Erich von Däniken passed away recently.
Many know him as an author, researcher, and figure who has marked the cultural debate of recent decades. However, I feel the need to remember him above all as a man and a conversation partner, because that is where everything we have shared and built together over time originated.
Every meeting with Erich in Interlaken had a rhythm that repeated itself almost naturally.
Long hours in his study, without haste, and then dinner together. But in reality, there was never a real separation between these moments. The conversation that began among the books continued at the table, with the same intensity and spirit. An intensity that I would also describe as playful, in the best sense of the word: that of children who have fun even when they are serious. It was a lightness that came from his human qualities, from the way he related to people, as if we had known each other forever, with genuine familiarity.
His study was a real workplace. It was not theatrical, not built to impress. Books, notes, photographs, materials collected over decades of travel. But above all, it had something that has become rare today: time. Time to think, to go back, to dwell on a detail, to not have to come to a conclusion right away. It is important to say this, because Erich is often remembered for the answers he proposed. I believe, however, that his greatest value lay in the questions he had the uncommon courage to ask.
This attitude did not come out of nowhere.
Erich had a solid cultural background, with a humanistic bent. He studied at the Collège Saint-Michel in Fribourg, a historic institution with a Jesuit tradition, where for centuries generations have been trained to engage directly with texts. In that context, one did not learn what to think, but how to read: to read ancient sources, to recognize their stratifications, to distinguish the text from subsequent interpretations, to accept that a text can pose problems instead of solving them. It is an education that teaches reasoned doubt, not denial. And this had a profound effect on his way of looking at ancient religious writings: not as untouchable stories, but as historical documents to be questioned with respect and seriousness. In this, we fully recognized ourselves.
Erich never spoke “against” ancient texts. On the contrary, he had a deep respect for them. But he took them seriously. And taking a text seriously sometimes means asking uncomfortable questions.
His work was often misunderstood precisely because of this. He was not motivated by a desire to destroy certainties, but by a desire to understand whether traditional explanations were really sufficient.
It should be clarified that our work was never the same.
Erich started from places, artifacts, and testimonies collected in the field. I start from texts, words, the Hebrew language, grammar, and literal meaning. These are two different paths, which should not be confused and should not be forced to coincide. Yet, over time, we realized that the underlying question was often the same: are we really sure we understand what we have before us? Or are we reading and interpreting through categories that do not belong to those contexts?
It is from this convergence of questions, not answers, that our work together was born.
From that dialogue, Cieli in fiamme – Skies Afire was born. Not as a carefully planned publishing project, but as a natural consequence of years of conversation. I must say, with gratitude, that I have been a lucky person: learning from his decades of field research and writing a book with him was a unique experience. Only now, with an inevitable sense of sadness, do I realize that this was also his last work.
I remember very well when, a few months ago, we leafed through the first copy of the newly printed book together, which had been delivered personally to his home. Erich was genuinely happy. Not only for the book itself, but for what it represented: two independent paths that had found a point of honest dialogue, without coercion, built on friendship and a real commonality of purpose. It was also important to him that the book be published simultaneously in Italian and English. He saw it as a sign of mutual respect and a way to make that dialogue accessible, without linguistic or cultural barriers.
That book is, by its very nature, “centrifugal.”
It starts with the Bible, of course, but then it moves on. It encounters other cultures, other traditions, other texts. This was possible because Erich had spent a lifetime in the field and, at the same time, possessed the cultural tools to recognize the value of ancient texts. I still remember when, in his study, during one of our many meetings, he said to me with great simplicity, pointing to the enormous quantity of images and documents he had collected: “It’s all at your disposal.” It was not just a gesture of trust. It was a way of understanding the research and the human relationship that had developed over the years.
Today, that study in Interlaken is quieter. But the conversations that took place there are not over. Notes, ideas, and reflections deliberately left open remain. And this, perhaps, is the most authentic way to remember Erich: not as someone who closed a discussion, but as someone who knew how to keep it open.
Over time, we collected a lot more material together. Suggestions, traces of work, ideas that have not yet found a definitive form, but which exist and still clearly carry his voice. We hope that this material will, in time, take shape in a new contribution. Not as a commemoration, but as a continuation of a dialogue.
In this sense, I also think of my dear friend and theologian Paul Wallis, who spoke with Erich on several occasions and promoted his work. Erich told him that the task of a writer in this field is to disseminate information so that people can reflect, rather than passively accept. It is a spirit that I still feel alive. The work continues, with Paul and Ramon, his assistant for over twenty years, because this is the most natural way to honor his memory in a concrete way: to continue to circulate questions, to continue to think.
Goodbye, Erich.
