Gianluca Giannini’s article in Ripensare Carl Schmitt tra i materiali della Rivoluzione Conservatrice, Materiali di O.M. Gnerre caught my attention in this context. Carl Schmitt and his ideas are still being debated today. This aspect of Schmitt as a conservative revolutionary is often overlooked in discussions about him.
What is “Conservative Revolutionism”?
First and foremost, when we talk about “conservative revolutionism” we need to be very clear about a number of things, starting with the historical context, otherwise we risk using categories that are out of place and time, thus ending up discussing purely abstract concepts. The “Conservative Revolution” is a complex, multifaceted phenomenon that developed primarily in Germany during the Weimar Republic (1919–1933). “Conservative revolutionism” therefore refers to a heterogeneous set of cultural, political, and intellectual movements that, while sharing a radical critique of modernity and its values, were characterized by a range of sociopolitical approaches and aims that were not always cohesive. In other words, the Conservative Revolution was in no way a single, organized political movement but rather a confluence of cultural currents seeking to combine traditional elements with renewal impulses, giving rise to a school of thought described at times as “anti-modern modernism.”
As we know, the Germany of the Weimar Republic was marked by severe political, financial, and social instability. Defeat in the First World War, the Treaty of Versailles, and resulting socioeconomic difficulties fostered frustration and a quest for radical alternatives. In this context, the Conservative Revolution emerged as a critical response to liberalism, socialism, and Enlightenment rationalism—forces seen as responsible for the crisis of Western civilization as a whole.
Only after considering these minimal historical points can we begin to ask ourselves what the Conservative Revolution was. And this leads me to note that we still know relatively little about the Conservative Revolution, not only outside Germany but even in its country of origin.
Even more: what people think they know about the Conservative Revolution is often shaped by extremely reductive and simplistic interpretive frameworks; or, not infrequently, it is the product of reflective aims that, in the end, narrow a complex and multifaceted reality—intrinsically uncontainable and irreducible—down to whatever theoretical imperative is fashionable at the moment.
It is therefore essential to rethink its entire “pluriverse” in its true, original, and authentic complexity. And this is not merely a matter of solving a purely historiographical problem, settling it once and for all in some presumptuous way. It also involves trying to follow any trajectories that might still be fertile and productive—even if in a completely different temporal-spatial context and in a historically and politically distinct situation from the period we introduced at the start.
The so-called German Conservative Revolution remains difficult both to define clearly and unambiguously and to comprehend fully. This difficulty is partly due to the way its thought has often been eclipsed or dismissed, usually because it has been conflated with contemporary or closely following political phenomena such as National Socialism. Although some of its authors did indeed inspire certain ideological formulations of the Third Reich, it would be simplistic to equate the two movements.
Many leaders of the Conservative Revolution had conflicted or even openly hostile relationships with the top ranks of the National Socialist regime, criticizing both its political practices and theoretical underpinnings. Nevertheless, the relationship between the two phenomena remains ambiguous: on one hand, certain conservative-revolutionary ideas influenced elements within the Third Reich administration, while on the other, among those in the Conservative Revolution, there were also staunch opponents of National Socialism. These included figures who took very different political stances, such as national Bolsheviks or even supporters of the Soviet Union.
It thus becomes essential to rediscover the true character of this movement of thought. Examining its content more deeply would not only clarify the complex political and cultural relationships in Germany at that time but also offer a completely new perspective on an often misunderstood phenomenon. Only in this way can one comprehend why there can be a linkage of two terms (revolution and conservation) which, from a purely logical standpoint, appear to be reciprocally opposed—something that continues to cause confusion when trying to combine them.
What made Schmitt different?
Carl Schmitt occupies a unique position among conservative revolutionaries and in the intellectual traditions of both the Right and the Left. His ideas have influenced political theorists and actors on both sides of the spectrum. Approaching Schmitt’s thought, especially in relation to the Conservative Revolution, can easily give rise to misinterpretations. In short, the central element of his thinking lies in the tight connection between life, history, and reflection. His theoretical work developed in response to the specific historical and existential context in which he lived—a context subject to swift and even violent transformations—and this gave rise to distinctive and significant contributions to the Conservative Revolution.
These contributions, focused on legal, political, and philosophical questions, greatly influenced the shape of this intellectual current, though without exhausting its unique essence. To fully grasp the specific angle of Schmitt’s perspective within the complex constellation of conservative revolutionaries, one would need to explore in detail some of his key theories, examining several pivotal junctures between the late 1920s and the 1930s–1940s.
Regarding the use of his thought on both the Right and the Left, especially after World War II, I believe it is best to avoid detailed commentary: often, those who approach such a complex figure superficially end up with contradictory conclusions. In the so-called “Carl Schmitt Atelier,” many have cherry-picked ideas as if shopping at a discount store in the 1970s and 1980s, producing distorted and slapdash interpretations—better left in oblivion.
How did Schmitt’s theories on the relationships between “law,” “State,” and “politics” contribute to the theoretical framework of the Conservative Revolution
Carl Schmitt was genuinely a conservative revolutionary—this, in my view, is evident in numerous parts of his work but especially, and even more crucially, in the modes of his peculiar adherence and relationship to National Socialism.
I would like to pause briefly on one particular speculative point that exemplifies this undeniable revolutionary-conservative root and depth: the interpretation Schmitt himself gave of the Italian Fascist experience and, consequently, how he used it to shape his own vision in relation to National Socialism.
From this specific theoretical vantage—chosen here for the sake of brevity—it seems possible to elucidate certain features of Schmitt, the philosopher-jurist from Plettenberg, that can shed light not so much on any misunderstanding of National Socialism (since significant and decisive pages in his works on State, movement, and people show quite the opposite), but rather on what could be considered a “claim”: namely, the claim to shape the National Socialist project according to a revolutionary-conservative model, one that—despite all its limits—was closer and more akin to the Italian political reality than to what Hitler had formulated in Mein Kampf and subsequently implemented in even its smallest details.
There is a text by Schmitt that is the best place to begin, so as to go directly in medias res, namely, Die geistesgeschichtliche Lage des heutigen Parlamentarismus (1923; republished in 1926 following Richard Thoma’s critical review). In this work, Schmitt himself—speaking from a perspective I would call fully in tune with the conservative-revolutionary galaxy—raises the issue when he argues that the scientific aim of his research is to grasp the ultimate essence of the modern institution of Parliament, thereby demonstrating how its fundamental systematic base had lost its moral and spiritual grounding, surviving only by means of a purely mechanical persistence as a hollow apparatus. His belief was that only by acknowledging the breakdown of that worldview (as had happened in Italy) could an authentic space for action open up, offering reform proposals for disintegrating political entities like Germany.
Drawing on an astute reading of Sorel’s doctrine of myth, Schmitt concluded not only that the most potent myth was the nation but also that Benito Mussolini was the political figure most capable of demonstrating its explosive power by sweeping away democracy and parliamentarism. He went further: by reducing socialism to a lower-order mythology, Mussolini managed once again to express the principle of political reality.
From this short text, we can see clearly enough that for Schmitt, this was not merely a matter of nationalism—something that would have placed him within traditional conservative ranks, focusing simply on the “primacy of the nation,” specifically the German nation. On the one hand, it involved the theory of myth as a more powerful force than the relative nationalism embedded in parliamentary thinking; on the other, it involved the expression of the principle of the political, which (and here lies the core of the conservative-revolutionary stance within Schmitt’s perspective) can contribute to the renewal of the State, that is, reactivating the fundamental existential motivations of a political unity in its specificity and essence.
And renewal of the State, for Schmitt—already in Politische Theologie (1922)—must hinge on a concept of sovereignty understood as the monopoly over the final decision, the decision “on” and “in” the state of exception, i.e., concerning whatever, moment by moment, might call into question the concrete existence of a political unity.
Fascism, then, of interest to Schmitt not as a political or social movement but only in its function within the State, pursued the endeavor—almost heroic—to uphold and assert the dignity of the State and national unity against the pluralism of economic interests, as a reaction to abstract depoliticization and to the threat of an entirely privatized public sphere. It sought to reestablish the State’s supremacy over the economy, thereby reviving the State itself—hence the assertion that it was “revolutionary.” It restored the authentic possibility for the State to become once again a true political unity of the people.
I believe that in this regard, Schmitt made an astute and profound contribution to the complex tapestry of the “Conservative Revolution.” By elaborating this new form of conservatism, Schmitt never believed that anything essential would change, but rather that a revolutionary movement—radically different from progressive thinking, which sees revolution as a transitional stage speeding up a naturally “evolving” process—could decisively cut away those growths that inhibit the life of an associated way of living (an authentic political unity). Initially (if only briefly), he believed to see this vital impulse in the decision-making practice of the National Socialist Movement/Party.
In the context of the Conservative Revolution, how do Heidegger’s philosophy of being, Jünger’s critique of modernity, and Schmitt’s political theory form a unity?
I do not believe they form a unity at all, precisely for the reasons previously mentioned. We might recall that in a not-so-recent and not widely circulated text—Heidegger e la rivoluzione conservatrice—Ernst Nolte sketches out and defines some parameters for classifying under the label “Conservative Revolution” certain tendencies of the German right in the first two decades of the twentieth century. Nolte writes: “Even before 1914, three fundamental distinctive features of a new and revolutionary conservatism were discernible, albeit only in embryonic form and restricted to minority groups: (1) a resolute anti-Marxism that sought to appropriate Marxist concepts and approaches; (2) a radical critique of civilization that questioned not only liberalism but also traditional conservatism; (3) a bellicism that saw in the aspirations for ‘universal peace’ a threat to the existence of States and a constraint on human greatness and on man’s spirit of sacrifice” (Ernst Nolte, Heidegger e la rivoluzione conservatrice, Milan, Sugarco Edizioni, 1997, p. 30).
Despite its limitations, Nolte’s scheme allows us to test and compare various authors, including Schmitt but also, on multiple levels, Spengler, Moeller van den Bruck, the Jünger brothers, Freyer, Niekisch, and Heidegger. All these figures hoped for a revolution from the right (in the sense of a “right wing” that parallels the Hegelian “right”), one which would restore to politics and the State an ascendancy over the economy and the market. Of course, this is a simplified outline, but it does let me note that the genuine cultural common denominator or theoretical foundation—both on the matter of State theory and in terms of anti-liberal impetus—lay in the counterrevolutionary literature of Joseph de Maistre, Louis de Bonald, Antoine de Rivarol, Félicité de Lamennais, and especially Edmund Burke. It was an all-round intellectual tradition— not exclusively sociopolitical—that profoundly shaped many late nineteenth- and early twentieth-century German authors.
Hence, the Conservative Revolution was made up of all these “seekers” who shared one or more of the three main components of this new conservatism, yet who did not belong to the old traditional parties nor to either of the two radically opposed poles: the Communist Party or the National Socialist Party.
Within that context, Heidegger’s and Jünger’s perspectives played different, unequally influential roles. Heidegger’s Rectoral Address of 1933 merely laid bare the totalizing enterprise inherent in any metaphysical pursuit: Being, as Heidegger came to think of it, reveals itself as pólemos, and not merely in pólemos. Therefore, pólemos is the destiny of thought—a destiny that, in its historical unfolding, can coincide with (political) forms that interpret themselves and thus present themselves as this will to essence, that is, ultimately, as an unleashing of power aimed at bringing to completion, in the strict sense, what already is—namely, Being itself. As is obvious, from the standpoint of political praxis, Heidegger’s position was effectively unusable. His personal story—steeped in the presumption (as a philosopher) that he might be the Führer’s Führer—clearly illustrates this.
In Jünger’s case, matters are more complex and interesting: in his writings, the revolutionary he portrays and idealizes is someone who must preserve and revive the active value found at the origins of the life-form in which he exists—values that have been neglected or rejected for some contingent reason. Thus, a revolutionary is, in essence, a conservative, as Jünger understood when sketching the intricate figure of Antoine de Rivarol, a thinker of genuine conservation in a time of revolutionary upheavals: “The word ‘conservative’ is not a particularly fortunate creation. It has a temporal connotation, tying one’s will to the restoration of forms and conditions that have become unsustainable. Today, anyone wishing to conserve is by definition the weaker party. Thus, one should attempt to extricate the word from its tradition. Rather, it is a matter of finding—or also rediscovering—that which has always existed and which will remain the basis for a sound order. But this involves something beyond time, which one cannot reach either by going backward or forward. The movements revolve around it. Only the means and the names change. In this sense, one must agree with Albert Erich Günther’s definition, that does not see ‘conservation’ as ‘clinging to what existed yesterday’ but rather as living by ‘what always counts.’ And ‘what always counts’ can only be something that transcends time. It asserts itself, and in fact destructively, even if it is disregarded” (Ernst Jünger (ed.), Rivarol, Stuttgart, 1978; Italian ed. Rivarol. Massime di un conservatore, Parma, Guanda, 1992, pp. 52–53).
Conservation is living by what always counts; hence, revolution is conservation. And conserving what always counts is, continuously, revolutionary. This Jüngerian perspective famously fascinated Adolf Hitler.
How did the personal experiences and intellectual backgrounds of Ernst Jünger and Carl Schmitt intersect or diverge around central concepts (technology, war, sovereignty, political unity, etc.)—especially in the pursuit of a “new political order” after World War I—and in which texts and concrete debates can we see how Jünger’s concept of the “type of worker” (Arbeiter) in the technological age and Schmitt’s concept of “sovereignty” (Souveränität) and the “political” (das Politische) either bolster or contradict each other within the broader conservative-revolutionary discourse?
For Ernst Jünger, World War I was a foundational and almost mythic experience. In works like In Stahlgewittern (Storm of Steel), he praised modern warfare as a force shaping a new man through sacrifice, discipline, and heroism. Jünger saw in the combatant, and later in the “worker” (in Der Arbeiter, 1932), the incarnation of a new anthropological figure capable of mastering the technological era. Essentially, these are two different manifestations of one single image: the conservative described earlier. Carl Schmitt, though not directly involved in combat, interpreted the conflict as a catalyst for the crisis of the liberal state and as a trial run for reaffirming sovereignty. In Der Begriff des Politischen (The Concept of the Political), Schmitt identified “the political” with the ability to distinguish between friend and enemy—a notion that indirectly reflects how the experience of war, taken to its extreme, becomes the founding principle of politics.
Both men shared a radical critique of liberalism, which they saw as incapable of providing a stable order or responding adequately to the challenges of modernity. For Jünger, liberalism was a relic overshadowed by the impersonal force of technology, requiring a new collective figure suited to the demands of total organization. For Schmitt, liberalism had failed to guarantee the authority needed to preserve political unity, precisely because it leaned on compromise and pluralism.
Their responses to the postwar world, though they shared an aspiration to a new order, emerged from distinct premises: for Jünger, this order was supposed to unfold in the technological organization of society, with the “worker” at its core as a new form of collective authority. For Schmitt, the basis of the new order was sovereignty—the ultimate power of decision—embodied in an authority that stood above internal divisions.
Thus, as with all conservative revolutionaries, Jünger’s and Schmitt’s personal histories and intellectual formations overlapped in their effort to respond to the crisis of postwar modernity but also revealed notable points of divergence.
What was the impact of the interaction and dialogue between Oswald Spengler and Carl Schmitt on shaping the ideology of the Conservative Revolution—particularly regarding the theme of the “end of history” and the theory of the State—and what debates did this spark in the broader intellectual environment?
Even if the dialogue between Spengler and Schmitt was not a close, formal relationship, it developed through reciprocal influences in their works. Both shared a critique of modern liberalism and a pessimistic outlook on the future of the West, yet they approached these issues from different angles: Spengler focused on cultural decay and the need for a “Caesarist” leadership embodied by charismatic figures; Schmitt concentrated on the need for a stable political order founded on sovereign authority, as a response to the crisis of parliamentary democracy.
The complementarity of their perspectives certainly enriched the internal debates of the Conservative Revolution, furnishing a theoretical underpinning for a combined critique of liberalism, democracy, and socialism, even if it never cohered into a single, uniform ideology.
In this sense, one might note how they reinforced certain stances: their ideas helped crystallize intellectual opposition to parliamentarism and to a progressive vision of history, advocating instead a political and cultural refoundation grounded in authority and national identity. Their anti-materialist slant and critique of mass society set them against Marxism, while at the same time sharing a diagnosis of modernity’s crisis.
This interaction between Spengler and Schmitt was a pivotal junction for shaping some of the conceptions that emerged in the Conservative Revolution, influencing not only the cultural debates of the era but also providing insights for later discussions on the crisis of modernity and democracy.
In light of the crises that liberal democracies are experiencing today, could “conservative revolutionism” rise again?
I will be brief: I do not believe in historical recurrence. History, the history of humanity, recalls Heraclitus’s saying: “You never step into the same river twice.” In other words, every time, the conditions shaping human agency differ, so while outcomes might be similar, they are never identical.
History is not governed by immutable natural laws that are mechanically repeated. Historical events result from a complex interplay of unique factors, including chance, individual decisions, cultural shifts, and technological discoveries. Each era is molded by an unrepeatable mesh of circumstances, making it impossible for an event or phenomenon to recur in exactly the same way. Although we can find analogies between past economic crises and contemporary ones, these similarities do not imply any inescapable cycle; rather, they reflect the existence of specific economic and social structures that, functioning in certain ways, may produce parallel outcomes in given conditions. However, the contexts in which these crises arise are always different: the technologies available, the economic and political institutions, and society’s reactions evolve significantly over time.
The idea of a uniform historical cycle also ignores the cultural and geographic differences shaping the evolution of distinct human societies. A civilization’s dynamics cannot be universally applied to others, as cultural, religious, and political contexts vary profoundly. Even apparently global processes—such as modernization or globalization—take on different forms depending on local specificities.
Thus, today’s political phenomena—which have again raised the issue already apparent at the end of World War I, namely the (irreversible) crisis of liberal thought—deserve fresh approaches and updated categories. Therefore, I believe that we cannot really speak of a “Conservative Revolutionism 4.0.” The historical conditions that gave rise to the Conservative Revolution in the early twentieth century no longer exist; we face new challenges calling for new conceptual tools.