Luigi Iannone is one of the leading voices of conservative thought in the Italian intellectual world. He edited and wrote the foreword to Ernst Nolte’s book La rivoluzione conservatrice, as well as editing the collective work Ernst Jünger. Giuseppe Prezzolini, a writer who has made significant contributions to anti-modernist thought through his books on figures such as Jünger, Schmitt, Tolkien, and Roger Scruton, was awarded the National Culture Award by the Italian Prime Minister in 2003.
What does “Conservative Revolution” mean? Are there different approaches within the Conservative Revolution? Why is there such a vast body of literature on this subject in Italy? Why have Italians shown particular interest in this topic?
The “Conservative Revolution” is, first and foremost, an oxymoron. Juxtaposing the concept of revolution — with its radical transformations, fractures in the social fabric and customs — with that of conservation — which implies continuity, order, authority, and defense of tradition — appears on the one hand paradoxical, on the other extraordinarily alluring. It is a complex and multifaceted idea, encompassing cultural and political movements that developed in post-World War I Germany but struggled to find a definitive political placement. Yet it is precisely this ambiguous, powerful, and evocative nature that allowed it to spread beyond German borders, radiating throughout Europe. We find similar phenomena in every country on the continent. Precisely because of its heterogeneity, the phenomenon was only retrospectively recognized under this name. It wasn’t until the 1950s that Armin Mohler attempted to frame this mosaic of political orientations, cultural themes, and artistic sensibilities into a coherent framework. These sensibilities ranged from the rejection of bourgeois society, expressed by authors such as Stefan George and Ernst Jünger, to the juridical and political traditionalism of Carl Schmitt, centered on concepts like sovereignty, decision, and order, and to the national-revolutionary universe, which sought a workable synthesis between nationalism and socialism.
The interest — and often affinity — that developed in Italy toward this tangle of positions stems from the fact that, in the Italian context as well, the same issues were being confronted: social unrest, national identity, and the idea of an ethical revolution capable of transforming the very character of the people. That is why the Conservative Revolution found a wide resonance in our country. To some extent, what happened with the Tuscan journals of the early 20th century — those which brought together futurists, nationalists, revolutionary syndicalists, artists, and writers of various kinds — is indicative of that frantic wave which sought to involve everything. But there is another reason: after the Second World War, Italian cultural life was almost entirely dominated by Marxist references and paradigms. The fact that the authors linked to the Conservative Revolution focused their reflections on themes like myth, technology, the sacred, and identity — and continued to do so consistently throughout their lives — made them particularly appealing to an audience weary of a dominant ideology that had been recycling the same interpretations for decades and had become unable to “read” modernity. Ironically, many of these early 20th-century authors proved far more adept at understanding the modern condition.
How do Jünger and Schmitt criticize modernity? How did they influence each other?
They addressed it from different but complementary perspectives. However, from the 1930s onward, an intense dialogue emerged between the two, marked by mutual respect and leaving deep traces in their respective works. The friendship that bound them lasted a lifetime and represents a key to understanding a crucial phase of their thought, though it was also marked by moments of tension and silence that weakened its solidity. Their bond was especially reinforced during the Second World War, likely fueled by a shared awareness of the tragedy that affected them personally. Schmitt, already somewhat isolated and discredited in academic circles, nonetheless accepted official roles under the regime; Jünger, on the other hand, retreated into an increasingly solitary, secluded existence — so much so that the term “internal emigration” seems almost reductive in describing his condition. It wasn’t a banal escape, but rather a vigilant distancing.
Their relationship began in a seemingly ordinary way. In 1930, Schmitt, then a young professor at the Berlin Polytechnic, sought to meet the author of Storm of Steel. They were united by a shared aversion to parliamentarianism and to a decadent view of the European intelligentsia, by their belonging — though from different angles — to the horizon of the Conservative Revolution, and by their understanding of the radical transformation of what Schmitt would define as the “nomos of the Earth.”
Jünger moved along a path where individual existence and collective symbolism merged into a relentless critique of bourgeois, rationalist, and utilitarian modernity, which he saw as responsible for the spiritual emptiness of man and his reduction to an impersonal cog. In his thought, the figure of the “Worker,” the “technical hero,” represents not only a new human archetype but a response to modern nihilism. Schmitt, by contrast, developed his critique on the legal-political and theological level. His criticism of modernity centers on its tendency to neutralize all forms of conflict, dissolving the political into proceduralism, parliamentarianism, and compromise devoid of decision. With a clear gaze, he foresaw the crisis of sovereignty and the decline of liberal democracies, where power is emptied of real authority and fragmented into a sterile game of form without substance. Though their tones and registers diverge, both converge in their diagnosis of a diseased modernity.
Some thinkers turn technology into a fetish, while others tend to reject it altogether. Why was the question of technology so important for both Jünger and Heidegger? What is the relationship between technology and culture?
For Jünger and Heidegger, technology is not merely a tool, but the signature of the age and a form of destiny. For Jünger, it embodies an impersonal force that shapes new human archetypes, such as the Worker — a symbol of discipline and mastery. Heidegger, in an even more radical way, unveils its metaphysical essence. For both, the question of technique is central because it penetrates the deep structure of modern man. Consequently, the relationship with culture is anything but secondary: technology radically transforms culture, eventually subordinating it and making it its servant.
How did Ernst Nolte define fascism? Why did he interpret the First and Second World Wars as a kind of European civil war?
Nolte assigns a central role to the element of anti-Bolshevik reaction, interpreting the genesis of fascism — and similar phenomena — as a response to the rise of communism after the Russian Revolution. In his view, fascism should not be understood merely as a manifestation of violence or a form of totalitarianism for its own sake, but as an ideological and political counter-movement triggered by the revolutionary threat. While his analysis doesn’t stop there, this perspective represents one of the fundamental keys to his interpretation.
Thus, Nolte views the First and Second World Wars as phases of a broader European civil war — an internal conflict within the West in which competing worldviews such as liberalism, communism, and fascism clashed. Framed in this logic, the wars are no longer seen as mere interstate conflicts, but as ideological tragedies — expressions of the crisis of bourgeois civilization and of Europe itself.
How did The Lord of the Rings become a myth in the modern world and influence the search for contemporary leadership? Is it possible to establish a link between Tolkien’s vision and English conservative thought?
It may seem banal or even redundant, but it is essential to emphasize that Tolkien possessed a remarkably high intellectual preparation and solid academic background, with a particular focus on the study of ancient languages and literatures. Thanks to this expertise, he was able to create a “secondary world,” an imaginary universe that allowed him to rediscover and transmit the values in which he deeply believed, without ever seeking a political outlet to concretize those visions.
His work never aspired to social redemption or to engage in contemporary public debate, nor did Tolkien harbor such intentions. Nevertheless, for a long time, he was subject to militant criticism that sought to marginalize him, reducing his production to narrow frameworks and distorting it with prejudiced disdain — often read through the lens of political debate. The biases against his supporters, many of whom were oriented toward radical anti-progressivism, further obscured his image. However, a more attentive reading easily dismantles these false interpretations and reveals the richness of his work.
Despite his immersion in the fantastic, Tolkien built a cosmogonic universe primarily to forge a mythology for England, far removed from political posturing or rhetorical ambitions. Although marginalized, his work gained widespread recognition during the 1960s, becoming a reference point for pacifists, hippies, and American university students, thanks to its ability to convey values detached from those of a Western world increasingly dominated by consumerism as both theory and practice.
Over time, and beyond these transient fascinations by protest movements, his critique of modernity, his bond with spirituality and Tradition consistently emerge in his works. Although sometimes adopted as a symbol by protest movements, Tolkien remained firmly anti-modern — able to teach entire generations to appreciate the Middle Ages and fantasy literature, refusing to see them as negative or dangerous. But, as I repeat, beyond political fashions, he reminds us that certain values are eternal, and that the associated, contingent interpretations eventually fade.