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In November 1974, upon learning that his friend and mentor, film critic Lotte Eisner, was critically ill in Paris and close to death, German filmmaker Werner Herzog immediately packed a duffel bag and began to walk in her direction from Munich, convinced that “she would stay alive if [he] came on foot.” Herzog arrived three weeks later, and when he did, exhausted and blizzard-beaten, he found that Eisner had defied the odds and was indeed alive (in fact, she live for another nine years). Throughout this brief but intense winter odyssey, Herzog kept a diary in which he documented his thoughts, encounters, and the landscapes he traversed—a travelogue of sorts rich with existential musings and stark reflections on human endurance. The following entry came on 1st December, a week after setting off.
The Diary Entry
Sunday 1 December
An almost toothless cat howls at the window, outside it’s overcast and rainy. This is the First Sunday in Advent, and in less than three days I can reach the Rhine.
For the first time some sunshine, and I thought to myself this will do you good, but now my shadow was lurking beside me and, because I was heading west, it was often in front of me as well. At noon, my shadow, It cowered there, creepingly, down around my legs, causing me in truth such anxiety. The snow has smothered a car, it was flat as a book, this car. Much of the snow melted during the night, leaving large patches lying about, and further up the hill a shroud of snow has formed. Vast open country, rolling hills with scattered woods in between, the fields somewhat brownish again. Hares, pheasants. One pheasant behaved like a madman: it danced, spun about, uttered strange sounds, but no mate would it woo. It ignored me as if it were blind. I could have grabbed it with my hand just like that, but chose not to. Little brooks flowed down the sloping meadows over my trail. A spring spews up in the middle of a path, and further below the brook is as broad as a lake. Crows are battling for something, one of them falls into the water. In the wet meadow lies a forgotten plastic soccer ball. The tree trunks steam like living beings. On a bench past Seedorf I take a rest because of my problematical groin; I could feel it during the night, but didn’t know how to position my leg. Spending the night cost twelve marks, including breakfast. Felled trees assume a silver sheen in the light, they’re steaming. Greenfinches, buzzards. The buzzards have accompanied me all the way from Munich.
Further Reading
Werner Herzog’s 1974 diary was originally published by Carl Hanser Verlag in Germany as Vom Gehem im Eis. The first English language edition came in 1980 from Tanam Press. In 2015, University of Minnesota Press published a new edition, translated by Martje Herzog and Alan Greenberg and titled, Of Walking in Ice: Munich–Paris, 23 November–14 December 1974.
I adore this diary. Beautifully written, intoxicating, and impossible to read without hearing his voice, my only complaint is its brevity. I want more.
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