevitably tending toward totalitarianism. I mean, in The History of Political Ideas you find Voegelin saying in the chapter on Dante, “Well, the ultimate outcome of this was Lenin and Hitler.” You know? These things recur with such frequency that you think, “The poor man! Everything leads toward Lenin, Stalin, and Hitler!” I remember once being surprised, because I had accepted that subtext as well, when he said something very positive about how great it was to be able to watch television. And then I said, “Well, of course!” I had expected him sort of to denounce everything from penicillin to electricity. Did Eric ever say anything about technology as a social order? There are some articles that are peripheral to it, but did he ever talk to you about what was different in living with television and electricity? Or were these just contingent conveniences? L. Voegelin: Well, I had to try terribly to get a colored television. He said,

“Black and white is good enough for us.” But when we went to watch television, it was awful. Then we went to Macy’s and found some other brand.

Finances Hollweck: When you have a wife you have to provide for, I think you have to be concerned about money. One thing I always noticed about him was that he understood responsibility in a very practical, commonsense way, as we all should. He took it seriously in an ethical way. We live here, you know, so we

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can’t afford to be sloppy about it. I know that because he gave me some advice when I was not doing it quite that way; he was very serious about that. I considered it friendly advice to be taken seriously beyond the actual practical application, because it reflects what kind of a person you are. For instance, how you manage your money: on the one hand, you’re not supposed to be greedy, but on the other hand, you’re not supposed to squander things. Good old-fashioned morals! Lippucci: It’s funny, because the money interest he had was also reflected in

his constant checking of the stock exchange. He was always looking at that. I had never seen that in an academic! I just thought he would be totally devoted, like a priest, to his vocation. But he was also concerned about his stock portfolio. So, there was this other side of him. Edwards: I was struck when we visited his home in Palo Alto. He had a desk

and a table where he did his financial stuff and he had all these broker statements sitting right there and these enormous collections of stocks sitting right there. I would have thought that a European person would be much more private about those things, and I also imagined that perhaps he was more American in this. I mean, he was in many ways very European and in some ways very American. This was maybe a way of manifesting his success in the financial realm where he didn’t have as much success in the institutional academic realm. Another marginal thing: he also tended to be quite successful in the stock market. Heilman: Ah, indeed. He said, “We had to have money.” So, he studied the

stock market. I once asked him how much time he spent. He said about two hours a day, reading the papers and starting out. Then he said, “I invested a small amount of money and ended up with half a million or so.” Well, that also shows that he was a good American! Heilman: He took to American life very well, yes. Schabert: There were, I think, not infrequently disagreements with his wife

about the way to spend money. I think she had probably a more natural attitude toward money: money is an instrument and once you have it, you can save it, but sometimes you can derive some pleasure from using it. Money is an instrument. But he thought money was a good, something almost metaphysical. Of course, there is an obvious explanation: he was always very poor as a young scholar and had no secure post in Vienna and had to take up all kinds of

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odd-jobs in order to survive. When they went to the United States, they had no money at all—a pittance. I don’t think he earned a great deal of money in Louisiana. So, the very first time he really earned decent money was in Europe. That was the very first time he really could say, “Now, this is mine.” Only in Munich could they start indulging in some extras: a small cottage south of Munich, some extravagant travels, and so on. So, that’s one explanation. But I also think it was more than immediate experience. When I met him at our last meeting in Florence, he asked me to bring him the International Herald Tribune. He was looking for information on the stocks because he was constantly speculating on the stock market. Then he also got his pension from Munich, and it was a very good pension: he had the highest professorial salary there. Of all the professors, he had the highest. Then he got 100 percent of his salary as a pension. And the dollar was falling, right? When he went to Stanford, it was still four marks to one dollar, but the dollar was falling. So, his pension went up, and he got five thousand dollars a month to spend. By that time, there really was sufficient money to invest in the stock market. And I think he did it with a kind of feeling of power. He liked very much to talk about his exploits in the stock market, that he had done well. I think it was a kind of projection: “I am someone in the world now. I am someone who is successful now and I also have power. I am successful with money.” So, there was something in addition to security, you see.

Lissy Did you ever get to know Mrs. Voegelin? Scurria: She’s a nice person, a really nice person. She sent me a letter the

other day. Of course, I know I’m patting myself on the back with all these things, but when my mother died, she mentioned in the letter how fortunate my mother was to have had a daughter. She said she wished that she had a daughter like me. And I thought, it’s a shame that she doesn’t have a daughter, or somebody who could take care of her because she’s such a sweet person, you know? She really is. I have a hard time understanding her now on the phone, but she talks about “Paul” and says she’s very fortunate to have him. I think she’s confined to a wheelchair, now, isn’t she? Pretty much, or in bed. Scurria: Well, she and Dr. Voegelin were just two people that I thought were

made for each other.

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From your observations in California, was he a good husband? Schabert: No. For our generation and what is now taken to be a good way of

life, let’s say, Voegelin belongs to the past: to the bourgeoisie of the nineteenth century. Not the eighteenth century, not the late twentieth century, it is the nineteenth century. Even early in the twentieth century, this distribution of roles was on the way out. Lissy’s role was to make his life comfortable. In a sense she was a third estate: I’m the aristocrat and there’s the third estate. On the other hand, naturally, there is another part in that the husband is in charge of the economics. So, that might have been another aspect of his attitude toward money. He would never have expected Lissy to provide. And that is why Voegelin felt this obligation to provide the money. So, he produced the money, and Lissy was there to make his life comfortable. That’s the scenario of the bourgeois family in the nineteenth century. In more personal terms, Voegelin was an excellent husband on the one hand, and an awful husband on the other. Lissy was his comrade, his confidante, his consolation, and so on. She was his sole support in times of crisis, and occasionally, she was his public. She was highly intelligent and had very good judgment. She was to some extent his equal in terms of intelligence; they talked about problems at the university, and she read his work and commented on it—with all caution, of course. So, she did play this role. But I don’t know to what extent, because when they had people around like Henningsen or myself, he would rely on us on a daily basis instead. He’d write into the night and the next day ask what I thought, so that I was like a running commentator. And things were typed up throughout the day, and so on. So, then he didn’t need to rely so much on Lissy. The more problematic side was that sometimes Lissy was enslaved, so to speak. Maybe that’s the wrong word, but I mean it in a technical way. He never could have written as he did without this sort of life-support system Lissy provided. In terms of energy and time, in terms of peace and quiet— and in Aristotelian terms, in terms of hierarchy, she was really the slave on which he built his aristocratic existence. He led, of course, an aristocratic life. She did all the grocery shopping, she furnished the house, she answered the telephone, and he never assisted her. So, that’s the more problematic side. Good husband, yes, but he took to the utmost extent, he exploited this Victorian construction. Caringella: I know Eric often had Lissy, especially with the Order and

History, read what he wrote.

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L. Voegelin: Oh yes. Caringella: And what was he looking for from you, in your reaction? L. Voegelin: Well, it’s hard to say. I always made a joke about it. I said, “He’s

looking for a simple mind, how it would react to this.” I wasn’t such a simple mind, really, not after so many years with Eric. But I stuck with that, and he always laughed about it. Anytime I found something I could not understand at all, I told him that I could not understand it, that there must be something missing. And he would be furious; he would take it away from me and go back into his study. Two days later, he would come up and say, “Read it now.” And I would look down, and instead of two pages, there would be three. And he would say, “It’s all your fault.” Let me ask you this question: what did you make of Eric’s work? What did you think of it? L. Voegelin: Well, I read everything, of course. I thought it was very interest-

ing. That’s all I can tell you about it: I liked it very much. Caringella: There was one story I remember you told me about reading his

long essay, The Nature of the Law. I think it must have been around 1957 or ’58, when you were going to go to Germany. He had given these lectures a number of times in the law faculty at LSU, then he wrote The Nature of the Law that summer. And what was your reaction to that? L. Voegelin: I didn’t want to read it. That was the only time that I did not want

to read something of Eric’s because I thought it was too boring. I couldn’t understand anything, and it was going into too much detail. So I gave it back to him and said, “No, that’s not for me.” It was too abstract. Opitz: His whole life was completely caught up with work. He was in that way

a bit narrow. He was always talking about experiences; but for him, experiences of life took place mainly in his head. I don’t know why they had no children, but if somebody were to tell me he didn’t want them because they would have prevented him from concentrating on philosophy, I would believe it. My wife mentioned this to Lissy when we talked in Palo Alto, and Lissy said, “Yes, he was always working,” which must have meant she was at times quite lonely.

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Opitz: Yes. He never had much time for her. The only thing she could do was

cook for him and read his manuscripts, which she didn’t always understand. When some years ago Lissy allowed me to read his personal letters, I was embarrassed: they were cool, without any emotion. I don’t know what kind of life he really had with her. Several people have said more or less something like this: his meditative process was always Platonic, but it focused on a text. And you said it just now: that he would be able to interpret Plato and Aristotle, Virgil and Hesiod, whomever, but that presumes that there is something there already, another set of language terms. Opitz: Yes, but in order to understand these texts and the experiences that

underlie these texts, you must have had the experiences. For me, this is entirely personal. So why did he restrict himself mainly to literary texts? If you look at the major experiences in his life and the major biographical influences, there were things such as leaving Vienna, having to worry about supporting himself in America, about getting a job in Louisiana, or his ambivalence about being there. But he never talks about these experiences. Opitz: Not even in the letters with Schütz. Schütz was one of the few people

with whom he really communicated in his lifetime, but he was still talking mainly about texts! He didn’t talk about his own impressions of America or his direct experiences at LSU. We didn’t know much about him. We didn’t know much about his years in Vienna or, later, about the exile. I can’t remember that he ever really talked about his own life, about his experiences, about his own existence. Hollweck: Lissy and I talked about it after Voegelin’s death. She was down on

a few things, even angry. They didn’t travel much. Vacation, could you imagine Eric on a vacation! Did you ever talk to Lissy Voegelin about his concentration on his work? Gebhardt: No, Lissy Voegelin did not confide in me very much about things.

But it was obvious that she was the wife of a famous professor and his work came first. She would be the ancilla to his work. Of course, she would always tell how he would work day and night in Baton Rouge and only work. I don’t know whether it was true or not, but in her opinion, her life—her whole life—centered on his work. At that time he did not allow her and she did not allow herself to make judgments about what he did. This changed after his

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death; then she decided that she was able to interpret what he mentioned to her, to say, “There we had a certain disagreement.” But this was the life of most German professors’ wives. Not my wife, not modern professors’ wives. But at that time, the wife of a professor focused on the professor’s work and his scholarship. She would do everything: not just the household chores, but organize the daily life. He would have to do nothing! So, Lissy would cook lunch, cook dinner, and when the assistants would come to the seminar once a month, she would cook for that. She would bring the tea and the sandwiches, then retire. And she would often come to his lectures and sit there. So, of course, he was the center of her life. But that was the generation for which it was the usual thing. Marriage to a professor at that time meant that they call you “Frau Professor.” In Germany, it was “Frau Doktor” or “Frau Professor”—you did not need the title of professor yourself, it sufficed if you married one. And you would of course do everything to keep your respected husband happy and have him concentrate on his work. Let’s talk a little bit about some of the things Voegelin wrote. One of the central terms is experiences, and there are two things. One of the things Opitz mentioned, and I agreed: he always talked a lot about experience, but his experience was very, very narrow, very focused on scientific problems. Concern with family was completely excluded. Gebhardt: I think that’s right. But that is part of the university professor’s

tradition. My own teacher, Franz Schnabel, for example, was somebody who never married. They would tell you, “Never get married before you get the doctorate, or better still, before you habilitate. After habilitation, you may marry somebody.” In earlier years, you had to marry some girl who came from a rich family, because you didn’t get any salary. So, if you didn’t have money of your own, you either married the daughter of a professor who could further your career—therefore, many German professors married the daughter of a professor—or you had to come into money by marrying somebody rich. So, you usually married later. If you read the letters of Voegelin, this was also part of it: he got married only when he had income. So, of course, I think children were out. The family—indeed, children and society—were secondary to his work. In some ways, it wouldn’t change with children either: mother would take care of the children, and the master would write his books! I think Voegelin was not extraordinary in this respect, but on the more extreme side. As for experiences, when he talked about experiences, he did it in scholarly or scientific terms: his was the tradition of the German Geisteswissenschaften,

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empirical science in a sense. Certainly, the life experience that went into it was rather limited, but he would not have said that you need a lot of life experience to become a good scholar. There is a funny story about that. Notre Dame had all these healthy Catholic boys, very athletic. One day they asked him a question, obviously one of the kind they occasionally asked their priest professors. “Professor Voegelin,” they asked, “what shall we do in order to avoid all these sexual temptations?” And Voegelin told them, “Well, you just do your scholarly work properly and become a good scientist, and this will cause you not to make errors.” That was the way he looked at it! You will avoid all these temptations if you concentrate on scholarly work. What splendid advice he gave these young men! Sitzler: In Palo Alto, I saw a little bit of the private, the Emeritus Professor

Voegelin in his smaller and private house. There I also discovered traits that were very touching, very positive. When he was still in Germany, one heard that he would not let himself be disturbed if he was working, that, even on Christmas Eve, he would sit down and write a chapter rather than celebrate Christmas. This, of course, is not so nice. But in California, I got the impression more that he cherished Lissy very much, also that she absolutely anchored for him his daily life, his life context. He was, for example, not at all picky where food was concerned. Whatever she cooked—and certainly, she cooked very well; one must add that—he always praised highly. And she was always very happy about this. Something else he really liked to do, something that made him very happy, was to buy her a nice piece of jewelry. Oh really? Did he pick it out himself? Sitzler: Yes, yes. She had a chain with a pendant and a ring, and they were

very beautiful stones. At one point, I admired it. I can still see the situation: I said, “Oh, you have a beautiful stone in your necklace.” He stood beside her and said, “You find it pretty? I picked it out for my wife. I also found it very beautiful.” So, one noticed that he enjoyed doing such things. You’ve certainly also been told that he speculated with stocks. So, with this jewelry, the value was there, but he also simply wanted to give her pleasure with it. That was really touching. I would not have thought it after I heard these stories among his assistants that he would sit himself down and read on Christmas Eve or write rather than celebrate Christmas. But in Palo Alto, I experienced an entirely different side of him. Sitzler: Well, I think his relationship to Lissy was one of the most beautiful

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marriages I had ever seen. I have only known two truly successful marriages, and this one lasted fifty years. They did have their fiftieth wedding anniversary, didn’t they? They were very near it. Lissy said this afternoon that she had such enormous admiration for him because she had a bad temper. My wife, Denise, said that Lissy really subordinated her life to him. And I was thinking, “Well, not every human being marries another person like that. It’s not the same as subordinating your life to a shoe salesman.” But perhaps she didn’t even do that, because she was saying how much they talked about other people, and if there was somebody she didn’t like, she was very clear about letting him know. If she didn’t understand something, it was redone. Pascal: Yes, she has told me that. There were so many things he consulted her

on or things he did for her. This was not a case of some German professor who was sort of laying down the law and so on. I believe it was a very free relationship. I don’t know that the word subordinate is the right word. My guess is that she found life with him so very interesting in every way that it would have been a sacrifice not to. That’s my feeling. If you had any intelligence at all—and Lissy has a great deal of intelligence—you could not help but be interested in what he was doing with his life and with his time.

His Life, His Time Sandoz: I recorded the interviews that became his Autobiographical

Reflections much against his initial inclination. I guess that was in ’73. Why was he reluctant to have you record his interviews? Sandoz: Well, I don’t know whether he was so much reluctant or whether I

was a bother. Here I was trying to get him to do something that he hadn’t attempted to do. Voegelin, you know, was very much a sort of self-contained personality and he intended not to do things, except the things he wanted to do. What he wanted to do, what he had to do was “The Work!” The Work had to be done, and this wasn’t part of The Work! So, I was wheedling him into these interviews with the idea that we would record questions and he would respond—we would have a conversation. But he didn’t want to do it that way; he wanted to have the questions prepared, to have them either written down so he could see them in advance or at least have the question formulated off the record and then have just his answers. That’s the way we did it. So, he

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would, if anything, dictate answers to questions as he finally bowed to the inevitability of doing this and getting it over with as fast as possible. He dragged his secretary in to take notes while we were talking, and she would also take them down in shorthand so that I didn’t have to figure out what this guy was saying just from listening to it. Naumann: He was erratic in his habits, no doubt about it. He was an outsider. But as an outsider, you are much better able to influence other people. That’s the benefit of not trying to project a power network of institutionalized thought through your disciples.

You have some sort of authority. Naumann: Yes. Your work is appreciated for what it’s actually worth and not

for its institutionalization in chairs and doctrines. In other words, his work as such is received by those who read it, unencumbered by the envy that comes from institutionalized thought. Such thought produces envy in those who didn’t get this chair or that chair or by disciples who had no chance at a career because somebody else had plastered the whole landscape with his disciples. Voegelin didn’t—that’s the benefit for his thought. And that long-term effect will grow in our time. A lot of young people find his work more attractive than at the time he was teaching in Germany. Could you say something about that—about Voegelin’s current reception in Europe? You brought him up, for example, in the late ’90s in the debate surrounding the Holocaust Mahnmal in Berlin. As minister of culture for the Social Democratic–Green coalition government, you argued on behalf of erecting a monument to the victims of the Holocaust in Berlin. And you explicitly invoked Voegelin’s work in support of your argument. Naumann: Well, the Mahnmal debate is a major subject. The philosophical

core of Voegelin’s thinking was anamnesis, remembrance, and the role of consciousness in remembrance. The Husserlian discussions that he had with Alfred Schütz and others in Anamnesis (a book that only sold six hundred copies in Germany, but that I think was at that time by far his best) formed my thinking on that strongly. And some other people’s too! People like Metz, who runs an institute here in Berlin. He is a theologian and historian researching anti-Semitism and obviously a well-versed reader of Voegelin. Others, like Jan Assmann, are too. Voegelin has an underground presence among conservative thinkers in this country. So, his presence is very visible, but only for those who have actually

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read his texts. And suddenly you see the reemergence of ideas and thoughts. He had a number of disciples in Czechoslovakia, so his presence was felt in the thought processes of the Velvet Revolution. And he was well read by Leszek Kolakowski, who is a major philosopher and a historian of ideas, a former communist dissident who is now a very conservative professor at All Souls, Oxford, and at the University of Chicago. Voegelin’s appreciation among historians discussing Marxism and totalitarianism in the twentieth century is very obvious. People like Hennis, Kolakowski, Ritter, and certainly Hans Blumenberg—everybody knew him. So, the intellectual community of the upper echelon of thinkers in the English-speaking segments of Europe appreciated and knew his role. But they also mostly looked at him as somewhat peculiar, perhaps too general, a bit too all-encompassing in his theses. Sandoz: Jay Walters, one of my contemporaries at LSU when I was doing my

master’s degree said, “Voegelin is one of the people carrying the intellectual burden of mankind.” It seems to me that that is a useful way to think of this: the intellectual burden of mankind. In other words, he sought to elaborate and understand truth as far as comprehension and the mind will take us. He sought to know what truth is as it has been ascertained in the history of mankind, and to arrive at a way of grasping and communicating what is pertinent to the contemporary crisis of the West—a crisis in the shadow of which he lived throughout this period. This sense of having been fired from the University of Vienna, having had to escape the clutches of the Gestapo by a whisker by spending all night in the coffeehouses of Vienna after he had gotten his exit visa and his passport, because of course to go home would mean he would be trapped. All of this kind of thing accumulated in his writings. In The History of Political Ideas, not simply the West, but the whole of mankind is viewed by Voegelin as being in a sort of a worldwide rebellion against the ground of being and against the ultimate truth, as far as truth has been ascertained. This is a matter that requires remedy and attention to the extent the mind can bring some succor to the plight of mankind in the world today. I think he viewed it that way. It was not a messianic complex, not “It is I who am doing this.” But I think he thought of himself as one of those left to speak the truth. I have been trying recently to think how to put this without making him sound like some kind of egotistical, self-centered person, which he really wasn’t. Sitting around talking to people like Henningsen and Gebhardt, he thought that his own theoretical work in the field of human studies ranked with that of the great physical scientists. He thought that his work was as

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important as that of Einstein in physics—his own work. Of course, he never said that to anybody except in a private conversation, with Henningsen over a beer or something. But there is, to put it less grandiosely, this sense of doing something and doing it in a way that is equal to or superior to what had been done previously. I think Voegelin knew his own achievement—not that he completed it before he died. Voegelin would say, for example, that even Thomas Aquinas could have done what he did somewhat better than he did it. There were certain ways in which he thought that Thomas was deficient; in other words, he could judge Thomas Aquinas’s philosophizing. Even in the History of Political Ideas, he says that Dante was a greater theorist than either Aristotle or Thomas Aquinas. This was already in the late ’40s, and exactly what he meant by that, we probably need to find out. In any case, there was this sense of achievement even then. It’s like the deathbed story of Beethoven, whose “C# Minor Quartet” had been performed and no one had been particularly impressed by it. His best friend comes by, and Beethoven says, “How was it received?” His friend, in typical German fashion, says, “It wasn’t really liked very much; the audience didn’t appreciate it.” To which he said, “Well, they will.” This is one of the pinnacle moments of Western music. I think it’s of a stature comparable to Voegelin and such a personality: his command, and his capacity to express the most intricate historical and theoretical material in a way that is pungent and provocative, and always concerned with the essentials. The stature of Voegelin is going to hold up. Voegelin, I think, is going to be recognized as the greatest thinker of our time—in due course.

Chronology

7

, January 

Eric Voegelin born, Cologne, Germany, to Otto Stefan and Elisabeth Ruehl Voegelin.



Family relocates to Vienna, Austria.



Dr. rerum politicarum, University of Vienna. Supervisors Hans Kelsen, Othmar Spann. Oxford Summer School.

-

Laura Spellman Rockefeller Fellow, Rockefeller Foundation. Visits Columbia University, Harvard University, University of Wisconsin, Paris.



Publishes On the Form of the American Mind. Habilitation, University of Vienna.

-

Privatdozent, University of Vienna.



Marries Lissy Onken (–).



Publishes Race and State and The History of the Race Idea. Begins the study of Greek. Hitler elected chancellor of Germany. 279

280

Voegelin Recollected



Austrian political unrest.



Publishes The Authoritarian State. Appointed adjunct professor (extraordinarius) of political science, University of Vienna.



Publishes The Political Religions. Anschluss between Germany and Austria. Emigration to the United States.

–

Tutor and instructor, Harvard University. Begins work on The History of Political Ideas.



Instructor, Bennington College, Vermont.

–

Professor, University of Alabama, Tuscaloosa.

–

Professor, Louisiana State University, Baton Rouge.



Naturalized as an American citizen.



Publishes The New Science of Politics.



Publishes Order and History, Vol. I, Israel and Revelation.



Publishes Order and History, Vol. II, The World of the Polis, and Vol. III, Plato and Aristotle.

–

Professor, University of Munich, Germany. Founds the Institut für Politische Wissenschaft (renamed GeschwisterScholl-Institut für Politische Wissenschaft [Universität Munchen] in ). Intermittent visiting professor, University of Notre Dame.



Publishes Science, Politics, and Gnosticism.

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281



Publishes Anamnesis: On the Theory of History and Politics.

–

Henry Salvatori Distinguished Scholar, Hoover Institution on War, Revolution, and Peace.



Publishes Order and History, Vol. IV, The Ecumenic Age.

–

Senior research fellow, Hoover Institution.



Publishes From Enlightenment to Revolution, an excerpt from The History of Political Ideas.

, January 

Dies, Stanford, California.



Publishes (posthumously) Order and History, Vol. V, In Search of Order.



Publication of Collected Works begins.

Contributors

7

Richard V. Allen (interviewed May , , in Los Angeles) was a doctoral student of Voegelin in Munich. He was later instrumental in securing Voegelin a grant that became the Salvatori professorship at the Hoover Institution on War, Revolution, and Peace. Having served in key posts in the Nixon and Reagan administrations, Allen is now a senior fellow at the Hoover Institution and an international business consultant. He lives in Denver and New Zealand.

7 James Babin (interviewed May , , in Baton Rouge) first met Voegelin in  as a graduate student of John Hallowell at Duke University. A professor of English recently retired from Louisiana State University, Babin lives in Baton Rouge.

7 Claus-Ekkehard Bärsch (interviewed July , , in Manchester, England) was Voegelin’s student at the University of Munich, where he obtained both a law degree and a doctorate in political science. A well-known scholar of political religions, Bärsch taught political theory at the University of Duisburg until his retirement in . In , he founded the Institute for the Politology of Religion at Duisburg. Bärsch lives near Munich.

7 283

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Voegelin Recollected

Heinz Barazon (interviewed in German, June , , in Vienna) met Voegelin as a law student at the University of Vienna, where he attended Voegelin’s  course on public law. Forced into exile by the Anschluss of Austria, he served in the British army in Palestine before returning to Vienna in . He was reinstated as a jurist in  and practiced as a prominent human rights lawyer until his death in .

7 Alfons Beitzinger (interviewed April , , at Notre Dame) knew Voegelin while teaching in the government department at the University of Notre Dame. A professor and scholar of American government, Beitzinger is now retired and lives in Granger, Indiana.

7 James Bolner Sr. (interviewed May , , in Baton Rouge) attended Voegelin’s lectures as an undergraduate at Louisiana State University. Inspired to pursue graduate studies by Voegelin’s example, he taught in LSU’s department of political science until his retirement in . He now resides in Baton Rouge.

7 Friedemann Büttner (interviewed September , , in Chicago and May , , in Berlin) was an undergraduate at the University of Munich when he first met Voegelin in . A specialist in the history and culture of the Near East, he became a research assistant at the Institute for Political Science in . A highly reputed scholar and professor of Middle Eastern politics at the Free University of Berlin, he retired in August . He lives in Berlin.

7 Paul Caringella (interviewed May , , in Mountain View, California) became Voegelin’s assistant in  and provided Voegelin both scholarly and personal support until his death in . Now a visiting fellow at the Hoover Institution, Caringella is director of the Eric Voegelin Archive there. He lives in San Francisco.

7 Frederick Crosson (interviewed April , , at Notre Dame) knew Voegelin at the University of Notre Dame, first as director of the Program of Liberal Studies, and later as dean of the College of Arts and Letters. A former

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editor of the Review of Politics, Crosson enjoyed a long teaching and research career in Notre Dame’s philosophy department before retiring in . He lives in South Bend, Indiana.

7 David Edwards (interviewed August , , in Washington, D.C.) was a junior member of the government department at the University of Texas at Austin when he met Voegelin there in the mid-s. He now teaches international relations, political theory, and public policy at the University of Texas at Austin.

7 Tom Flanagan (interviewed February , , in Calgary) attended Voegelin’s courses as an undergraduate at the University of Notre Dame. The author of several books on Canadian politics, Flanagan is now a professor of political science at the University of Calgary, Alberta.

7 Jürgen Gebhardt (interviewed April , , in Nuremberg) was Voegelin’s senior research assistant at the Institute for Political Science in Munich. A highly reputed scholar and teacher at universities in Bochum and Erlangen, Gebhardt also founded the Eric Voegelin-Bibliothek at the Universität Erlangen-Nürnberg before retiring in . He lives near Munich.

7 Dante Germino (interviewed June , , in Amsterdam) met Voegelin in London in the early s, then visited him regularly during his tenure at the University of Munich. After joining the political science department at the University of Virginia in , Germino actively furthered Voegelin studies in America. He retired from UVa in , then taught at universities in Amsterdam and Bangkok until his death in May .

7 John Gueguen (interviewed April , , in Urbana, Illinois) was Voegelin’s teaching assistant at the University of Notre Dame in the spring of . A former professor of political science at Illinois State University in Normal, he introduced many students to Voegelin’s works there. He is now retired and lives in Kirkwood, Missouri, where he maintains a Voegelin archive.

7

286

Voegelin Recollected

Robert Heilman (interviewed July , , in Seattle) was Voegelin’s colleague and friend during his tenure at Louisiana State University. As a member of LSU’s English department, Heilman not only sponsored Voegelin’s naturalization as an American citizen but also frequently assisted Voegelin with his English. In , Heilman accepted a position at the University of Washington, where he taught and wrote until his retirement in . A prolific literary scholar, he remained active in his profession until his death in .

7 Manfred Henningsen (interviewed September , , in Chicago) knew Voegelin first as his research assistant in Munich, then as a visiting fellow at the Hoover Institution in California. In , Henningsen accepted a position at the University of Hawaii at Manoa, where he has written on and taught contemporary political theory since that time.

7 Michael Hereth (interviewed June , , in Hamburg) was one of Voegelin’s early students at the University of Munich. Later a member of the German Federal Parliament, he became a reputed Tocqueville scholar while teaching at universities in Bochum and Hamburg. Now retired, Hereth lives in Provence, France.

7 Dagmar Herwig (interviewed June , , in Saarbrücken, Germany) was one of Voegelin’s doctoral students in Munich. After teaching political theory at several German universities, she went into the civil service. She held a high-ranking position in Saarland’s Ministry of Labor till her retirement in May . Together with Manfred Henningsen, she recently prepared Voegelin’s  lectures, Hitler und die Deutschen, for publication in Germany. She lives in Saarbrücken.

7 Hedda Herwig (interviewed June , , in Düsseldorf) was one of Voegelin’s doctoral students at the University of Munich. An expert on C. G. Jung and issues in political psychology, she taught political philosophy at the Universities of Aachen and Duisburg. Now retired, Herwig lives in Munich.

7

Contributors

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Thomas Hollweck (interviewed February , , in Calgary) first knew Voegelin as an undergraduate student at the University of Munich, then came to know him well as a visiting scholar at the Hoover Institution. Now a scholar and teacher of German literature at the University of Colorado in Boulder, Hollweck has edited one volume of Voegelin’s correspondence and participates regularly at annual meetings of the Eric Voegelin Society.

7 Glenn (Chip) Hughes (interviewed November  in Indianapolis) was a graduate student at Boston College when he enjoyed a brief yet momentous encounter with Voegelin in . Now a Voegelin scholar and regular contributor to the Eric Voegelin Society meetings, Hughes teaches philosophy at St. Mary’s University in San Antonio.

7 John Kennedy (interviewed April , , at Notre Dame) was head of Notre Dame’s department of government in , when Voegelin was at the University of Notre Dame. Kennedy is now deceased.

7 Reinhold Knoll (interviewed April , , in Vienna) first met Voegelin as a child when the Voegelins visited his father, who was a friend of Voegelin from the s and s. An avid reader and promoter of Voegelin’s work in Austria, Knoll teaches at the Institut für Soziologie in Vienna.

7 Alessandra Lippucci (interviewed August , , in Washington, D.C.) was a graduate student at the University of Texas at Austin when she first met Voegelin. After attending his seminars there in the mid-s, she maintained regular contact with him until his death. Lippucci now teaches public policy at the University of Texas at Austin.

7 Hans Maier (interviewed June , , in Munich) was called in  to serve alongside Voegelin as a full professor of political science at the Institute for Political Science in Munich. Following a sixteen-year term as the Bavarian minister of culture, he held the prestigious Romano Guardini Chair at the University of Munich. Retired since , Maier lives in Munich.

7

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Voegelin Recollected

Lucille McDowell (interviewed May , , in Baton Rouge) was one of Voegelin’s first students at Louisiana State University. Formerly a producer for Louisiana Public Broadcasting and the coordinator of Louisiana’s “Literacy and Learning” program, she is retired and lives in Baton Rouge.

7 Hiawatha Moore (interviewed by Brian Boyer for a TV documentary on Voegelin’s life) provided Voegelin palliative care in the final months of his life and also attended him while he died. She lives in California.

7 Dennis Moran (interviewed on April , , at Notre Dame) was a graduate student in the department of English when he encountered Voegelin almost daily in Notre Dame’s South Dining Hall. Now managing editor of the Review of Politics, Moran lives in South Bend, Indiana.

7 Michael Naumann (interviewed July , , in Berlin) studied under Voegelin at the University of Munich from  to , where he earned his doctorate. He later became a celebrated journalist and publisher, as well as the first minister of culture for a federal government of Germany. Naumann is presently publisher-editor of Die Zeit and co-editor of the journal Kursbuch. He lives in Hamburg and Berlin.

7 Walter Nicgorski (interviewed April , , at Notre Dame) first met Voegelin as a junior faculty member in the department of government at the University of Notre Dame. As a teacher, scholar, and former editor-in-chief of the Review of Politics, Nicgorski has actively promoted the study of Voegelin’s work. He now lives in South Bend, Indiana, where he is a professor in Notre Dame’s Program of Liberal Studies and in the political science department.

7 Peter J. Opitz (interviewed April , , in Munich) was one of Voegelin’s research assistants at the Institute for Political Science in Munich. A respected sinologist, he has also edited a number of translations of Voegelin’s work into German and founded the Eric-Voegelin-Archiv in Munich. Opitz is retired and lives near Munich.

7

Contributors

289

Robert Pascal (interviewed May , , in Baton Rouge) was Voegelin’s colleague at Louisiana State University, where he taught civil and AngloAmerican legal science and Voegelin taught the philosophy of law to firstyear students. Now an emeritus professor of law, Pascal lives in Baton Rouge.

7 Ken Quandt (interviewed May , , in Mountain View, California) met Voegelin at Stanford and later persuaded him to deliver a lecture to the classics department at Berkeley. An independent scholar and a Wagner enthusiast, Quandt regularly delivers papers at annual meetings of the Eric Voegelin Society and is preparing a commentary on Plato’s Republic. He lives in San Francisco.

7 John Roos (interviewed April , , at Notre Dame) studied under Voegelin as an undergraduate at the University of Notre Dame. After completing his doctorate at the University of Chicago, he returned to Notre Dame, where he teaches political theory and institutions in the department of political science.

7 Ellis Sandoz (interviewed October  and , , in Calgary and November , , in Indianapolis) met Voegelin as an undergraduate at Louisiana State University, completed his M.A. there with him, then wrote his doctorate under him at the University of Munich. A prominent Voegelin scholar and promoter of Voegelin studies in America, Sandoz teaches political science at Louisiana State University, where he also leads the Eric Voegelin Institute. He lives in Baton Rouge.

7 Florian Sattler (interviewed April , , in Munich) studied under Voegelin as a graduate student at the University of Munich. Now a successful journalist, he resides in Munich.

7 Martin Sattler (interviewed  July, , in Manchester, England) attended Voegelin’s lecture courses and seminars at the University of Munich before gaining a law degree there. Now a jurist and professor of law, he teaches at a college in Mannheim and lives in Heidelberg.

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290 Voegelin Recollected

Tilo Schabert (interviewed April , , in Munich) studied under Voegelin at the University of Munich, where he received his Ph.D. under Voegelin’s direction. Schabert also assisted him as a visiting scholar at the Hoover Institution. Now a highly reputed scholar and director of the Eranos conferences, Schabert teaches political science at the University of Erlangen. He lives near Munich.

7 Bruno Schlesinger (interviewed May , , at Notre Dame) first knew Voegelin when he attended his course on public law at the University of Vienna. Also forced to flee Vienna after the Anschluss, Schlesinger met Voegelin again at the University of Notre Dame. He founded a new department of humanistic studies at nearby St. Mary’s College, where he taught for sixty years before retiring in April . He lives in South Bend.

7 Jo Scurria (interviewed May , , in Baton Rouge) was the administrative assistant at the department of government throughout Voegelin’s time at Louisiana State University. One of the few expert interpreters of Voegelin’s handwriting, she estimates that she typed more than five thousand pages of his manuscripts. Scurria is retired and lives in Baton Rouge.

7 Florian Seidl (interviewed July , , in Munich) studied under Voegelin as an undergraduate student at the University of Munich. After gaining his doctorate in political science, he entered the corporate world. Seidl is the chief business executive of Keller & Kalmbach in Munich, and he lives in Munich.

7 Lewis P. Simpson (interviewed May , , in Baton Rouge) was a professor of English literature when he met Voegelin at Louisiana State University. Also a Boyd professor, Simpson co-edited the Southern Review from  to his retirement in . He died in April .

7 Kathrin Sitzler (interviewed in German, July , , in Munich) knew Voegelin as an undergraduate at the University of Munich, then in California, where she accompanied the Voegelins on an excursion to examine petroglyphs

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and bristle-cone pines in the Nevada desert. An expert on Hungarian culture, politics, and language, Sitzler works at the Südost-Institut in Munich.

7 Donald Stanford (interviewed May , , in Baton Rouge) was a colleague of Voegelin’s who taught in the department of English at Louisiana State University. Both a literary scholar and a poet, Stanford co-edited the Southern Review from  until his retirement in . He died in August .

7 Marianne Steintrager (interviewed May , , in Baton Rouge) studied under Voegelin as an undergraduate at Louisiana State University, then did graduate work under Leo Strauss at the University of Chicago. She lives in Baton Rouge.

7 Helen Pinkerton Trimpi (interviewed May , , in Palo Alto) together with her then-husband, Wesley Trimpi, was a personal friend of the Voegelins and a frequent guest at their home in Palo Alto. A Melville scholar and acclaimed poet, Trimpi lives in Palo Alto.

7 Wesley Trimpi (interviewed July , , in Palo Alto) knew Voegelin while he was at Stanford and regularly discussed with him everything from Plato to university politics. Both a former professor in Stanford’s English department and an accomplished poet, Trimpi lives in Woodside, California.

7 Lissy Voegelin (interviewed May  and , , in Palo Alto) was Eric Voegelin’s wife from  until his death in . His lifelong companion, constant support, and frequent adviser, Lissy joined him in exile after the Anschluss and accompanied him in all relocations up to their final move to Palo Alto in . Lissy Voegelin remained in Palo Alto until her death in .

7 Klaus Vondung (interviewed April , , in Siegen) first knew Voegelin as an undergraduate in Munich, then worked more closely with him during his two-year fellowship at the Hoover Institution. A recognized Voegelin

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scholar and researcher of political religions, Vondung teaches literature at the University of Siegen in Siegen, Germany.

7 David Walsh (interviewed November , , in Indianapolis) met Voegelin in the early s, when the philosopher arrived in Ireland in order to research Neolithic monuments at New Grange. Now a Voegelin scholar and political philosopher, Walsh teaches political science at the Catholic University of America in Washington, D.C.

7 Ernest J. Walters (interviewed November , , in Indianapolis) knew Voegelin as an undergraduate and M.A. student at Louisiana State University. After completing his doctorate under Leo Strauss at the University of Chicago, Walters joined the political science department at Furman University in Greenville, South Carolina. He taught there until his death in January .

7 Eugene Webb (interviewed April , , in Seattle) first met Voegelin in , then conducted several interviews with him in Palo Alto in preparation for writing a book on Voegelin’s thought. A former teacher of philosophy, religion, and literature at the University of Washington, Webb is now retired and lives in Seattle.

Index

7

EV refers to Eric Voegelin. Page numbers in italics refer to photographs. Apperzeptionsverweigerung (refusal or resistance to perceiving reality), 246 APSA. See American Political Science Association (APSA) Archeological sites and artifacts, 14, 15–21, 57, 244 Arendt, Hannah: debate between EV and, in Review of Politics, 128; Hereth on EV compared with, 95; at Institut für Politische Wissenschaft, 77–78, 79, 99; at Notre Dame, 127; Lissy Voegelin on, 85 —works: Eichmann in Jerusalem, 77, 97; On Revolution, 78; The Origins of Totalitarianism, 85, 177 Aristotle: Chroust’s writings on, 119, 121; EV’s interpretation of generally, 272; EV’s lectures and seminars on, 62, 65, 75, 123, 189; Hereth on, 81; on hierarchy, 270; as Macedonian spy, 7, 121; and myth, 16; political philosophy of, 60; science of, 130, 144 —works: Ethics, 144; Metaphysics, 144, 196; Poetics, 123; Politics, 144 Aron, Raymond, 99 Art Institute of Chicago, 53 Arts, 53, 240–48 Assmann, Jan, 276 Augustine, Saint, 54, 129, 145, 198

Abare, Paul Macarius, 193 Abendroth, Wolfgang, 99 Abruzzio, Conrad, 203–4 Adamowitsch, Professor, 226 Adorno, Theodor, 58, 59, 108, 113 Albright, W. F., 135 Alcohol use, 19, 26, 57, 91, 179–80 Allen, Richard V.: biographical profile on, 283; dissertation of, rejected by University of Munich, 103–4; on EV’s leaving Institut für Politische Wissenschaft, 107; on founding of Institut für Politische Wissenschaft, 61; generosity of EV to, 98; on home of Voegelins in Palo Alto, 47; at Hoover Institution, 45; on Hoover Institution’s hiring of EV, 45–47, 104; on Maier, 107; and Nixon campaign, 104; on political affinities of EV, 44–47; in Reagan administration, 43–44, 72; at University of Munich, 44–45, 71–72, 103–4 All the King’s Men (Warren), 161 American Political Science Association (APSA), 135–36, 243, 262 Anamnesis (remembrance), 276 Anamnesis (Voegelin), 3–6, 9, 54, 100, 143, 232 Anschluss, 165, 220, 224–29, 250–53 Anti-German sentiment in U.S., 162–63

293

294

Index

Austria: Anschluss in, 165, 220, 224–29, 250–53; arts and literature in Vienna, 240, 246; Dollfuss as chancellor of, 225–26, 227, 228; and Geistkreis, 258, 259; interrogation of EV by Nazi officers in, 220, 221; Social Democrats in, 228, 229, 230, 232, 238; talks by EV in, during 1930s, 97; Voegelins’ exodus from, 165–66, 220–23, 229, 232–33, 252–53. See also University of Vienna Authoritarian State, The (Voegelin), 220, 230 Autobiographical Reflections (Voegelin), 24, 248, 267, 275–76 Automobiles, 17, 44, 120, 163–64, 167, 265–66 Babin, James: biographical profile on, 283; on Melville, 38–39; on teaching by EV at Notre Dame, 125 Barazon, Heinz: on Anschluss, 225–28; biographical profile on, 284; on University of Vienna, 225, 226, 227 Bärsch, Clause-Ekkehard: biographical profile on, 283; dissertation by, 116–17; on international guests at University of Munich, 78–79; as lawyer, 116–17; on lectures by EV at University of Munich, 63, 64; on social life at University of Munich, 91; on women students in EV’s seminars, 81–82 Beethoven, Ludwig van, 278 “Beginning and the Beyond, The” (Voegelin), 21, 22–23, 30–31 Beitzinger, Alfons: biographical profile on, 284; on critics and detractors of EV, 132; on Niemeyer’s and EV’s religious beliefs, 143; on teaching by EV at Notre Dame, 132 Bennington, Vt., 162–63, 182, 211 Bentley, 533–34 Berber, Professor, 64 Bergstraesser, Arnold, 59, 60 Bernadete, Seth, 6 Bible: Epistle to Hebrews in, 150; Gospels of, 54, 55; Psalms, 13 Black Power, 94 Bloch, Mrs., 224 Blumenberg, Hans, 111, 277 Bolner, James, Sr.: biographical profile on, 284; on lectures by EV at LSU, 190–92 Boston, 162

Boston College, 30–35 Bracher, Karl-Dietrich, 111 Broch, Hermann, 65, 246 Brooks, Cleanth, 165, 170–73, 175 Buckely, Bill, 41–42 Bultmann, Rudolph, 79 Bundy, Barbara, 29 Berns, Walter, 190, 207 Butell, Frederick, 165 Büttner, Friedemann: academic specialization of, 112; biographical profile on, 284; on EV as dominant philosophical force in Germany, 106; on EV as substitute father for German students, 113–14; on EV’s leaving Institut für Politische Wissenschaft, 114; on experience of the divine ground, 151–52; father of, 113; on Germany of 1960s, 86; and Hereth, 260; on international guests at University of Munich, 80; on lectures by EV at University of Munich, 65–66; on seminars by EV at University of Munich, 74, 75–76; on women students in EV’s seminars, 82 Calvin, John, 150 Cambridge University, 162 Campbell, Glenn, 45–47 Canetti, Elias, 65, 246 Caringella, Paul: on anti-German sentiment in U.S., 162–63; on archeological sites and artifacts, 15; on arts and EV, 242; on automobile purchased by Voegelins, 164; biographical profile on, 284; on change from The History of Political Ideas to Order and History, 177–78; on childhood of EV, 237; on death of EV’s mother, 236–37; on The Drama of Humanity, 14–15; on dying and death of Voegelin, 6, 13–14; on entertaining by Voegelins, 27–28; as EV’s assistant, 14–15, 31; on EV’s view of America, 218–19; on football game attended by Voegelins, 202; on German students compared with American students, 199; on health problems of EV, 183, 184; and Chip Hughes’s encounter with EV, 31, 33, 34; and humility of EV, 134; on hurricane in New York (1938), 161–62; on international guests at University of Munich, 79; on job offer for EV in Bennington, Vermont, 163;

Index on Lissy Voegelin and the Voegelins’ marriage, 269–71; on meditative inquiry by EV, 21, 22; on review of Arendt’s Origins of Totalitarianism by EV, 177; on seminars by EV in Vienna, 234; on seriousness of EV about his work, 263; on social life of Voegelins, 90, 178; and spiritual experiences of EV, 55; on Stanford University teaching by EV, 49; on terminology used by EV, 50; on University of Vienna after Anschluss, 224, 225; and “Voegelin Recollected” project, 7–9; on Voegelins’ exodus from Austria, 223, 233; on Voegelins’ view of afterlife, 11; on Webb’s book on EV, 51–52; on Zen garden, 55 Carmichael, Peter, 170, 171, 203 Carter, Jimmy, 96 Catholic Action, 149 Catholic Church, 145–53, 210, 215, 224 Center for Voegelin Studies, University of Manchester, 1 Chamberlain, Houston Stewart, 231 Chamberlain, Neville, 223 Chandler Lectures, 104 Chiang Kai-shek, 186, 188, 189 Chicago, 163–64, 254–55. See also University of Chicago Chicago Art Institute, 53, 243–44 China, 60, 75, 102, 186, 188, 189, 191 Christianity: of EV, 121, 143, 148–53, 215; EV on Christ, 152; and historic Jesus, 149; in The New Science of Politics, 146 Chroust, Anton-Herman, 119–22, 136, 137, 138, 149 Cicero, 124 Civil rights movement, 94 Clothing: of EV, 37, 38, 121, 242, 255; of Lissy Voegelin, 196 Cohn, Norman, 127, 128, 129 Collected Works (Voegelin), 1 Collingwood, R. G., 206 Comte, Auguste, 231 Confessions (Augustine), 198 Confessions of Felix Krull (Mann), 39 Confidence-Man, The (Melville), 39 Conquest, Robert, 46 Consciousness: and Anamnesis, 3–6; Heraclitus on, 3; literary form for discussion of, 3–4; and prehistoric artifacts, 18, 20–21 Conservatives and conservatism, 41–43,

295

86, 95, 134, 142–43, 147, 209–10 Constitution, American, 63 Constitution, German, 63 Cook, Thomas I., 135–36 Cooper, Barry, 6–8 Corpsey, Joe, 133 Cronkite, Walter, 39 Crosson, Frederick: biographical profile on, 284–85; on Catholic Church and EV, 148; on conservatives’ interest in EV, 142; on first encounter with EV at Notre Dame, 122–23; on influence of EV at Notre Dame, 153; on student demonstrations at Notre Dame, 139 Current events and EV, 36, 41, 140–42, 186, 190, 191, 216–18. See also Political affinities of EV Czechoslovakia, 228, 252, 277 Dante Alighieri, 267, 278 Davis, Angela, 41 Dempf, Alois, 21, 58, 59, 149, 182 Descartes, René, 247 DeWaal, Elizabeth, 254 Discovery of the Mind, The (Snell), 128 Doderer, Heimito von, 65, 245–46 Dollfuss, Engelbert, 225–26, 227, 228 Dominican College, 29 Doyle, Dorothy-Ann Mitchell, 202 Doyle, James F., 202 Drama of Humanity, The (Voegelin), 14–15, 21 Dritte Walpurgisnacht (Kraus), 248 Durkheim, Émile, 232 Dutschke, Rudi, 87 Earhart Foundation, 6, 14 Eating habits. See Food and eating habits Edwards, David: biographical profile on, 285; on church attendance of EV, 152; on disciples of EV, 262; on finances and EV, 268; on political affinities of EV, 40, 41; on University of Texas seminar by EV, 35, 36, 37 Eichmann in Jerusalem (Arendt), 77, 97 Einfall (inspiration, irruption), 23 Einstein, Albert, 278 Eliade, Mircea, 129 Eliot, T. S., 247 Emory University, 104 Empiricism, 18–19 Encyclopedists, 127

296

Index

Entertaining. See Social life Eranos lecture, 21 Erasmus, 75 Erfahrung vom Grund (experience of the divine ground), 151–52 Eric-Voegelin-Archiv, 1 Eric Voegelin Institute (LSU), 1 Eric Voegelin Society, 1 Ethics (Aristotle), 144 Fackel, Die, 246 Female students. See Women students Festschriften, 1, 133 Finances of Voegelins, 166, 182–83, 267–69 Fine arts. See Arts Fischer-Barnicol, Hans A., 258, 259 Flanagan, Tom: biographical profile on, 285; on language abilities of EV, 131; on Niemeyer, 132; as student at Notre Dame, 126–27, 129, 131–32; on teaching by EV at Notre Dame, 126–27, 132 Food and eating habits, 7, 25, 62, 117, 166–67, 196–97, 211, 237, 274 Football, 138, 202 Four Quartets (Eliot), 247 France, 231, 254 Frankfort, Henri, 128, 129 Frankfurt School, 65, 108, 113 French Revolution, 231 Freud, Sigmund, 84, 248 Friedman, Milton, 46 Friedrich, Carl, 265 Garden, 55–57 Gearen, John, 129 Gebhardt, Jürgen: and Arendt, 79; biographical profile on, 285; on Catholic Church and EV, 145–46; as doctoral student with Schnabel, 60; on EV’s leaving Germany, 112; father of, 113, 114; on founding of Institut für Politische Wissenschaft, 60; and Hereth, 260; and importance of EV’s work, 277–78; at Institut für Politische Wissenschaft, 61, 62, 64, 81, 99; on Institut für Politische Wissenschaft’s daily routine, 62; on international guests at University of Munich, 77, 99; on Lissy Voegelin and the Voegelins’ marriage, 272–74; on modernist theology of EV, 150; on noncollegiality of EV in Germany, 99, 101, 102, 110, 112; personality of, 260; on

political affinities of EV, 230; on spiritual experiences of EV, 54–55; and student demonstrations in Germany, 87; on teaching career of Voegelin generally, 6; and “Voegelin Recollected” project, 6; on Voegelins’ view of afterlife, 11 Geisteswissenschaften, 273–74 Geistkreis, 258, 259 German Political Science Association, 98–99 Germany: Catholic Church in, 146; Constitution of, 63; EV’s desire to be dominant philosophical force in, 106–8; French and English policy toward, in 1930s, 228; Hitler in, 150, 221, 225, 228; liberation of, by Americans at end of World War II, 115; marriage of professors in, 138, 273, 275; National Socialism in, 64, 65, 71–72, 73, 84, 114; political science in, 59, 98–99; Social Democratic Party in, 95–97, 264; student demonstrations at, 41, 86–89, 142; students in, compared with American students, 198–200; universities in, 29, 40, 72, 100, 108, 110; Voegelins’ homes in, 89–91; during World War II, 115. See also Hitler, Adolf; University of Munich Germino, Dante: at APSA meeting on Israel and Revelation, 135; biographical profile on, 285; on Catholic Church and EV, 150; on Christianity of EV, 149–50; scholarly paper by, on EV, 262 Gibbons, Professor and Mrs. Michael, 6 Gilgamesh, 128 Gnosticism: as Christian heresy, 43, 128; and Fidelio, 244; and Hegel, 80; modernity and, 43, 267; Taubes on, 79–80, 106 Gnostic Religion, The (Jonas), 127 Gobineau, Joseph-Arthur Comte de, 231 God: as complicated question, 148; proof of existence of, 17 Goerner, Edward, 127, 129, 132, 145 Goldwater, Barry, 140 Gorgias (Plato), 264 Gospels, 54, 55 Greening of America, The (Reich), 133 Gründgens, Gustav, 63 Guardini, Romano, 182 Gueguen, John: biographical profile on, 285; on Catholic Church and EV, 148; on Chroust and EV in South Dining Hall at Notre Dame, 119–20; on humility

Index of EV, 134–35; on social life of and social interactions with EV at Notre Dame, 137–38; on Leo Strauss, 137–38; on teaching by EV at Notre Dame, 125–26, 131; on Voegelin Symposium (1971) at Notre Dame, 134–35 Guggenheim Foundation, 110 Guichon, Denise, 6, 275 Guirard, Jim, 190 Hallowell, John, 25, 51, 110 Hamburg University, 96 Harris, Bob, 147–48, 168 Harvard University, 99, 125, 162, 166, 223, 253, 265 Heberle, Dr., 169 Hebrews, Epistle to, 150 Hegel, G. W. F., 7, 35, 52, 80, 134, 141, 266 Heidegger, Martin, 91, 128, 230 Heilman, Robert: on Abruzzio, 203–4; and American citizenship of EV, 218–19; biographical profile on, 286; on Cleanth Brooks, 175–76; on cigar smoking by EV, 184; EV’s comments on Anamnesis to, 3–5; on EV’s relationships with students, 200; EV’s relationship with, 171–76; on EV’s view of America, 216, 218–19; on faculty politics at LSU, 173; on finances and EV, 268; on first encounter with EV, 172; on greatness of EV, 2; on James’s Turn of the Screw, 173–74; on lectures by EV at LSU, 192–93; on Huey Long, 160; as LSU faculty member, 165, 170; on New Criticism, 175; on race relations, 216; Shakespeare research by, 174; on social life at LSU, 173; Southern Review article by, on Voegelin, 2; on terminology used by EV, 50–51; on Voegelins’ exodus from Austria, 220; on Robert Penn Warren, 175; on women students, 200 Heilman, Ruth, 160 Henningsen, Kareda, 217 Henningsen, Manfred: biographical profile on, 286; break between EV and, 92–94; on EV’s leaving Institut für Politische Wissenschaft, 104–5, 106, 113; EV’s need to talk about his ideas with, 22; on EV’s position in Germany, 108–9; on EV’s view of America, 216–17; father of, 113, 114; and gossip, 62; and H. Herwig, 71, 84, 88; and importance of

297

EV’s work, 277–78; at Institut für Politische Wissenschaft, 60, 62, 84, 91; on Institut für Politische Wissenschaft’s daily routine, 61; on international guests at University of Munich, 78, 79; lifestyle of, in Germany, 92; on noncollegiality of EV in Germany, 98–99, 102; on political affinities of EV, 41–42, 97–98, 230; on race relations, 217–18; on seminars by EV at University of Munich, 73–74; on social life at University of Munich, 90–91, 92; and spiritual experiences of EV, 55; on student demonstrations in Germany, 88–89; on women students in EV’s seminars, 82, 85–86, 92–93 Hennis, Wilhelm, 277 Heraclitus, 2–3, 4, 49 Hereth, Michael: on arts and EV, 241, 244–46; biographical profile on, 286; on EV as father substitute for German students, 114; on EV’s leaving Institut für Politische Wissenschaft, 106; EV’s relationship with, 260; on international guests at University of Munich, 77–78; on lectures by EV at University of Munich, 63; on noncollegiality of EV in Germany, 98, 111; on politics and EV, 95–97; on search for scientific community by EV, 260–61; on seminars by EV at University of Munich, 76; on Leo Strauss, 110–11; on Tocqueville, 76; at University of Bochum, 260; on women students in EV’s seminars, 80–81 Herwig, Dagmar: biographical profile on, 286; on disciples of EV, 261; as doctoral student of EV, 82, 84–85, 86, 92; EV’s relationship with, 115–16; on EV’s leaving Institut für Politische Wissenschaft, 115–16; on lectures by EV at University of Munich, 66–67; lifestyle of, 92, 93; parents of, 114, 116; on perceived dogmatism of EV, 151; on social life at University of Munich, 90; on transcendence, 151; and University of Dallas faculty position, 92–93; on women students in EV’s seminars, 82–83 Herwig, Hedda: biographical profile on, 286; on disciples of EV, 261–62; as doctoral student of EV, 82, 84, 86, 112; and EV’s leaving Institut für Politische Wissenschaft, 112, 113; EV’s relationship

298

Index

with, 84–85, 112; on greatness of EV, 118; and Henningsen, 71, 84, 88; on lectures by EV at University of Munich, 70–71; parents of, 114, 116; photograph of, 155; on Voegelin Symposium (1981), 261–62; on women students in EV’s seminars, 81, 84–85 Hesburgh, Theodore, 139, 140, 148, 149 Hesiod, 272 Historiogenesis, 48 History of Political Ideas, The (Voegelin): on Catholic Church, 147, 150; change from, to Order and History, 177–78; compared with The New Science of Politics, 21; on Dante, 267, 278; on National Socialism, 267; on Schelling, 266; as source for EV’s lectures, 27, 189; on Vico, 8; writing of, 24 Hitler, Adolf: and dismissal of EV from University of Vienna, 224; in Germany, 150, 221, 225, 228; lectures on, by EV, 64, 66, 71–72, 100, 146, 229; Social Democrats’ view of, 232 Hobbes, Thomas, 95, 96 Hollweck, Thomas: on archeological sites and artifacts, 20–21; biographical profile on, 287; on The Drama of Humanity, 21; on EV as judge of character, 257; on EV in Paris, 254; on EV’s view of America, 249; on EV’s view of death, 11; on finances and EV, 267–68; on generosity of EV, 30; on lectures by EV at University of Munich, 100; on Lissy Voegelin and the Voegelins’ marriage, 272; on meditative inquiry by EV, 22–23, 55; on noncollegiality of EV in Germany, 99–100, 258; on search for scientific community by EV, 258–59; on Sebba, 248–49; on seminars by EV at University of Munich, 74; on technology and EV, 266–67; on Voegelins’ exodus from Austria, 220–21, 229 Homo Ludens (Huizinga), 37–38 Hoover Institution: Allen at, 45; Campbell’s leadership at, 45–47; EV’s hiring by, 45–47, 104 Horkheimer, Max, 58, 59, 108, 113 Hughes, Glenn (Chip): biographical profile on, 287; encounter between EV and, at Boston College, 30–35 Huizinga, Jan, 37 Human Nature and Politics (Wallace), 197

Hurricane (1938), 161–62 Husserl, Edmund, 49, 51, 276 Ideologies: deformation of, 41; and positivism, 231–32 Indian petroglyphs, 18 Institut für Politische Wissenschaft, University of Munich: and break between Henningsen and EV, 92–94; conflicts in, 102; daily routine of, 61–62; EV as substitute father for students at, 113–16; EV’s desire to be dominant philosophical force in Germany, 106–8; EV’s leaving, 103–16, 155, 259–60; EV’s relationship with students at, 63, 72–77, 80–86, 89–93, 109, 113–16, 259; EV’s view of importance of, 110; faculty of, 101–2; founding of, 58–61; Hitler lectures by EV at, 64, 66, 71–72, 100, 146, 229; international guests at, 77–80, 99; lectures by EV at, 62, 63–73, 100, 109, 142; and noncollegiality and selfisolation of EV, 98–102, 107–12, 258, 264; office and office furniture for EV at, 181; purpose of, 60–61; questions during EV’s lectures at, 64, 69, 74, 111; research assistants at, 60, 64, 73, 75, 86, 88–89, 102, 112; salary of EV at, 269; seminars by EV at, 62, 72–77, 80–86, 198; social life at, 89–92; women students at, 80–86, 92–93, 115–16 Integration, 216 Iran, 96 Ireland, 16–17 Israel: ancient, 75; EV’s trip to, 15 Israel and Revelation (Voegelin), 75, 135–36 Italy, 15, 254 James, Henry, 173–74, 243 James, William, 55, 115 Japan, 55, 186 Jesus Christ: EV on, 152; historic Jesus, 149 Joachim of Fiora, 128 Johns Hopkins University, 182, 257 Johnson, Lyndon, 140, 141 Jonas, Hans, 79, 99, 127 Joyce, James, 248 Jung, C. G., 84 Kant, Immanuel, 266 Keats, John, 175 Kelsen, Hans, 226, 232, 238–40

Index Kendall, Wilmoore, 122 Kennedy, John: biographical profile on, 287; on Chroust and EV in South Dining Hall at Notre Dame, 119; on first encounter with EV at Notre Dame, 123; on personality of EV, 123; on political affinities of EV, 142; on teaching by EV at Notre Dame, 131 Kennedy, John F., 44–45, 94, 140 Kent State University, 140 Kertesz, Stephen, 145 Khomeini, Ayatollah, 94 Khrushchev, Nikita, 71–72 Kierkegaard, Søren, 31 Kindermann, Gottfried, 102 Kirk, Russell, 42, 43 Knoll, Reinhold: biographical profile on, 287; on EV as outsider, 263–64; on exodus of Voegelins from Austria, 232–33; on Kelsen, 238–39; on political affinities of EV, 231–32; on race books by EV, 231–32 Kolakowski, Leszek, 277 König, Marie, 17, 19, 20, 154 Korean War, 266 Kraus, Karl, 232, 246, 248 Kuczinski, Jürgen, 78 Labor movement, 94 Laski, Harold, 223 Laufer, Heinz, 60, 114 Law: EV’s law school course at LSU, 193–95; Kelsen on, 238–39 Lawrence, Fred, 31 Left-wing ideologies, 43 Lincoln and His Generals (Williams), 166 Lippucci, Alessandra: biographical profile on, 287; on Christianity and EV, 152–53; on clothing of EV, 37; on disciples of EV, 262; on EV as mystic, 53; on finances and EV, 268; on garden of EV, 56; on political affinities of EV, 40–41; on University of Texas seminar by EV, 35–37, 53 Lobkowicz, Nicholas, 102 Locke, John, 82, 206 Logos, 26 Lolita (Nabokov), 245 Lonergan, Bernard, 31–32 Long, Huey, 160–61, 165, 166 Louisiana State University (LSU): Boyd professorship at, 166; class schedule of

299

EV at, 167, 168, 169, 188, 195; daily routine and work habits of EV at, 166–69; Eric Voegelin Institute at, 1; EV as Boyd Professor at, 166; EV as professor at, 59, 108, 166; EV’s adjustment to Baton Rouge and, 169, 211–12, 215; EV’s leaving, 181–83; EV’s relationships with other faculty at, 170–76; EV’s relationships with students at, 186, 191–95, 200–204, 212–14; faculty of, 165, 169–76, 201, 203; faculty politics at, 173; Heilman’s relationship with EV at, 171–76; hiring of EV by, 164; integration of, 216; Law School of, 165, 193–95; lectures by EV at, 185–95; and Huey Long, 160, 165; Monograph Club at, 203; resentment against EV at, 2, 169–70; retirement system at, 182–83; salary of EV at, 166, 182; scandals at, 161, 223; seminars by EV at, 195–98; social life at, 173, 178–81; Stanford at, 166; students at, 186, 187, 189–95, 198–200; support for EV at, 167, 168–69; tests and grading by EV at, 186, 189 Lucretius, 120 Luther, Martin, 150 Machiavelli, Niccolò, 70, 127, 171–72 “Magician, The” (Rilke), 34 Maier, Hans: biographical profile on, 287; EV’s relationship with, 101–2; on founding of Institut für Politische Wissenschaft, 59–60; at Institut für Politische Wissenschaft, 101–2, 107; on noncollegiality of EV in Germany, 101 Malinowski, Bronislaw Kasper, 232 Malta, 17, 18 Mann, Thomas, 39, 89, 218, 241, 246, 263–64 Marius the Epicurean (Pater), 77 Marx, Karl, 38, 142, 221 Marxism, 41, 52, 65, 87, 88, 94–96, 139, 277 Mauntz, Professor, 64 Maunz, Theodor, 100 McDowell, Lucille: biographical profile on, 288; on EV’s view of America, 215; on Heilman’s relationship with EV, 171–72; on lectures by EV at LSU, 185–86; on LSU faculty in 1940s, 170–71; on seminars by EV at LSU, 195–96; on walks with EV, 212–15

300 Index McNair, Harley Farnsworth, 189 McPartland, Tom, 31 Meditative inquiry, 21–25, 55 Melville, Herman, 38–39 Merkel, Professor, 225 Metaphysics (Aristotle), 144, 196 Metropolitan Museum (New York City), 242 Metz, Johann Baptist, 276 Misogyny. See Women students Modern Age, 258 Monograph Club, LSU, 203 Moore, Hiawatha: biographical profile on, 288; care of Voegelin by, before his death, 12; on EV’s last days and death, 12–13 Moran, Dennis: biographical profile on, 288; on Catholic Church and EV, 149; on Chroust and EV in South Dining Hall at Notre Dame, 120–22; on EV’s independence from institutions, 149; on personality of EV, 153; on political affinities of EV, 140–41; on social life of and social interactions with EV at Notre Dame, 136–37; on Voegelin Symposium (1971) at Notre Dame, 132–33 Moural, Edgar, 222–23 Moviegoer, The (Percy), 175 Movies, 201 Music, 240–42, 245 Musil, Robert, 65, 239, 245, 246 Mussolini, Benito, 228, 229 Mysticism, 53 Nabokov, Vladimir, 245 National Review, 208, 210 National Socialism: and Anschluss, 165, 220, 224–29, 250–53; children of National Socialist parents in Germany, 114; EV on, at University of Vienna, 228–29; and family members of Voegelins, 221, 232–33, 236; in Germany, 64, 65, 71–72, 73, 84, 114; and Heidegger, 230; and interrogation of EV by Nazi officers, 220, 221; and modern era, 267 Natural Right and History (Strauss), 206 Nature of the Law, The (Voegelin), 193, 194, 271 Naumann, Michael: biographical profile on, 288; on current reception of EV’s works in Europe, 276–77; on EV as

dominant philosophical force in Germany, 106; on EV as outsider, 276; on EV’s leaving Institut für Politische Wissenschaft, 107; on founding of Institut für Politische Wissenschaft, 58; and Holocaust Mahnmal in Berlin, 276–77; on lectures by EV at University of Munich, 71–72; on seminars by EV at University of Munich, 74–75; on student demonstrations in Germany, 86–87 Nazism. See National Socialism Neolithic sites and artifacts. See Archeological sites and artifacts Nevada, 17–20, 57 New Criticism, 175 Newman, Cardinal, 121, 149 New Science of Politics, The (Voegelin): on Christianity, 146; Flanagan on, 126, 127; German awareness of, 59, 70; Hedda Herwig on, 70; and The History of Political Ideas, 8, 21; on left-wing ideologies, 43; Lippucci on, 41; Nicgorski on, 123; as recommended reading at Notre Dame, 125, 126; Roos on, 129; sales of, 176; Simpson on, 176–77; terminology of, 144; Time magazine article on, 176, 183–84; as Walgreen Lecture, 122, 177 New York City, 161–62 Nicgorski, Walter: biographical profile on, 288; and dinner with EV, 141; on first encounter with EV at Notre Dame, 123–25; on meaning of science to EV, 144; on metaphysics, 143–44; on Notre Dame faculty, 145; on political affinities of EV, 141–42; on Strauss, 124, 144, 145; on terminology used by EV, 144; at University of Chicago, 145; on Voegelin Symposium (1971) at Notre Dame, 133; wife and children of, 141 Niemeyer, Gerhart: conservatism of, 142; EV’s relationship with, 142–43; and Festschrift for EV, 133; and Goldwater campaign, 140; as Notre Dame faculty member, 125, 127, 129, 132, 142, 145; religious beliefs of, 143; review of Order and History by, 43; and social life of EV, 137; teaching skills of, 132; translation of Anamnesis by, 143 Nietzsche, Friedrich, 197 Nixon, Richard, 44–45, 104

Index Noetic religiosity, 54–55 Northwestern University, 163, 242, 253 Notre Dame University: as all-male institution, 136–37; Chroust and EV in South Dining Hall of, 119–22, 138; daily schedule of EV at, 138; deficiencies of students at, 126; dogmatic and conservative Catholics at, 140; EV and Catholic Church, 145–53; EV at Morris Inn at, 119, 120, 138; EV’s advice to students at, 274; EV’s hiring by, 122; EV’s relationship with students at, 120–21, 124–26, 129–32, 137, 138, 140; EV’s teaching at, 99, 103, 125–32, 140; faculty of, 125, 127, 129, 132, 145, 153; final exam given by EV at, 129, 130; first encounters with EV at, 122–25; football games at, 138; founding of, 122; Gueguen as EV’s teaching assistant at, 125; Hesburgh as president of, 139, 140, 148, 149; influence of EV on, 153; lectures by EV at, 123–27, 128; Lobkowicz at, 102; and modernist movement, 148–49; mugging of EV in South Bend, 138; Niemeyer at, 125, 127, 129, 133; reading by students at, 127–28, 132; scheduling of EV’s teaching at, 123, 127; Schlesinger at, 227, 229; seminars by EV at, 122–23, 126, 131; social life at, 136–39, 141; student demonstrations at, 139–40; students at, 126, 129, 140, 199; Thomas scholars at, on EV, 147–48; Voegelin Symposium at, 132–36; women staff at, 137 Oakeshott, Michael, 79, 99 O’Malley, Frank, 149 On Revolution (Arendt), 78 Open Society and Its Enemies, The (Popper), 231 Opera, 240–42 Opitz, Peter J.: academic specialization of, 112; biographical profile on, 288; on EV’s lack of diplomatic skills, 110; father of, 113; on founding of Institut für Politische Wissenschaft, 58; and Hereth, 260; at Institut für Politische Wissenschaft, 60, 75, 99; on Institut für Politische Wissenschaft’s daily routine, 62; lifestyle of, in Germany, 92; on Lissy Voegelin and the Voegelins’ marriage, 271–72; on noncollegiality of EV in

301

Germany, 109–10; on politics and EV, 94–95; on social life at University of Munich, 92; on Weber, 54 Order and History (Voegelin): change from The History of Political Ideas to, 177–78; on Chinese Ecumene, 188; and The Drama of Humanity, 21; on exodus, 249; introduction to Volume IV of, 21; Lissy Voegelin’s reading and commenting on, 270–71; on Paul, 262; problems discovered in writing of, 3; publication of Volume IV of, 17, 146–47, 153; as recommended reading at Notre Dame, 125; review of, 43; writing of Volume V of, 14, 17, 21 Origins of Totalitarianism, The (Arendt), 85, 177 Oxford University, 175, 277 Palmer, J. E., 5 Palo Alto, Calif.: entertaining in, 25–28; EV’s dying and death in, 6, 12–14; EV’s trips to archeological sites from, 15–21; garden of EV in, 55–57; home of Voegelins in, 47, 55–57, 243; marriage of Voegelins in, 274; meditative inquiry by EV in, 21–25; writing by EV in, 12, 13, 14, 21 Parmenides, 2–3, 4, 49 Parmenides (Plato), 22 Parry, Father Stanley, 122, 125, 127, 129, 132, 145, 147 Pascal, Robert: biographical profile on, 289; on EV’s daily routine and work habits, 166–67; on EV’s leaving LSU, 182–83; on law school course by EV at LSU, 193–94; on lectures by EV at LSU, 193–94; on Lissy Voegelin and the Voegelins’ marriage, 275; on LSU faculty in 1940s, 165; on Monograph Club at LSU, 203; on social life of EV at LSU, 179 Pater, Walter, 77 Paul, Saint, 145, 147, 262 Percy, Walker, 175 Petroglyphs, 18, 19, 57 Phaedrus (Plato), 7, 10 Phenomenology, 51 Phenomenology (Hegel), 52 Plato: as adviser to tyrant, 43; on Athens assembly, 97; on death, 11; EV’s interpretation of generally, 272; EV’s lectures

302

Index

and seminars on, 62, 65, 75, 245; H. Herwig’s lecture on, 261–62; identification of, with Apollo, 7; on music, 244, 245; on myth, 124; symbol and meaning of “vision” in, 21; translations of, 50 —works: Gorgias, 264; Parmenides, 22; Phaedrus, 7, 10; Sophist, 22; Timaeus, 23 Plessner, Helmuth, 21 Poe, Edgar Allan, 247 Poetics (Aristotle), 123 Polanyi, Michael, 3n5 Political affinities of EV, 39–47, 86, 94–98, 140–43, 230–32. See also Current events and EV Politics (Aristotle), 144 Politischen Religionen, Die (Voegelin), 89, 231, 246 Popper, Karl R., 208, 231 Portmann, Adolf, 20 Positivism, 231–32 Prehistoric artifacts. See Archeological sites and artifacts Preiser, Erich, 103 Prejean, Sister Helen, 210 Price, Geoffrey, 1 Prince, The (Machiavelli), 171–72 Psalms, 13 Psyche, 3–4. See also Consciousness Pursuit of the New Millennium, The (Cohn), 127 Quandt, Ken: on Berkeley lecture by EV, 38; biographical profile on, 289; on clothing of EV, 38; on generosity of EV, 28 “Quod Deus Diciter” (Voegelin), 13, 14 Race relations, 41, 216–18 Rassenidee in der Geistegeschichte, Die (Voegelin), 220, 231 Rasse und Staat (Voegelin), 220, 231 Ratzinger, Joseph, 146, 149 Raupach, Arndt, 72 Reagan, Ronald, 43, 44, 72 Reich, Charles, 133 Renner, Karl, 225 Review of Politics, 128 Revolution, need for, 36–37 Ricoeur, Paul, 127, 145 Right-wing ideologies. See Conservatives Rilke, Rainer Maria, 34 Ritter, Gerhard, 277

Rockefeller Foundation, 233, 257 Rodeo and rodeo queen, 19–20 Roos, John: biographical profile on, 289; on Catholic Church and EV, 148–49; on Chroust and EV in South Dining Hall at Notre Dame, 119, 138; dissertation of, 133; on final exam in EV’s class, 129, 130; on meaning of science to EV, 130; on political affinities of EV, 140–41; on social life of and social interactions with EV at Notre Dame, 138–39; on student demonstrations at Notre Dame, 139–40; on teaching by EV at Notre Dame, 127–31; on Voegelin Symposium (1971) at Notre Dame, 133 Roosevelt, Franklin, 161 Rousseau, Jean-Jacques, 76–77 Ruehl, Fritz, 249–50 Sabine, George H., 153, 189 Salvation, 33 Salvatori, Henry, 45–46, 104 Sandoz, Ellis: on achievements of EV, 277–78; on arts and EV, 241–42; biographical profile on, 289; on cigar smoking by EV, 184–85; on conservatives’ view of EV, 43; on correspondence between Strauss and EV, 256–57; on EV as judge of character, 256–57; on EV as outsider, 264–65; on EV’s independence from institutions, 151; on EV’s leaving LSU, 182; on EV’s responses to other scholars, 135–36; on first encounter with EV, 188; on German students compared with American students, 199–200; on greatness of EV, 189; on health problems of EV, 183; on History of Political Ideas, 24; on interview with EV for Autobiographical Reflections, 275–76; on lectures by EV at LSU, 188–89; as LSU student, 188–89, 201; and opera, 241–42; on political affinities of EV, 43; on recreation by EV, 56; on search for scientific community by EV, 258; on seminars by EV at LSU, 196–97; on social life of EV at LSU, 179–80; on spiritual experiences of EV, 55; on straightforward manner of EV, 135, 201, 256–57; on Voegelins’ exodus from Austria, 229; on Voegelins’ move to Munich, 103; on writing and work habits of EV, 24–25; on Zen garden, 56

Index Santayana, George, 55, 115, 247 Sattler, Dieter, 109 Sattler, Florian: biographical profile on, 289; on EV’s leaving Institut für Politische Wissenschaft, 105–6; father of, 113, 114; on founding of Institut für Politische Wissenschaft, 59; at Institut für Politische Wissenschaft, 61; on lectures by EV at University of Munich, 69, 72, 109; on politics and EV, 94; and student demonstrations in Germany, 86–87 Sattler, Martin: biographical profile on, 289; education of, 114; on EV as authority figure for German students, 114–15; father of, 113, 114; on founding of Institut für Politische Wissenschaft, 61; on seminars by EV at University of Munich, 73, 77; and student demonstrations in Germany, 86–87, 88 Sattler, Stefan, 117 Scandinavia, 178 Schabert, Tilo: on Anamnesis, 3; on arts and EV, 240–41, 243–44; biographical profile on, 290; at Chicago YMCA with EV, 254–55; on collaboration as viewed by Voegelin, 6; on EV in Paris, 254; on EV’s daily routine and writing habits, 2; on EV’s leaving Institut für Politische Wissenschaft, 105, 112–13, 259–60; on EV’s motivations for coming to University of Munich, 107–8; EV’s need to talk about his ideas with, 22; on EV’s sense of humor, 256; on finances and EV, 268–69; on founding of Institut für Politische Wissenschaft, 60; on Frankfurt School, 108; and Hereth, 260; on Kelsen, 239–40; on lectures by EV at University of Munich, 68–69, 100; on Lissy Voegelin and the Voegelins’ marriage, 269; on noncollegiality of EV in Germany, 100–101, 107–8; photograph of, 155; on Schelling statue in Munich, 256; on search for scientific community by EV, 259–60; on seminars by EV at University of Munich, 72–73; on social life at University of Munich, 89–90; and “Voegelin Recollected” project, 6 Scheler, Max, 21 Schelling, Friedrich, 84, 266; statue of, 256 Schlesinger, Bruno: Austrian background of, 248; biographical profile on, 290; on

303

Catholic Church and EV, 145; on conservatism of Niemeyer, 142; on political affinities of EV, 142, 230; on University of Vienna, 227–29 Schmitt, Carl, 239 Schnabel, Franz, 60, 109, 273 Schramm, Percy, 66 Schultz, George, 46 Schürmann, Petra, 82, 87 Schütz, Alfred, 5, 240, 259, 272, 276 Schygulla, Hanna, 87 Science: and collaboration, 6, 258; EV’s search for scientific community, 258–61; meaning of, to EV, 130, 144 Science, Politics, and Gnosticism (Voegelin), 59 Scurria, Jo: biographical profile on, 290; on cigar smoking by EV, 185; on daily schedule of EV at LSU, 167–68; on EV’s interest in popular culture, 201–2; on EV’s lack of complaints, 216; on EV’s leaving LSU, 181–82; on EV’s view of America, 211–12, 216; on greatness of EV, 169; on health problems of EV, 183; on law school course by EV at LSU, 194–95; on lectures by EV at LSU, 194–95; on Lissy Voegelin and the Voegelins’ marriage, 269; and mother’s death, 269; photograph of, 156; politeness of EV to, 168, 180–81; on relationship between LSU faculty and students, 180; on religion of EV, 210; on resentment toward EV at LSU, 169; on seminars by EV at LSU, 196; on social life of EV at LSU, 180; on Strauss, 210; on typing EV’s manuscripts, 168–69, 177; on Walgreen Lectures, 177 Sebba, Gregor, 20, 66, 248–49 Sedlmayr, Hans, 109 Seidl, Florian: biographical profile on, 290; on dinner with Voegelins, 117; on intelligence of EV, 118; on lectures by EV at University of Munich, 70; on student demonstrations in Germany, 87–88 Sewanee Review, 4–5 Shakespeare, William, 24, 174, 248 Simon, Yves, 127, 145 Simpson, Lewis P.: on arrogant appearance of EV, 203; biographical profile on, 290; on Boyd professorship at LSU, 166; on EV’s sense of humor, 255; on

304

Index

EV’s view of America, 211; on Heilman, 176; on Huey Long, 161; on The New Science of Politics, 176–77; reading by EV, 248; on social life of EV at LSU, 179; on Time magazine article on EV, 176 Sitzler, Kathrin: on archeological sites and artifacts, 19–20; biographical profile on, 290–91; on entertaining by Voegelins, 25; on EV at University of Munich, 57; on lectures by EV at University of Munich, 67–68; on Lissy Voegelin and the Voegelins’ marriage, 274–75; on Nevada trip with EV, 19–20, 57; on rodeo queen, 19–20; on seminars by EV at University of Munich, 76–77; on women students in EV’s seminars, 82 Smith, Ronald, 161, 223 Snell, Bruno, 128 Social Contract (Rousseau), 76–77 Social Democrats: in Austria, 228, 229, 230, 232, 238; in Germany, 95–97, 264 Social life: at Louisiana State University (LSU), 173, 178–81; at Notre Dame University, 136–39, 141; in Palo Alto, 25–28; at University of Munich, 89–92; in Vienna in 1970s, 117 Socrates, 11, 82, 264 Solzhenitsyn, Aleksandr, 263 Sontheimer, Kurt, 102 Sophist (Plato), 22 Southern Political Science Association, 164 Southern Review, 2, 26, 165, 174, 179 Soviet Union, 71–72, 78–79, 263 Spann, Othmar, 230 Spengler, Oswald, 198 Spoudaios (mature person), 5 Stadtmüller, Georg, 103 Stanford, Donald: biographical profile on, 291; friendship between W. Trimpi and, 26; on social life of EV at LSU, 178–79; as Southern Review editor, 26, 179 Stanford University: lectures by EV at, 47–49; student demonstrations at, 139. See also Hoover Institution Steel, Sean, 6, 9 Steintrager, Marianne: biographical profile on, 291; on EV’s lack of complaints, 169; on EV’s relationship with students, 200–201; on EV’s view of America, 215–16; on lectures by EV at LSU,

189–90, 194; on LSU faculty in 1940s, 170; on race relations, 216; on relationship between LSU faculty and students, 180; on religion, 215; on seminars by EV at LSU, 196; on Strauss, 207–10 Stock market, 268, 269 Stone Age artifacts. See Archeological sites and artifacts Strauss, Franz-Josef, 107 Strauss, Leo: as conservative, 209–10; correspondence between EV and, 208, 256–57; on EV at University of Munich, 205–6; EV on, 204–5; Nicgorski on, 124, 144, 145; reading murder mysteries by, 210; relationships between students and, 138; school of political philosophy of, 110–11; split between EV and, 182; at St. Johns University, 133; students of, 190, 204–9; teaching style of, 137–38, 208–9; terminology used by, 144; view of America by, 210–11; and women students, 207–8; writings by, not assigned by EV, 128 Student demonstrations: in Germany, 41, 86–89, 142; at Kent State University, 140; at Notre Dame University, 139–40 Sun Yat-Sen, 186 Switzerland, 222–23, 246 Symbols and prehistoric artifacts, 20–21 Taubes, Jacob, 79–80, 84, 106 Taylor, Cecil, 182 Taylor, Charles, 134 Television, 267 Thomas Aquinas, 21, 54, 129, 144, 147–48, 189, 197, 278 Tibetan Book of the Dead, 40–41 Timaeus (Plato), 23 Time magazine, 176, 183–84 Tocqueville, Alexis de, 76 Toynbee, Arnold, 46, 169, 198 Transcendence, 49, 51, 151 Trimpi, Helen Pinkerton: on archeological sites and artifacts, 20; biographical profile on, 291; on Cronkite, 39; on detractors and critics of EV, 48–49; on entertaining by Voegelins, 26; on generosity of EV, 28–29; on Heilman’s relationship with EV, 172; on Hoover Institution, 47; on Melville, 39; on political affinities of EV, 39–40; on Stanford University lectures by EV, 47–48

Index Trimpi, Wesley: biographical profile on, 291; on entertaining by Voegelins, 26–27; sense of humor of EV, 37–38; on spiritual experiences of EV, 54; on terminology used by EV, 49–50 Turkey, 17, 18 Turn of the Screw, The (James), 173–74 University of Alabama, 163, 164, 166, 172, 182 University of Bochum, 111, 260 University of Chicago, 123, 144, 145, 206–8, 277 University of Dallas, 92 University of Erlangen, 1, 106 University of Manchester: Center for Voegelin Studies, 1; conference on EV’s work, 6 University of Missouri Press, 1 University of Munich: Allen as student at, 44–45; and break between Henningsen and EV, 92–94; daily routine of Institut für Politische Wissenschaft at, 61–62; EV as professor at generally, 25, 41, 44–45, 52–53, 57; EV’s leaving, 103–16, 155, 259–60; EV’s relationship with students at, 63, 72–77, 80–86, 89–93, 109, 113–16, 259; faculty of, 64, 68, 102, 109; founding of Institut für Politische Wissenschaft at, 58–61; guest students at, 68, 109; hiring of EV by, 149, 182–83, 205–6; Hitler lectures by EV at, 64, 66, 71–72, 100, 146, 229; international guests at, 77–80, 99; lectures by EV at, 62, 63–73, 100, 109, 142; “liberation” of books from, at EV’s leaving, 106; and noncollegiality and self-isolation of EV, 98–102, 107–12, 258, 264; office and office furniture for EV at, 181; salary of EV at, 269; Sandoz as student of EV’s at, 44; seminars by EV at, 62, 72–77, 80–86, 198; social life at, 89–92; student demonstrations at, 41, 86–89, 142; students in, compared with American students, 198–200; theology faculty of, 146; women students at, 80–86, 92–93, 115–16 University of New Orleans, 247 University of Texas at Austin, 35–37, 53 University of Vienna: after Anschluss, 224–29, 250–51; current status of, 105; EV at, 97, 117, 224–29, 250, 263; EV’s

305

dismissal from, 224, 234, 277; Kelsen at, 238–39 University of Washington, 35 Upanishads, 11 Vanderbilt University, 175 Vico, Giambattista, 8, 198 Vietnam War, 36, 94–95, 139, 141, 149 Virgil, 272 Voegelin, Eric: accent of, 178, 186, 189, 191, 194, 200; and alcohol use, 26, 57, 91, 179–80; American citizenship for, 99, 103, 176, 218–19, 253; and the arts, 53, 240–48; and automobile driving, 17, 44, 120, 163–64, 167, 265–66; and Catholic Church, 145–53; childhood of, 9, 237; as Christian, 17, 120, 121, 143, 148–53, 215; chronology on, 279–81; cigar smoking by, 26, 32, 42, 44, 56, 73, 77, 79, 88, 119, 120, 121, 133, 166, 184–85, 186, 203; clothing of, 37, 38, 121, 242, 255; on current events, 36, 41, 140–42, 186, 190, 191, 216–18; daily routine and writing habits of, 2, 23–25, 62, 138, 166–69, 248; and deaths of parents, 6, 236–37; dying and death of, 6, 11–14, 185; erotic attraction of, 81–82, 116; exodus of, from Austria, 161–62, 165–66, 220–23, 232–33, 252–53; and finances, 166, 182–83, 267–69; and food and eating habits, 7, 25, 62, 90, 166–67, 196–97, 237, 274; garden of, 55–57; German language spoken by, 162–63; handwriting of, 169, 190–91; health problems of, 14, 15, 183–84; homes and living situations of, 47, 55–57, 89–91, 119, 120, 138, 215, 243; language skills of, 131, 188; marriage of, 24–25, 83, 167–68, 178, 212, 234–35, 269–75; mistaken Jewish identity for, 224; and music, 240–42, 245; newspaper reading by, 62, 96, 202; in New York City in 1938, 161–62; painting of, by Abruzzio, 203–4; parents of, 6, 234–37; photographs of, 154–59; physical appearance of, 25, 37, 118, 213; poetry by, 247; political affinities of, 39–47, 86, 94–98, 140–43, 230–32; reading by, 12, 24, 39, 138, 173–74, 210, 245–48; recreation by, 56, 201–2, 210; relationships with secretaries and nurses, 10, 12, 168, 180–81; sister of, 221, 232–33, 236; sleeping

306

Index

habits of, 25; social life of, 25–28, 89–92, 117, 173, 178–81; and spiritual experiences, 53, 54–55; and television, 267; trips of, 15–21, 55, 56, 57, 103, 178; view of America by, 210–19; and visual arts, 53, 242–44; and women’s beauty, 19–20, 82–83, 87; and women students, 80–86, 92–93, 115–16, 136–37, 200, 207–8 —personality characteristics: absentmindedness, 164; anger, 2, 66, 88–89, 143, 191, 194; arrogance, 20, 101, 134–35, 202–3; calm demeanor, 185, 192; dark spaces in life of EV, 254–55; enjoyment of gossip, 62; friendliness, courtesy, and charm, 12, 27–28, 63, 81, 90, 101, 117, 123, 137, 168, 170, 191–92, 213; general qualities, 2–3, 10, 134, 153; generosity, 28–30; humility, 134–35; noncollegiality and self-isolation in Germany, 98–102, 107–12, 258; rudeness and impatience, 30–35, 73–75, 80, 101, 109, 124, 125, 132, 134; sense of humor, 37–38, 63, 120, 123, 153, 170, 171, 181, 189, 255–56; straightforward approach to people, 133, 135, 174, 201, 256–57; trustful nature, 256–57 —teaching and scholarly career: achievements of, 1–2, 118, 153, 276–78; and archeological sites and artifacts, 14, 15–21, 57, 244; at Cambridge University, 162; Caringella as assistant, 14–15; and collaboration, 6, 258; and conservatives in U.S., 41–43, 142–43, 147; correspondence with other scholars, 8–9, 208, 256–57, 258, 272; detractors and critics of, 48–49, 79, 132; disciples of, 101, 259–63, 277; Festschriften honoring, 1, 133; at Harvard University, 99, 125, 162, 166, 223, 253, 265; job searches by, 257; lectures by, 24, 28–29, 38, 47–49, 63–73, 100, 104, 109, 117, 123–27, 128, 142, 185–95, 265; lecture style of, 63, 67–70, 125–27, 128, 171, 185, 189, 190–91, 209; and meaning of science, 130, 144; meditative inquiry in later years, 21–25, 55; and misreading of his works, 133–34; outsider status of, 263–65; questions following lectures of, 38, 64, 69, 74, 111, 124–25, 185, 191; relationships with other scholars, 133–36, 261–62, 263; relationships with

students, 26–28, 30–35, 63, 72–77, 80–86, 89–93, 109, 113–16, 120–21, 124–26, 129–32, 137, 138, 140, 186, 191–95, 200–204, 209, 212–14, 259; and search for scientific community, 258–61; secondary literature on writings of, 1–2; seminars by, 35–37, 62, 72–77, 80–86, 122–23, 126, 131, 195–98, 273; seriousness and total dedication to, 192, 262–63, 271–74, 277–78; and skepticism about so-called scientific evidence, 20; Symposium on, at Notre Dame, 132–35; symposium on (1981), 261–62; and tape recording of, 22, 33, 275–76; teaching career generally, 6, 162–64, 166, 182, 253, 279–81; terminology used by, 49–52, 126, 144, 206; tests and grading, 129, 130, 186, 189, 198; typing of manuscripts of, 168–69, 177; at University of Alabama, 163, 164, 166, 172, 182; at University of Texas, 35–37, 53; at University of Vienna, 97, 117, 224–29, 234, 250, 263; writing at end of life, 12, 13, 14, 21; writings by generally, 1, 220, 279–81. See also Hoover Institution; Institut für Politische Wissenschaft; Louisiana State University (LSU); Notre Dame University; University of Munich; and titles of specific works Voegelin, Klara, 221, 232–33, 236 Voegelin, Lissy: on Abruzzio, 204; on afterlife, 11; and alcohol use, 19, 91, 180; American citizenship for, 253; on Anschluss, 224–25, 250–53; on antiGerman sentiment in U.S., 163; on archeological sites and artifacts, 15–16; on Arendt, 85, 177; and automobile driving, 17, 163–64, 167, 265; in Bennington, Vermont, 162–63; biographical profile on, 291; in Boston, 162; brother of, 221–22, 233; on childhood of EV, 237; clothing of, 196; and daily schedule of EV, 167–68, 248; and desire to leave Germany, 112; on detractors and critics of EV, 48–49, 79; on dying and death of EV, 6, 12, 13–14; on EV’s view of America, 218; exodus of, from Austria, 221–23, 229, 232–33, 252–53; and finances, 182–83, 268–69; first meeting between EV and, 233–34; and food and eating habits, 7, 25, 196–97, 274; and football game, 202; German

Index language spoken by, 162–63; on German students compared with American students, 198–99; and gossip, 62; health problems of, 184, 269; and health problems of EV, 14, 183–84; homes of, 47, 89–91; on hurricane (1938), 161–62; on international guests at University of Munich, 79; on Kelsen, 238; on Russell Kirk, 42; letters from EV to, 272; on LSU’s hiring of EV, 164; on male chauvinism of EV, 82; marriage of, 24–25, 83, 167–68, 178, 212, 234–35, 269–75; on meditative inquiry by EV, 22; on mistaken Jewish identity for, 224; and music, 240, 242; in New York City in 1938, 161–62; and opera, 240–41; on parents and sister of EV, 234–37; parents of, 233, 235; photograph of, 158; on poetry by EV, 247; on rodeo queen in Nevada, 20; Schabert on, 2; and seminars by EV, 196, 273; on seriousness of EV about his work, 263, 271; social life of, 25–28, 89–90, 117, 178–81; and spiritual experiences of EV, 55; on Strauss, 204; and student demonstrations at University of Munich, 88, 89; and television, 267; trips by, 17, 19–20, 56, 178, 272; in Tuscaloosa, Alabama, 164; on University of Vienna after Anschluss, 224–25, 250–51; and “Voegelin Recollected” project, 8–9; Walters’s perception of, 203; on writings by EV, 22, 24, 143, 177–78, 270–72; on Zen garden, 56 Voegelin-Bibliothek, University of Erlangen, 1 “Voegelin Recollected” project, 6–9 Von der Heydte, Friedrich August Freiherr, 60 Vondung, Klaus: on archeological sites and artifacts, 17–19; on arts and EV, 241, 242–43; biographical profile on, 291–92; on Catholic Church and EV, 146–47; on entertaining by Voegelins, 25; EV’s need to talk about his ideas with, 22; on garden of EV, 57; on generosity of EV, 29; on lectures by EV at University of Munich, 70; on meditative inquiry by EV, 22; on Nevada trip with EV, 17–20; on Zen garden, 56 Von Sivers, Peter, 60, 61, 86, 112, 113, 260, 261

307

Walgreen Lecture series, 122, 133, 177 Wallace, Graham, 197 Walsh, David: biographical profile on, 292; on disciples of EV, 262; dissertation by, 29–30; on EV’s trip to Ireland, 16–17; on generosity of EV, 29–30 Walters, Ernest J.: on achievements of EV, 277; on automobile driving and EV, 265–66; biographical profile on, 292; on EV’s exodus from Austria, 165–66; on EV’s relationships with students, 202; job interviews of, 207; on Kant, 266; on lectures by EV at LSU, 186–88, 192; on The New Science of Politics, 176; on salary of EV at LSU, 166; on seminars by EV at LSU, 197–98; on social life of EV at LSU, 179; on Strauss, 204–7, 210; on students at LSU, 199; on terminology used by EV, 206 Warren, Robert Penn, 161, 165, 175 Wasteland, The (Eliot), 247 Webb, Eugene: biographical profile on, 292; book on EV by, 51–52; on generosity of EV, 30; Chip Hughes as student of, 31; relationship between EV and, 35; on terminology used by EV, 51–52 Weber, Marianne, 54 Weber, Max, 54, 70, 206, 231, 232, 238 Weber-Schäfer, Peter: academic specialization of, 112; alcohol use by, 91; former wife of, as EV’s student, 84; and Hereth, 260; parents of, 114; as research assistant at Institut für Politische Wissenschaft, 60, 61, 75, 112; scholarship for, 99; seminar on ancient Israel by, 75; at University of Bochum, 111, 260 Well Wrought Urn, A (Brooks), 175 Welsh, Jack, 187 “What Is Political Reality?” (Voegelin), 98–99 Williams, T. Harry, 165, 166, 170–71, 172 Williamson, Rene, 190 Winternitz, Emanuel, 240, 242 “Wisdom and the Magic of the Extreme” (Voegelin), 21, 22, 23, 30–31 Women students, 80–86, 92–93, 115–16, 136–37, 200, 207–8 World War I, 232 World War II, 266–67

308

Index

Yale Review, 43 Yale University, 173, 202, 257 Yearbook on International Communist Affairs, 104

Yosemite Park, 19 Zen garden, 55–56 Zinoviev, Alexander, 78–79