Selections from the Writings of Kierkegaard by Soren A. Kierkegaard

Contents
Introduction
Diapsalmata (from Either-Or, Part I)
The Banquet (from Stages on Life's Road, Part I)
Fear and Trembling
Preparation for a Christian Life
The Present Moment

To my Father-in-Law
The Reverend George Fisher,
A Christian

INTRODUCTION

Creditable as have been the contributions of Scandinavia to the
cultural life of the race in well-nigh all fields of human endeavor,
it has produced but one thinker of the first magnitude, the Dane,
Soren A. Kierkegaard. The fact that he is virtually unknown to us
is ascribable, on the one hand to the inaccessibility of his works,
both as to language and form; on the other, to the regrettable
insularity of English thought.

It is the purpose of this book to remedy the defect in a measure,
and by a selection from his most representative works to provide a
stimulus for a more detailed study of his writings; for the present
times, ruled by material considerations, wholly led by socializing,
and misled by national, ideals are precisely the most opportune to
introduce the bitter but wholesome antidote of individual
responsibility, which is his message. In particular, students of
Northern literature cannot afford to know no more than the name
of one who exerted a potent and energizing influence on an
important epoch of Scandinavian thought. To mention only one
instance, the greatest ethical poem of our age,
"Brand"Ύnotwithstanding Ibsen's curt statement that he "had read
little of Kierkegaard and understood less"Ύundeniably owes its
fundamental thought to him, whether directly or indirectly.

Of very few authors can it be said with the same literalness as, of
Kierkegaard that their life is their works: as if to furnish living
proof of his untiring insistance on inwardness, his life, like that of
so many other spiritual educators of the race, is notably poor in
incidents; but his life of inward experiences is all the
richerΎwitness the "literature within a literature" that came to be
within a few years and that gave to Danish letters a score of
immortal works.

Kierkegaard's physical heredity must be pronounced unfortunate.
Being the child of old parentsΎhis father was, fifty-seven, his
mother forty-five years. at his birth (May 5, 1813), he had a weak
physique and a feeble constitution. Still worse, he inherited from
his father a burden of melancholy which he took a sad pride in
masking under a show of sprightliness. His father, Michael
Pedersen Kierkegaard, had begun life as a poor cotter's boy in
West Jutland, where he was set to tend the sheep on the wild
moorlands. One day, we are told, oppressed by loneliness and cold,
he ascended a hill and in a passionate rage cursed God who had
given him this miserable existenceΎthe memory of which "sin
against the Holy Ghost" he was not able to shake off to the end of
his long life. When seventeen years old, the gifted lad was sent to
his uncle in Copenhagen, who was a well-to-do dealer in woolens
and groceries. Kierkegaard quickly established himself in the trade
and amassed a considerable fortune. This enabled him to withdraw
from active life when only forty, and to devote himself to
philosophic studies, the leisure for which life had till then denied
him. More especially he seems to have studied the works of the
rationalistic philosopher Wolff. After the early death of his first
wife who left him no issue, he married a former servant in his
household, also of Jutish stock, who bore him seven children. Of
these only two survived him, the oldest sonΎlater bishopΎPeder
Christian, and the youngest son, S”ren bye.

Nowhere does Kierkegaard speak of his mother, a woman of
simple mind and cheerful disposition; but he speaks all the more
often of his father, for whom he ever expressed the greatest love
and admiration and who, no doubt, devoted himself largely to the
education of his sons, particularly to that of his latest born. Him he
was to mould in his own image. A pietistic, gloomy spirit of
religiosity pervaded the household in which the severe father was
undisputed master, and absolute obedience the watchword. Little
S”ren, as he himself tells us, heard more of the Crucified and the
martyrs than of the Christ-child and good angels. Like John Stuart
Mill, whose early education bears a remarkable resemblance to
his, he "never had the joy to be a child." Although less
systematically held down to his studies, in which religion was the
be-all and end-all (instead of being banished, as was the case with
Mill), he was granted but a minimum of out-door play and
exercise. And, instead of strengthening the feeble body, his father
threw the whole weight of his melancholy on the boy.

Nor was his home training, formidably abstract, counterbalanced
by a normal, healthy school-life. Naturally introspective and shy,
both on account of a slight deformity of his body and on account
of the old-fashioned clothes his father made him wear, he had no
boy friends; and when cuffed by his more robust contemporaries,
he could defend himself only with his biting sarcasm.
Notwithstanding his early maturity he does not seem to have
impressed either his schoolmates or his teachers by any gifts much
above the ordinary. The school he attended was one of those
semi-public schools which by strict discipline and consistent
methods laid a solid foundation of humanities ind mathematics for
those who were to enter upon a professional career. The natural
sciences played no r“le whatever.

Obedient to the wishes of his father, S”ren chose the study of
theology, as had his eldest brother; but, once relieved from the
grind of school at the age of seventeen, he rejoiced in the full
liberty of university life, indulging himself to his heart's content in
all the refined intellectual and ‘sthetic enjoyments the gay capital
of Copenhagen offered. He declares himself in later years to be
"one who is penitent" for having in his youth plunged into all kinds
of excesses; but we feel reasonably sure that he committed no
excesses worse than "high living." He was frequently seen at the
opera and the theatre, spent money freely in restaurants and
confectionary shops, bought many, and expensive books, dressed
well, and indulged in such extravagances as driving in a carriage
and pair, alone, for days through the fields and forests of the lovely
island of Zealand. In fact, he contracted considerable debts, so that
his disappointed father decided to put him on an allowance of 500
rixdollars yearly rather a handsome sum, a hundred years ago.
Naturally, little direct progress was made in his studies. But while
to all appearances aimlessly dissipating his energies, he showed a
pronounced love for philosophy and kindred disciplines. He lost no
opportunity then offered at the University of Copenhagen to train
his mind along these lines. He heard the sturdily independent
Sibbern's lectures on ‘stheties and enjoyed a "privatissimum" on
the main issues of Schleiermacher's Dogmatics with his later
enemy, the theologian Martensen, author of the celebrated
"Christian Dogmatics."

But there was no steadiness in him. Periods of indifference to
these studies alternated with feverish activity, and doubts of the
truth of Christianity, with bursts of devotion. However, the
Hebraically stern cast of mind of the externally gay student soon
wearied of this rudderless existence. He sighs for an
"Archimedean" point of support for his conduct of life. We find
the following entry in his diary, which prophetically foreshadows
some of the fundamental ideas of his later career: " . . . what I
really need is to arrive at a clear comprehension of what I am to
do, not of what I am to grasp with my understanding, except
insofar as this understanding is necessary for every action. The
point is, to comprehend what I am called to do, to see what the
Godhead really means that I shall do, to find a truth which is truth
for me, to find the idea for which I am willing to live and to die . .
."

This Archimedean point was soon to be furnished him There came
a succession of blows, culminating in the death of his father,
whose silent disapprobation had long been weighing heavily on the
conscience of the wayward son. Even more awful, perhaps, was a
revelation made by the dying father to his sons, very likely
touching that very "sin against the Holy Ghost" which he had
committed in his boyhood and the consequence of which he now
was to lay on them as a curse, instead of his blessing. Kierkegaard
calls it "the great earthquake, the terrible upheaval, which
suddenly forced on me a new and infallible interpretation of all
phenomena." He began to suspect that he had been chosen by
Providence for an extraordinary purpose; and with his abiding
filial piety he interprets his father's death as the last of many
sacrifices he made for him; "for he died, not away from me, but for
me, so that there might yet, perchance, become something of me."
Crushed by this thought, and through the "new interpretation"
despairing of happiness in this life, he clings to the thought of his
unusual intellectual powers as his only consolation and a means by
which his salvation, might be accomplished. He quickly absolved
his examination for ordination (ten years after matriculation) and
determined on his magisterial dissertation.
Already some years before he had made a not very successful
debut in the world of letters with a pamphlet whose queer title
"From the MSS. of One Still Living" reveals Kierkegaard's inborn
love of mystification and innuendo. Like a Puck of philosophy,
with somewhat awkward bounds and a callow manner, he had
there teased the worthies of his times; and, in particular, taken a
good fall out of Hans Christian Andersen, the poet of the Fairy
Tales, who had aroused his indignation by describing in somewhat
lachrymose fashion the struggles of genius to come into its own.
Kierkegaard himself was soon to show the truth of his own dictum
that "genius does not whine but like a thunderstorm goes straight
counter to the wind."

While casting about for a subject worthy of a more sustained effort
he marks out for study the legends of Faust, Of the Wandering
Jew, of Don Juan, as representatives of certain basic views of life;
the, Conception of Satire among the Ancients, etc., etc., he at last
becomes aware of his affinity with Socrates, in whom he found
that rare harmony between theory and the conduct of life which he
hoped to attain himself.

Though not by Kierkegaard himself counted among the works
bearing on the "Indirect Communication" presently to be explained
his magisterial dissertation, entitled "The Conception of Irony,
with Constant Reference to Socrates," a book of 300 pages, is of
crucial importance. It shows that, helped by the sage who would
not directly help any one, he had found the master key: his own
interpretation of life. Indeed, all the following literary output may
be regarded as the consistent development of the simple directing
thoughts of his firstling work. And we must devote what may seem
a disproportionate amount of space to the explanation of these
thoughts if we would enter into the world of his mind.

Not only did Kierkegaard feel kinship with Socrates. It did not
escape him that there was an ominous similarity between Socrates'
times and his own between the period of flourishing Attica,
eminent in the arts and in philosophy, when a little familiarity with
the shallow phrases of the Sophists enabled one to have an opinion
about everything on earth and in heaven, and his own Copenhagen
in the thirties of the last century, when Johan Ludvig Heiberg had
popularized Hegelian philosophy with such astonishing success
that the very cobblers were using the Hegelian terminology, with
"Thesis, Antithesis, and Synthesis," and one could get instructions
from one's barber, while being shaved, how to "harmonize the
ideal with reality, and our wishes with what we have attained."
Every difficulty could be "mediated," according to this recipe. And
just as the great questioner of Athens gave pause to his more na‹ve
contemporaries by his "know thyself," so Kierkegaard insisted that
he must rouse his contemporaries from their philosophic
complacency and unwarranted optimism, and move them to realize
that the spiritual life has both mountain and valley, that it is no flat
plain easy to travel. He intended to show difficulties where the
road had been supposedly smoothed for them.

Central, both in the theory and in the practice of Socrates
(according to Kierkegaard), is his irony. The ancient sage would
stop old and young and quizz them skilfully on what they regarded
as common and universally established propositions, until his
interlocutor became confused by some consequence or
contradiction arising unexpectedly, and until he who had been sure
of his knowledge was made to confess his ignorance, or even to
become distrustful of the possibility of knowledge. Destroying
supposedly positive values, this method would seem to lead to a
negative result only.

Kierkegaard makes less (and rather too little) of the positive side
of Socrates' method, his maieutic, or midwifery, by which we are
led inductively from trivial instances to a new definition of a
conception, a method which will fit all cases. Guided by a lofty
personality, this Socratic irony becomes, in Kierkegaard's
definition, merely "the negative liberation of subjectivity"; that is,
not the family, nor society, nor the state, nor any rules
superimposed from outside, but one's innermost self (or
subjectivity) is to be the determining factor in one's life. And
understood thus, irony as a negative element borders on the ethical
conception of life.

Romantic irony, on the other hand, laying main stress on
subjective liberty, represents the ‘sthetic conduct of life. It was,
we remember, the great demand of the Romantic period that one
live poetically. That is, after having reduced all reality to
possibilities, all existence to fragments, we are to choose ad
libitum one such possible existence, to consider that one's proper
sphere, and for the rest to look ironically on all other reality as
philistine. Undeniably, this license, through the infinitude of
possibilities open to him, gives the ironist an enthusiastic sense of
irresponsible freedom in which he "disports himself as does
Leviathan in the deep." Again, the "‘sthetical individual is ill at
ease in the world into which he is born. His typical ailment is a
Byronesque Weltschmerz. He would fain mould the elements of
existence to suit himself; that is, "compose" not only himself but
also his surroundings. But without fixed task and purpose, life will
soon lose all continuity ("except that of boredom") and fall apart
into disconnected moods and impulses. Hence, while supposing
himself a superman, free, and his own master, the ‘sthetic
individual is, in reality, a slave to the merest accidents. He is not
self-directed, self-propelled; but drifts.

Over against this attitude Kierkegaard now sets the ethical,
Christian life, one with a definite purpose and goal beyond itself.
"It is one thing to compose one's own life , another, to let one's life
be composed. The Christian lets his life be composed; and insofar
a simple Christian lives far more poetically than many a genius." It
would hardly be possible to characterize the contents of
Kierkegaard's first great book, Enten-Eller "Either-Or," more
inclusively and tersely.

Very well, then, the Christian life, with its clear directive, is
superior to the aesthetic existence. But how is this: are we not all
Christians in Christendom, children of Christians, baptized and
confirmed according to the regulations of the Church? And are we
not all to be saved according to the promise of Our Lord who died
for us? At a very early time Kierkegaard, himself desperately
struggling to maintain his Christian faith against doubts, had his
eyes opened to, this enormous delusion of modern times and was
preparing to battle against it. The great idea and task for which he
was to live and to die here it was: humanity is in apparent
possession of the divine truth, but utterly perverts it and, to cap
injury with insult, protects and intrenches the deception behind
state sanction and institutions. More appalling evil confronted not
even the early protagonists of Christianity against heathendom.
How was he, single-handed, magnificently gifted though he was, to
cleanse the temple and restore its pristine simplicity?

Clearly, the old mistake must not be repeated, to try to influence
and reform the masses by a vulgar and futile "revival," preaching
to them directly and gaining disciples innumerable. It would only
lead again, to the abomination of a lip service. But a ferment must
be introduced which he hoped would gradually restore Christianity
to its former vigor; at least in individuals. So far as the form of his
own works is concerned he was thus bound to use the "indirect
method" of Socrates whom he regards as his teacher. In conscious
opposition to the Sophists who sold their boasted wisdom for
money, Socrates not only made no charges for his instruction but
even warned people of his igorance, insisting that, like a midwife,
he only helped people to give birth to their own thoughts. And
owing to his irony Socrates' relation to his disciples was not in any
positive sense a personal one. Least of all did he wish to found a
new "school" or erect a philosophic "system."

Kierkegaard, with Christianity as his goal, adopted the same
tactics. By an attractive ‘sthetic beginning people were to be
"lured" into envisaging the difficulties to be unfolded presently, to
think for themselves, to form their own conclusions, whether for or
against. The individual was to be appealed to, first and last the
individual, no matter how humble, who would take the trouble to
follow him and be his reader, "my only reader, the single
individual." "So the religious author must make it his first business
to put himself in touch with men. That is to say, he must begin
aesthetically. The more brilliant his performance, the better." And
then, when he has got them to follow him "he must produce the
religious categories so that these same men with all the impetus of
their devotion to aesthetic 4hings are suddenly brought up sharp
against the religious aspect." The writer's own personality was to
be entirely eliminated by a system of pseudonyms; for the effect of
his teaching was not to be jeopardized by a distracting knowledge
of his personality. Accordingly, in conscious imitation of Socrates,
Kierkegaard at first kept up a semblance of his previous student
life, posing as a frivolous idler on the streets of Copenhagen, a
witty dog incapable of prolonged serious activity; thus anxiously
guarding the secret of his feverish activity during the lonely hours
of the night.

His campaign of the "indirect communication" was thus fully
determined upon; but there was still lacking the impetus of an
elemental passion to start it and give it driving force and
conquering persistence. This also was to be furnished him.

Shortly before his father's death he had made the acquaintance of
Regine Olson, a beautiful young girl of good family. There
followed one of the saddest imaginable engagements. The
melancholy, and essentially lonely, thinker may not at first have
entertained the thought of a lasting attachment; for had he not, on
the one hand, given up all hope of worldly happiness, and on the
other, begun to think of himself as a chosen tool of heaven not to
be bound by the ordinary ties of human affection? But the natural
desire to be as happy as others and to live man's common lot, for a
moment hushed all anxious scruples. And the love of the brilliant
and promising young man with the deep, sad eyes and the flashing
wit was ardently returned by her.

Difficulties arose very soon. It was not so much the extreme youth
and immaturity of the girl she was barely sixteen as against his
tremendous mental development, or even her "total lack of
religious pre-suppositions"; for that might not itself have precluded
a happy union. Vastly more ominous was his own unconquerable
and overwhelming melancholy. She could not break it. And
struggle as he might, he could not banish it. And, he reasoned,
even if he were successful in concealing it from her, the very
concealment were a deceit. Neither would he burden her with his
melancholy by revealing it to her. Besides, some mysterious
ailment which, with Paul, he terms the "thorn in his flesh,"
tormented him. The fact that he consulted a physician makes it
likely that it was bodily, and perhaps sexual. On the other hand,
the manner of Kierkegaard's multitudinous references to woman
removes the suspicion of any abnormality. The impression remains
that at the bottom of his trouble there lay his melancholy,
aggravated admittedly by an "insane education," and coupled with
an exaggerated sense of a misspent youth. That nothing else
prevented the union is clear from his own repeated later remarks
that, with more faith, he would have married her.

Though to the end of his life he never ceased to love her, he feels
that they must part. But she clings to him with a rather maudlin
devotion, which, to be sure, only increased his determination. He
finally hit on the desperate device of pretending frivolous
indifference to her affections, and acted this sad comedy with all
the dialectic subtleness of his genius, until she eventually released
him. Then, after braving for a while the philistine indignation of
public opinion and the disapproval of his friends, in order to
confirm her in her bad opinion of him, he fled to Berlin with
shattered nerves and a bleeding heart.

He had deprived himself of what was dearest to him in life. For all
that, he knew that the foundations of his character remained
unshaken. The voluntary renunciation of a worldly happiness
which was his for the taking intensifies his idea of being one of'
the "few in each generation selected to be a sacrifice." Thereafter,
"his thought is all to him," and all his gifts are devoted to the
service of God.

During the first half of the nineteenth century, more than at any
other time, Denmark was an intellectual dependency of Germany.
It was but natural that Kierkegaard, in search for the ultimate
verities, should resort to Berlin where Schelling was just then
beginning his famous course of lectures. In many respects it may
be held deplorable that, at a still formative stage, Kierkegaard
should have remained in the prosaic capital of Prussia and have
been influenced by bloodless abstractions; instead of journeying to
France, or still better, to England whose empiricism would, no
doubt, have been an excellent corrective of his excessive tendency
to speculation. In fact he was quickly disappointed with Schelling
and after four months returned to his beloved Copenhagen (which
he was not to leave thereafter except for short periods), with his
mind still busy on the problems which were peculiarly his own.
The tremendous impulse given by hi unfortunate engagement was
sufficient to stimulate his sensitive mind to a produc-tivity without
equal in Danish literature, to create a "literature within a
literature." The fearful inner collision of motives had lit an inner
conflagration which did not die down for years. "My becoming an
author is due chiefly to her, my melancholy, and my money."

About a year afterwards (1843) there appeared his first great work,
"Either-Or," which at once established his fame. As in the case of
most of his works it will be impossible to give here more than the
barest outline of its plan and contents. In substance, it is a grand
debate between the aesthetic and the ethic views of life. In his
dissertation Kierkegaard had already characterized the ‘sthetic
point of view. Now, in a brilliant series of articles, he proceeds to
exemplify it with exuberant detail.

The fundamental chord of the first part is struck in the
Diapsalmata aphorisms which, like so many flashes of a lantern,
illuminate the ‘sthetic life, its pleasures and its despair. The
‘sthetic individual this is brought out in the article entitled "The
Art of Rotation" wishes to be the exception in human society,
shirking its common, humble duties and claiming special
privileges. He has no fixed principle except that he means not to
be bound to anything or anybody. He has but one desire which is,
to enjoy the sweets of life whether its purely sensual pleasures or
the more refined Epicureanism of the finer things in life and art,
and the ironic enjoyment of one's own superiority over the rest of
humanity; and he has no fear except that he may succumb to
boredom.

As a comment on this text there follow a number of essays in
"experimental psychology," supposed to be the fruit of the
‘sthete's (A's) leisure. In them the ‘sthetic life is exhibited in its
various manifestations, in "terms of existence," especially as to its
"erotic stages," from the indefinite longings of the Page to the fully
conscious "sensual genius" of Don Juan the examples are taken
from Mozart's opera of this name, which was Kierkegaard's
favorite until the whole culminates in the famous "Diary of the
Seducer," containing elements of the author's own engagement,
poetically disguised a seducer, by the way, of an infinitely
reflective kind.

Following this climax of unrestrained ‘stheticism we hear in the
second part the stern demands of the ethical life. Its spokesman,
Judge William, rises in defense of the social institutes, and of
marriage in particular, against the slurs cast on them by his young
friend A. He makes it clear that the only possible outcome of the
‘sthetic life, with its aimlessness, its superciliousness, its vague
possibilities, is a feeling of vanity and vexation of spirit, and a
hatred of life itself: despair. One floundering in this inevitable
slough of despond, who earnestly wishes to escape from it and to
save himself from the ultimate destruction of his personality, must
choose and determine to rise into the ethical sphere. That is, he
must elect a definite calling, no matter how humdrum, marry, if
possible, and thus subject himself to the "general law." In a word,
instead of a world of vague possibilities, however attractive, he
must choose the definite circumscription of the individual who is a
member of society. Only thus, will he obtain a balance in his life
between the demands of his personality on the one hand, and of
the demands of society on him. When thus reconciled to his
environment his "lot" all the pleasures of the ‘sthetic sphere
which he resigned will be his again in rich measure, but in a
transfigured sense.

Though nobly eloquent in places, and instinct with warm feeling,
this panegyric on marriage and the fixed duties of life is somewhat
unconvincing, and its style undeniably tame and unctious at least
when contrasted with the Satanic Verve of most of A's papers. The
fact is that Kierkegaard, when considering the ethical sphere, in
order to carry out his plan of contrasting it with the ‘sthetic
sphere, was already envisaging the higher sphere of religion, to
which the ethical sphere is but a transition, and which is the only
true alternative to the ‘sthetic life. At the very end of the book
Kierkegaard, flying his true colors, places a sermon as an
"ultimatum," purporting to have been written bya pastor on the
Jutish Heath. Its text is that "as against we are always in the
wrong," and the tenor of it, "onlythat truth which edifies is truth
for you." It is not that you must choose either the ‘sthetic or the
ethical view of life; but that neither the one nor the other is the full
truth God alone is the truth which must be grasped with all
inwardness. But since we recognize our imperfections, or sins, the
more keenly, as we are developed more highly, our typical relation
to God must be that of repentance; and by repentance as by a step
we may rise into the higher sphere of religion as will be seen, a
purely Christian thought.

A work of such powerful originality, imposing by its very size, and
published at the anonymous author's own expense, could not but
create a stir among the small Danish reading public. And
notwithstanding Kierkegaard's consistent efforts to conceal his
authorship in the interest of his "indirect communication," it could
not long remain a secret. The book was much, and perplexedly,
discussed, though no one was able to fathom the author's real aim,
most readers being attracted by piquant subjects such as the "Diary
of the Seducer," and regarding the latter half as a feeble
afterthought. As he said himself: "With my left hand I held out to
the world 'Either-Or,' with my right, 'Two Edifying Discourses'; but
they all or practically all seized with their right hands what I held
in my left."

These "Two Edifying Discourses," for thus he preferred to call
them, rather than sermons, because he claimed no authority to
preach as well as all the many later ones, were published over his
own name, addressed to Den Enkelte "The Single Individual"
"whom with joy and gratitude he calls his reader," and were
dedicated to the memory of his father. They belong among the
noblest books of edification, of which the North has not a few.
During the following three years (1843-5) Kierkegaard, once
roused to productivity, though undoubtedly kept at his task by the
exertion of marvellous will-power, wrote in quick succession some
of his most notable works so original in form, in thought, in
content that it is a well-nigh hopeless task to analyze them to any
satisfaction. All we can do here is to note the development in them
of the one grand theme which is fundamental to all his literary
activity: how to become a Christian.

If the second part of "Either-Or" was devoted to an explanation of
the nature of the ethical, as against the ‘sthetic, conduct of life,
inevitably the next task was, first, to define the nature of the
religious life, as against the merely ethical life; then, to show how
the religious sphere may be attained. This is done in the brilliant
twin books Frygt og Baeven "Fear and Trembling" and
Gjentagelsen "Repetition." Both were published over pseudonyms.
"Fear and Trembling" bears as its subtitle "Dialectic Lyrics."
Indeed, nowhere perhaps, is Kierkegaard's strange union of
dialectic subtlety and intense lyrical power and passion so
strikingly in evidence as in this panegyric on Abraham, the father
of faith. To Kierkegaard he is the shining exemplar of the religious
life; and his greatest act of faith, his obedience to God's command
to slay Isaac. Nothing can surpass the eloquence with which he
depicts the agony of the father, his struggle between the ethical, or
general, law which saith "thou shalt no kill"! and God's specific
command. In the end, Abraham by a grand resolve transgresses the
law; and lo! because he has faith, against certainty, that he will
keep Isaac, and does not merely resign him, as many a tragic hero
would have done, he receives all again, in a new and higher
sphere. In other words, Abraham chooses to be "the exception" and
set aside the general law, as well as does the ‘sthetic individual;
but, note well: "in fear and trembling," and at the express
command of God! He is a "knight of faith." But because this direct
relation to the divinity necessarily can be certain only to
Abraham's self, his action is altogether incomprehensible to others.
Reason recoils before the absolute paradox of the individual who
chooses to rise superior to the general law.

The rise into the religious sphere is always likely to be the
outcome of some severe inner conflict engendering infinite
passion. In the splendidly written Gjentagelse "Repetition" we are
shown ad oculos an abortive transition into the religious sphere,
with a corresponding relapse into the ‘sthetic sphere.
Kierkegaard's own love-story is again drawn upon: the "Young
Person" ardently loves the woman; but discovers to his
consternation that she is in reality but a burden to him since,
instead of having an actual, living relation to her, he merely
"remembers" her when she is present. In the ensuing collision of
motives his ‘sthetically cool friend Constantin Constantius
advises him to act as one unworthy of her as did Kierkegaard and
to forget her. But instead of following this advice, and lacking a
deeper religious background, he flees the town and subsequently
transmutes his trials into poetry that is, relapses into the ‘sthetic
sphere: rather than, like Job, whom he apostrophises passionately,
"receiving all again" (having all "repeated") in a higher sphere.
This idea of the resumption of a lower stage into a higher one is
one of Kierkegaard's most original and fertile thoughts. It is
illustrated here with an amazing wealth of instances.

So far, it had been a question of religious feeling in general how it
may arise, and what its nature is. In the pivotal work Philosophiske
Smuler "Philosophic Trifles" note the irony Kierkegaard throws
the searching rays of his penetrating intellect on the grand problem
of revealed religion: can one's eternal salvation be based on an
historical event? This is the great stumbling block to the
understanding.

Hegel's philosophic optimism maintained that the difficulties of
Christianity had been completely "reconciled" or "mediated" in the
supposedly higher synthesis of philosophy, by which process
religion had been reduced to terms which might be grasped by the
intellect. Kierkegaard, fully voicing the claim both of the intellect
and of religion, erects the barrier of the paradox, impassable
except by the act of faith. As will be seen, this is Tertullian's Credo
quia absurdum.

In the briefest possible outline his argument is as follows: Socrates
had taught that in reality every one had the truth in him and needed
but to be reminded of it by the teacher who thus is necessary only
in helping the disciple to discover it himself. That is the indirect
communication of the truth. But now suppose that the truth is not
innate in man, suppose he has merely the ability to grasp it when
presented to him. And suppose the teacher to be of absolute,
infinite importance the Godhead himself, directly communicating
with man, revealing the truth in the shape of man; in fact, as the
lowliest of men, yet insisting on implicit belief in Him! This,
according to Kierkegaard, constitutes the paradox of faith par
excellence. But this paradox, he shows, existed for the generation
contemporaneous with Christ in the same manner as it does for
those living now. To think that faith was an easier matter for those
who saw the Lord and walked in His blessed company is but a
sentimental, and fatal, delusion. On the other hand, to found one's
faith on the glorious results, now evident, of Christ's appearance in
the world is sheer thoughtlessness and blasphemy. With
ineluctable cogency it follows that "there can be no disciple at
second hand." Now, as well as "1800 years ago," whether in
Heathendom or in Christendom, faith is born of the same
conditions: the resolute acceptance by the individual of the
absolute paradox.

In previous works Kierkegaard had already intimated that what
furnished man the impetus to rise into the highest sphere and to
assail passionately and incessantly the barrier of the paradox, or
else caused him to lapse into "demonic despair," was the
consciousness of sin. In the book Begrebet Angest "The Concept
of Sin," he now attempts with an infinite and laborious subtlety to
explain the nature of sin. Its origin is found in the "sympathetic
antipathy" of Dread that force which at one and the same time
attracts and repels from the suspected danger of a fall and is
present even in the state of innocence, in children. It finally results
in a kind of "dizziness" which is fatal. Yet, so Kierkegaard
contends, the "fall" of man is, in every single instance, due to a
definite act of the will, a "leap" which seems a patent
contradiction.

To the modern reader, this is the least palatable of Kierkegaard's
works, conceived as it is with a sovereign and almost medieval
disregard of the predisposing undeniable factors of environment
and heredity (which, to be sure, poorly fit his notion of the
absolute responsibility of the individual). Its sombreness is
redeemed, to a certain degree, by a series of marvellous
observations, drawn from history and literature, on the various
phases and manifestations of Dread in human life.

On the same day as the book just discussed there appeared, as a
"counter-irritant," the hilariously exuberant Forord "Forewords," a
collection of some eight playful but vicious attacks, in the form of
prefaces, on various foolish manifestations of Hegelianism in
Denmark. They are aimed chiefly at the high-priest of the
"system," the poet Johan Ludvig Heiberg who, as the arbiter
elegantiarum of the times had presumed to review, with a plentiful
lack of insight, Kierkegaard's activity. But some of the most telling
shots are fired at a number of the individualist Kierkegaard's pet
aversions.

His next great work, Stadier paa Livets Vei "Stages on Life's
Road," forms a sort of resum‚ of the results so far gained. The
three "spheres" are more clearly elaborated.

The aesthetic sphere is represented existentially by the
incomparable In Vino Veritas, generally called "The Banquet,"
from a purely literary point of view the most perfect of
Kierkegaard's works, which, if written in one of the great
languages of Europe, would have procured him world fame.
Composed in direct emulation of Plato's immortal Symposion, it
bears comparison with it as well as any modern composition can.
Indeed, it excels Plato's work in subtlety, richness, and refined
humor. To be sure, Kierkegaard has charged his creation with such
romantic superabundance of delicate observations and rococo
ornament that the whole comes dangerously near being
improbable; whereas the older work stands solidly in reality.

It is with definite purpose that the theme of the speeches of the
five participants in the banquet is love, i.e., the relation of the two
sexes in love; for it is there the main battle between the ‘sthetic
and the ethical view of life must be fought out. Accordingly, Judge
William, to whom the last idyllic pages of "The Banquet" again
introduce us, in the second part breaks another shaft in defense of
marriage, which in the ethical view of life is the typical realization
of the "general law." Love exists also for the ethical individual. In
fact, love and no other consideration whatsoever can justify
marriage. But whereas to the aesthetic individual love is merely
eroticism, viz., a passing self-indulgence without any obligation,
the ethical individual attaches to himself the woman of his choice
by an act of volition, for better or for worse, and by his marriage
vow incurs an obligation to society. Marriage is thus a synthesis of
love and duty. A pity only that Kierkegaard's astonishingly low
evaluation of woman utterly mars what would otherwise be a
classic defence of marriage.

The religious sphere is shown forth in the third part, Skyldig
Ikke-Skyldig "Guilty Not-Guilty," with the apt subtitle "A History
of Woe." Working over, for the third time, and in the most intense
fashion, his own unsuccessful attempt to "realize the general law,"
i.e., by marrying, he here presents in the form of a diary the
essential facts of his own engagement, but in darker colors than in
"Repetition." It is broken because of religious incompatibility and
the lover's unconquerable melancholy; and by his voluntary
renunciation, coupled with acute suffering through his sense of
guilt for his act, he is driven up to an approximation of the
religious sphere. Not unjustly, Kierkegaard himself regarded this
as the richest of his works.

One may say that "Guilty-Not-Guilty" corresponds to Kierkegaard's
own development at this stage. Christianity is still above him. How
may it be attained? This is the grand theme of the huge book
whimsically named "Final Unscientific Postscript to the
Philosophical Trifles," Afstuttende Uvidenskabelig Efterskrift
(1846): "How shall I become a Christian, I, Johannes Climacus,
born in this city, thirty years of age, and not in any way different
from the ordinary run of men"?

Following up the results gained in the "Trifles," the subjectivity of
faith is established once for all: it is not to be attained by swearing
to any set of dogmas, not even Scripture; for who will vouch for its
being an absolutely reliable and inspired account of Christ?
Besides, as Lessing had demonstrated conclusively: historic facts
never can become the proof of eternal verities. Nor can the
existence of the Church through the ages furnish any guarantee for
faith straight counter to the opinion held by Kierkegaard's famous
contemporary Grundtvig any more than can mere
contemporaneousness establish a guarantee for those living at the
beginning. To sum up: "One who has an objective Christianity and
nothing else, he is eo ipso a heathen." For the same reason,
"philosophic speculation" is not the proper approach, since it seeks
to understand Christianity objectively, as an historic phenomenon
which rules it out from the start.

It is only by a decisive "leap," from objective thinking into
subjective faith, with the consciousness of sin as the driving
power, that the individual may realize (we would say, attain)
Christianity. Nor is it gained once for all, but must ever be
maintained by passionately assailing the paradox of faith, which is,
that one's eternal salvation is based on an historic fact. The main
thing always is the "how," not the "what." Kierkegaard goes so far
as to say that he who with fervency and inwardness prays to some
false god is to be preferred to him who worships the true god, but
without the passion of devotion.

In order to prevent any misunderstanding about the manner of
presentation in this remarkable book, it will be well to add
Kierkegaard's own remark after reading a conscientious German
review of his "Trifles": "Although the account given is correct,
every one who reads it will obtain an altogether incorrect
impression of the book; because the account the critic gives is in
the ex cathedra style (docerende), which will produce on the
reader the impression that the book is written in a like manner. But
this is in my eyes the worst misconception possible." And as to its
peculiar conversational, entertaining manner which in the most
leisurely, legŠre fashion and in an all but dogmatic style treats of
the profoundest problems, it is well to recall the similarly popular
manner of Pascal in his Lettres Provinciales. Like him and his
grand prototype Socrates Kierkegaard has the singular faculty of
attacking the most abstruse matters with a chattiness bordering on
frivolity, yet without ever losing dignity.

For four and a half years Kierkegaard had now, notwithstanding
his feeble health, toiled feverishly and, as he himself states,
without even a single day's remission. And "the honorarium had
been rather Socratic": all of his books bad been brought out at his
own expense, and their sale had been, of course, small. (Of the
"Final Postscript," e.g., which had cost him between 500 and 600
rixdollars, only 60 copies were sold). Hardly any one had
understood what the purpose of this "literature" was. He himself
had done, with the utmost exertion and to the best of his ability,
what he set out to do: to show his times, which had assumed that
being a Christian is an easy enough matter, how unspeakably
difficult a matter it really is and what terribly severe demands it
makes on natural man. He now longed for rest and seriously
entertained the plan of bringing his literary career to a close and
spending the remainder of his days as a pastor of some quiet
country parish, there to convert his philosophy into terms of
practical existence. But this was not to be. An incident which
would seem ridicuously small to a more robust nature sufficed to
inflict on Kierkegaard's sensitive mind the keenest tortures and
thus to sting him into a renewed and more passionate literary
activity.

As it happened, the comic paper Korsaren "The Corsair" was then
at the heyday of its career. The first really democratic periodical in
Denmark, it stood above party lines and through its malicious,
brilliant satire and amusing caricatures of prominent personalities
was hated, feared, and enjoyed by everybody. Its editor, the Jewish
author Meir Goldschmidt, was a warm and outspoken admirer of
the philosopher. Kierkegaard, on the other hand, had long regarded
the Press with suspicion. He loathed it because it gave expression
to, and thus subtly flattered, the multitude, "the public," "the mob"
as against the individual, and because it worked with the terrible
weapon of anonymity; but held it especially dangerous by reason
of its enormous circulation and daily repetition of mischievous
falsehoods. So it seemed to him who ever doubted the ability of
the "people" to think for themselves. In a word, the Press is to him
"the evil principle in the modern world." Needless to say, the
tactics of "The Corsair," in particular, infuriated him.

In a Christmas annual (1845) there had appeared a blundering
review, by one of the collaborators on "The Corsair," of his "Stages
on Life's Road." Seizing the opportunity offered, Kierkegaard
wrote a caustic rejoinder, adding the challenge: "Would that I now
soon appear in 'The Corsair.' It is really hard on a poor author to be
singled out in Danish literature by remaining the only one who is
not abused in it." We know now that Goldschmidt did his best in a
private interview to ward off a feud,. but when rebuffed he turned
the batteries of his ridicule on the personality of his erstwhile idol.
And for the better part of a year the Copenhagen public was kept
laughing and grinning about the unequal trouser legs, the spindle
shanks, the inseparable umbrella, the dialectic propensities, of
"Either Or," as Kierkegaard came to be called by the populace; for,
owing to his peripatetic habits acquired in connection with the
Indirect Communication he had long been a familiar figure on the
streets of the capital. While trying to maintain an air of
indifference, be suffered the tortures of the damned. In his Journal
(several hundred of whose pages are given over to reflections on
this experience) we find exclamations such as this one: "What is it
to be roasted alive at a slow fire, or to be broken on the wheel or,
as they do in warm climates, to be smeared with honey and put at
the mercy of the insects what is that in comparison with this
torture: to be grinned to death!"

There could be no thought now of retiring to a peaceful charge in
the country. That would have been fleeing from persecution.
Besides, unbeknown perhaps to himself, his pugnacity was
aroused. While under the influence of the "Corsair Feud" (as it is
known in Danish literature) he completes the booklet "A Literary
Review." This was originally intended as a purely ‘sthetic
evaluation and appreciation of the (then anonymous) author of the
Hverdagshistorier "Commonplace Stories" that are praised by him
for their thoughtful bodying forth of a consistent view of life
which however different from his own yet commanded his respect.
He now appended a series of bitter reflections on the Present
Times, paying his respects to the Press, which he calls
incomparably the worst offender in furnishing people with cheap
irony, in forcibly levelling out and reducing to mediocrity all those
who strive to rise above it intellectually words applicable, alas! no
less to our own times. To him, however, who in a religious sense
has become the captain of his soul, the becoming a butt of the
Press is but a true test. Looking up, Kierkegaard sees in his own
fate the usual reward accorded by mankind to the courageous souls
who dare to fight for the truth, for the ideal for Christianity,
against the "masses." In a modern way, through ridicule, he was
undergoing the martyrdom which the blood witnesses of old had
undergone for the sake of their faith. Their task it had been to
preach the Gospel among the heathen. His, he reasoned, was in
nowise easier: to make clear to uncomprehending millions of
so-called Christians that they were not Christians at all, that they
did not even know what Christianity is: suffering and persecution,
as he now recognizes, being inseparable from the truly Christian
life.

First, then, the road had to be cleared, emphatically, for the truth
that Christianity and "the public" are opposite terms. The
collection of "Edifying Discourses in Diverse Spirits" is thus a
religious parallel to the polemic in his "Review." The first part of
these meditations has for text: "The purity of the heart consists in
willing one thing" and this one thing is necessarily the good, the
ideal; but only he who lives his life as the individual can possibly
will the good else it is lived in duplicity, for the world will share
his aspirations, he will bid for the rewards which the bowing
before the crowd can give him. In the second part, entitled "What
we may learn from the Lilies of the Field and the Birds of the Air"
one of Kierkegaard's favorite texts the greatest danger to the
ethico-religious life is shown to be the uneasiness about our
material welfare which insidiously haunts our thought-life, and,
notwithstanding our best endeavors, renders us essentially slaves
to "the crowd"; whereas it is given to man, created in the image of
God, to be as self-contained, unafraid, hopeful as are
(symbolically) the lily and the bird. The startlingly new
development attained through his recent experiences is most
evident in the third part, "The Gospel of Sufferings," in which
absolute stress is laid on the imitation of Christ in the strictest
sense. Only the "individual" can compass this: the narrow way to
salvation must be traveled alone; and will lead to salvation only if
the world is, literally, overcome in persecution and tribulation.
And, on the other hand, to be happy in this world is equivalent to
forfeiting salvation. Thus briefly outlined, the contents of this
book would seem to be sheer monkish asceticism; but no synopsis,
however full, can hope to give an idea of its lyrical pathos, its
wealth of tender reflections, the great love tempering the stern
severity of its teaching.

With wonderful beauty "The Deeds of Love" (Kjerlighedens
Gjerninger) (1847) are exalted as the Christian's help and salvation
against the tribulations of the world love, not indeed of the human
kind, but of man through God. "You are not concerned at all with
what others do to you, but only with what you do to others; and
also, with how you react to what others do to you you are
concerned, essentially, only with yourself, before God."

In rapid succession there follow "Christian Discourses"; "The Lily
of the Field and the Bird of the Air"; "Sickness Unto Death" (with
the sub-title "A Christian Psychological Exposition"); "Two
Religious Treatises"; "The High Priest, the Publican, the Sinner";
"Three Discourses on the 0ccasion of Communion on Friday."

In the course of these reflections it had become increasingly clear
to Kierkegaard that the self-constituted representative of Christ the
Church or, to mention only the organization he was intimately
acquainted with, the Danish State Church had succeeded in
becoming a purely worldly organization whose representatives, far
from striving to follow Christ, had made life quite comfortable for
themselves; retort to which was presently made that by thus
stressing "contemporaneousness" with its aspects of suffering and
persecution, Kierkegaard had both exceeded the accepted teaching
of the Church and staked the attainment of Christianity so high as
to drive all existing forms of it ad absurdum.

In his Ind”velse i Christendom "Preparation for a Christian Life"
and the somber Til Selvpr”velse "For a Self-Examation"
Kierkegaard returns to the attack with a powerful re-examination
of the whole question as to how far modern Christianity
corresponds to that of the Founder. Simply, but with grandiose
power, he works out in concrete instances the conception of
"contemporaneousness" gained in the "Final Postscript"; at the
same time demonstrating to all who have eyes to see, the
axiomatic connection between the doctrine of Propitiation and
Christ's life in debasement; that Christianity consists in absolutely
dying to the world; and that the Christianity which does not live up
to this is but a travesty on Christianity. We may think what we
Please about this counsel of perfection, and judge what we may
about the rather arbitrary choice of Scripture passages on which
Kierkegaard builds: no serious reader, no sincere Christian can
escape the searching of heart sure to follow this tremendous
arraignment of humanity false to its divine leader. There is nothing
more impressive in all modern literature than the gallery of
"opinions" voiced by those arrayed against Christ when on earth
and now as to what constitutes the "offense."

Kierkegaard had hesitated a long time before publishing the
"Preparation for a Christian Life." Authority-loving as he was, he
shrank from antagonizing the Church, as it was bound to do; and
more especially, from giving offense to its primate, the venerable
Bishop Mynster who had been his father's friend and spiritual
adviser, to whom he had himself always looked up with admiring
reverence, and whose sermons he had been in the habit of reading
at all times. Also, to be sure, he was restrained by the thought that
by publishing his book he would render Christianity well-night
unattainable to the weak and the simple and the afflicted who
certainly were in need of the consolations of Christianity without
any additional sufferings interposed and surely no reader of his
devotional works can be in doubt that he was the most
tender-hearted of men. In earlier, stronger times, he imagines, he
would have been made a martyr for his opinions; but was he
entitled to become a blood-witness he who realized more keenly
than any one that he himself was not a Christian in the strictest
sense? In his "Two Religious Treatises" he debates the question:
"Is it permissible for a man to let himself be killed for the truth?";
which is answered in the negative in "About the Difference
between a Genius and an Apostle" which consists in the Apostle's
speaking with authority. However, should not the truth be the most
important consideration? His journal during that time offers
abundant proof of the absolute earnestness with which he struggled
over the question.

When Kierkegaard finally published "The Preparation for a
Christian Life," the bishop was, indeed, incensed; but he did
nothing. Nor did any one else venture forth. Still worse affront!
Kierkegaard had said his last word, had stated his ultimatum and it
was received with indifference, it seemed. Nevertheless he decided
to wait and see what effect his books would have for he hesitated
to draw the last conclusions and mortally wound the old man
tottering on the brink of his grave by thus attacking the Church.
There followed a three years' period of silence on the part of
Kierkegaard again certainly a proof of his utter sincerity. It must
be remembered, in this connection, that the very last thing
Kierkegaard desired was an external reorganization, a "reform," of
the Church indeed, he firmly refused to be identified with any
movement of secession, differing in this respect vitally from his
contemporaries Vinet and Grundtvig who otherwise had so much
in common with him. His only wish was to infuse life and
inwardness into the existing forms. And far from being inferior to
them in this he was here at one with the Founder and the Early
Church in that he states the aim of the Christian Life to be, not to
transform the existing social order, but to transcend it. For the very
same reason, coupled to be sure with a pronounced aristocratic
individualism, he is utterly and unreasonably indifferent, and even
antagonistic, to the great social movements of his time, to the
political upheavals of 1848, to the revolutionary advances of
science.

As Kierkegaard now considered his career virtually concluded, he
wrote (1851) a brief account "About my Activity as an Author"
in,which he furnishes his readers a key to its unfolding from an
aesthetic view to the religious view which he considers his own
education by Providence; and indicates it to be his special task to
call attention, without authority, to the religious, the Christian life.
His "Viewpoint for my Activity as an Author," published by his
brother only long after his death, likewise deflnes the purpose of
the whole "authorship," besides containing important biographical
material.

At length (January, 1854) Mynster died. Even then Kierkegaard,
though still on his guard, might not have felt called upon to have
recourse to stronger measures if it had liot been for an unfortunate
sentence in the funeral sermon preached by the now famous
Martensen generally pointed out as the successor to the primacy
with whom Kierkegaard had already broken a lance or two.
Martensen had declared Mynster to have been "one of the holy
chain of witnesses for the truth (sandhedsvidner) which extends
through the centuries down from the time of the Apostles." This is
the provocation for which Kierkegaard had waited. "Bishop
Mynster a witness for the truth"! he bursts out, "You who read this,
you know well what in a Christian sense is a witness for the truth.
Still, let me remind you that to be one, it is absolutely essential to
suffer for the teaching of Christianity"; whereas "the truth is that
Mynster was wordly-wise to a degree was weak, pleasureloving,
and great only as a declaimer." But once more striking proof of his
circumspection and single-mindedness he kept this harsh letter in
his desk for nine months, lest its publication should interfere in the
least with Martensen's appointment, or seem the outcome of
personal resentment.

Martensen's reply, which forcefully enough brings out all that
could be said for a milder interpretation of the Christian categories
and for his predecessor, was not as respectful to the sensitive
author as it ought to have been. In a number of newspaper letters
of increasing violence and acerbity Kierkegaard now tried to force
his obstinately silent opponent to his knees; but in vain. Filled with
holy wrath at what he conceived to be a conspiracy by silence, and
evasions to bring to naught the whole infinitely important matter
for which he had striven, Kierkegaard finally turned agitator. He
addressed himself directly to the people with the celebrated
pamphlet series ™eblikket "The Present Moment" in which he
opens an absolutely withering fire of invective on anything and
everything connected with "the existing order" in Christendom an
agitation the like of which for revolutionary vehemence has rarely,
if ever, been seen. All rites of the Church marriage, baptism,
confirmation, communion, burial and most of all the clergy, high
and low, draw the fiery bolts of his wrath and a perfect hail of
fierce, cruel invective. The dominant note, though varied
infinitely, is ever the same: "Whoever you may be, and whatever
the life you live, my friend: by omitting to attend the public divine
service if indeed it be your habit to attend it by omitting to attend
public divine service as now constituted aiming as it does to
represent the Christianity of the New Testament) you will escape
at least one, and a great, 4b in not attempting to fool God by
calling that the Christianity of the New Testament which is not the
Christianity of the New Testament." And he does not hesitate to
use strong, even coarse, language; he even courts the reproach of
blasphemy in order to render ridiculous in "Official Christianity"
what to most may seem inherently, though mistakenly, a matter of
highest reverence. The swiftness and mercilessness of his attack
seem to have left his contemporaries without a weapon: all they
could do was to shrug their shoulders about the "fanatic," to duck
and wait dumbly until the storm had passed.

Nor did it last long. On the second of October, 1855, Kierkegaard
fell unconscious in the street. He was brought to the hospital where
he died on the eleventh of November, aged 42. The immense
exertions of the last months had shattered his frail body. And
strange: the last of his money bid been used up. He had said what
he thought Providence had to communicate through him. His
strength was gone. His death at this moment would put the crown
on his work. As he said on his death-bed: "The bomb explodes, and
the conflagration will follow."

In appraising Kierkegaard's life and works it will be found true, as
H”ffding says, that he can mean much even to those who do not
subscribe to the beliefs so unquestioningly entertained by him.
And however much they may regret that he poured his noble wine
into the old bottles, they cannot fail to recognize the yeoman's
service he did, totii for sincere Christians in compelling them to
rehearse inwardly what ever tends to become a matter of form:
what it means to be a Christian; and for others, in deepening their
sense of individual responsibility. In fact, every one who has once
come under his influence and has wrestled with this mighty spirit
will bear away some blessing. In its time when, as in our own, the
crowd, society, the millions, the nation, had depressed the
individual to an insignificant atom and what is worse, in the
individual's own estimation; when shallow altruistic, socializing
effort thought naively that the millenium was at hand, he drove the
truth home that, on the contrary, the individual is the measure of
all things; that we do not live en masse; that both the terrible
responsibility and the great satisfactions of life inhere in the
individual. Again, more forcibly than any one else in modern
times, certainly more cogently than Pascal, he demonstrated that
the possibility of proof in religion is an illusion; that doubt cannot
be combatted by reason, that it ever will be credo quia impossibile.
In religion, he showed the utter incompatibility of the ‘sthetic and
the religious life; and in Christianity, he re-stated and repointed the
principle of ideal perfection by his unremitting insistence on
contemporaneousness with Christ. It is another matter whether by
so doing Kierkegaard was about to pull the pillars from underneath
the great edifice of Christianity which housed both him and his
enemies: seeing that he himself finally doubted whether it had ever
existed apart from the Founder and, possibly, the Apostles.

Kierkegaard is not easy reading. One's first impression of
crabbedness, whimsicality, abstruseness will, however, soon give
way to admiration of the marvellous instrument of precision
language has become in his hands. To be sure, he did not write for
people who are in a hurry, nor for dullards. His closely reasoned
paragraphs and, at times huge, though rhetorically faultless,
periods require concentrated attention, his involutions and
repetitions, handled with such incomparable virtuosity, demand an
everlasting readiness of comprehension on the part of the reader.
On the other hand his philosophic work is delightfully "Socratic,"
unconventional, and altogether "un-textbooklike." Kierkegaard
himself wished that his devotional works should be read aloud.
And, from a purely ‘sthetic point of view, it ought to be a delight
for any orator to practice on the wonderful periods of e.g., "The
Preparation," or of, say, the parable of the coach-horses in "Acts of
the Apostles." They alone would be sufficient to place Kierkegaard
in the front rank of prose writers of the nineteenth century where,
both by the power of his utterance and the originality of his
thought, he rightfully belongs.

In laying before an English speaking public selections from
Kierkegaard's works, the translator has endeavored to give an
adequate idea of the various aspects of his highly disparate works.
For this purpose he has chosen a few large pieces, rather than
given tidbits. He hopes to be pardoned for not having a slavish
regard for Kierkegaard's very inconsequential paragraphing and for
breaking, with no detriment, he believes, to the thought, some
excessively long paragraphs into smaller units; which will prove
more restful to the eye and more encouraging to the reader. As to
occasional omissions always indicated by dots the possessor of the
complete works will readily identify them. In consonance with
Kierkegaard's views on "contemporaneousness," no capitals are
used in "The Preparation" when referring to Christ by pronouns.


When Kierkegaard died, his influence, like that of Socrates, was
just beginning to make itself felt. The complete translation into
German of all his works and of many into other languages; the
magnificent new edition of his works and of his extraordinarily
voluminous diaries, now nearing completion; and the steadily
increasing number of books, pamphlets, and articles from the most
diverse quarters testify to his reaching a growing number of
individuals. Below is given a list of the more important books and
articles on Kierkegaard. It does not aim at completeness.

L. M. HOLLANDER
Adjunct Professor of Germanic Languages, University of Texas,
Austin. B„rthold, A. S. K.,

Eine Verfasserexistenz eigner Art. Halberstadt, 1873.

Same: Noten zu S. K.'s Lebensgeschichte. Halle, 1876.

Same: Die Bedeutung der aesthetischen Schriften S. K.'s. Halle,
1879.

Barfod, H. P. (Introduction to the first edition of the Diary.)
Copenhagen, 1869.

Bohlin, Th. S. K.'s Etiska Askadning. Uppsala, 1918.1

Brandes, G. S. K., En kritisk Fremstilling i Grundrids.
Copenhagen, 1877.

Same: German ed. Leipsic, 1879.

Deleuran, V. Esquisse d'une ‚tude sur S. K. Th‚se, University of
Paris, 1897.

H”ffding, H. S. K. Copenhagen, 1892.

Same: German edition (2nd). Stuttgart, 1902.

Hoffmann, R. K. und die religidse Gewissheit. G”ttingen, 1910.

Jensen, Ch. S. K.'s religibse Udvikling. Aarhus, 1898.Monrad, 0.
P. S. K. Sein Leben und seine Werke. Jena, 1909.

Mnch, Ph. Haupt und Grundgedanken der Philosophie S. K.'s.
Leipsic, 1902.

Rosenberg, P. A. S. K., hans Liv, hans Personlighed og hans
Forfatterskab. Copenhagen, 1898.

Rudin, W., S. K.'s Person och F”rfatterskap. F”rste Afdelningen.
Stockholm, 1880.

Schrempf, Ch. S. K.'s Stellung zu Bibel und Dogma. Zeitschrift
fr Theologie und Kirche, 1891, p. 179.

Same: S. K. Ein unfreier Pionier der Freiheit. (With a foreword
by H”ffding) Frankfort, 1909.

Swenson, D. The Anti-Intellectualism of K. Philosophic
Review, 1916, p. 567.

To my friends and colleagues, Percy M. Dawson and Howard M.
Jones, I wish also in this place to express my thanks for help and
criticism "in divers spirits."

IN VINO VERITAS (THE BANQUET)

It was on one of the last days in July, at ten o'clock in the evening,
when the participants in that banquet assembled together. Date and
year I have forgotten; indeed this would be interesting only to one's
memory of details: and not to one's recollection of the contents of
what experience. The "spirit of the occasion" and whatever
impressions are recorded in one's mind under that heading,
concerns only one's recollections; and just as generous wine gains
in flavor by passing the Equator, because of the evaporation of its
watery particles, likewise does recollection gain by getting rid of
the watery particles of memory; and yet recollection becomes as
little a mere figment of the imagination by this process as does the
generous wine.

The participants were five in number: John, with the epithet of the
Seducer, Victor Eremita, Constantin Constantius, and yet two
others whose names I have not exactly forgotten-which would be a
matter of small importancebut whose names I did not learn. It was
as if these two had no proper names, for they were constantly
addressed by some epithet. The one was called the Young Person.
Nor was he more than twenty and some years, of slender and
delicate build, and of a very dark complexion. His face was
thoughtful; but more pleasing even was its lovable and engaging
expression which betokened a purity of soul harmonizing perfectly
with the soft charm, almost feminine, and the transparency of his
whole presence. This external beauty of appearance was lost sight
of, however, in one's next impression of him; or, one kept it only in
mind whilst regarding a youth nurtured orto use a still tenderer
expression-petted into being, by thought, and nourished by the
contents of his own soula youth who as yet had had nothing to do
with the world, had been neither aroused and fired, nor disquieted
and disturbed. Like a sleepwalker he bore the law of his actions
within himself, and the amiable, kindly expression of his
countenance concerned no one, but only mirrored the disposition
of his soul.

The other person they called the Dressmaker, and that was his
occupation. Of him it was impossible toget a consistent
impression. He was dressed according to the very latest fashion,
with his hair curled and perfumed, fragrant with eaudecologne.
One moment his carriage did not lack self-possession, whereas in
the next it assumed a certain festive air, a certain hovering motion
which, however was kept in rather definite bounds by the
robustness of his figure. Even when he was most malicious in his
speech his voice ever had a touch of the smoothtonguedness of the
the shop, the suaveness of the dealer in fancygoods, Which
evidently was utterly disgusting to himself and only satisfied his
spirit of defiance. As I think of him now I understand him better,
to be sure, than when I first saw him step out of his carriage and I
involuntarily laughed. At the same time there is some
contradiction left still. He had transformed or bewitched himself,
had by the magic of his own will assumed the appearance of one
almost halfwitted, but had not thereby entirely satisfied himself;
and this is why his reflectiveness now and then peered forth from
beneath his disguise.

As I think of it now it seems rather absurd that five such
persons should get a banquet arranged. Nor would anything have
come of it, I suppose, if Constantin had not been one of us. In a
retired room of a confectioner's shop where they met at times, the
matter had been broached once before, but had been dropped
immediately when the question arose as to who was to head the
undertaking. The Young Person was declared unfit for that task,
the Dressmaker affirmed himself to be too busy. Victor Eremita
did not beg to be excused because "he had married a wife or
bought yoke of oxen which he needed to prove",1 but, he said,
even if he should make an exception, for once, and come to the
banquet, yet he would decline the courtesy offered him to preside
at it, and he therewith "entered protest at the proper time.2 This,
John considered a work spoken in due season; because, as he saw
it, there was but one person able to prepare a banquet, and that was
the possessor of the wishingtable which set itself with delectable
things whenever he said to it "Cover thyself!" He averred that to
enjoy the charms of a young girl in haste was not always the wisest
course; but as to a banquet, he would not wait for it, and generally
was tired of it a long while before it came off. However, if the plan
was to be carried into effect he would make one condition, which
was, that the banquet should be so arranged as to be served in one
course. And that all were agreed on. Also, that the settings for it
were to be made altogether new, and that afterwards they were to
be destroyed entirely; ay, before rising from table one was to hear
the preparation for their destruction. Nothing was to remain; "not
even so much," said the Dressmaker, "as there is left of a dress
after it has been made over into a hat." "Nothing," said John,
"because nothing is more unpleasant than a sentimental scene, and
nothing more disgusting than the knowledge that somewhere or
other there is an external setting which in a direct and impertinent
fashion pretends to be a reality."

When the conversation had thus become animated, Victor
Eremita suddenly arose, struck an attitude on the floor, beckoned
with his hand in the fashion of one commanding and, holding his
arm extended as one lifting a goblet, he said, with the gesture of
one waving a welcome: "With this cup whose fragrance already
intoxicates my senses, whose cool fire already inflames my blood,
I greet you, beloved fellowbanqueters, and bid you welcome; being
entirely assured that each one of you is sufficiently satisfied by our
merely speaking about the banquet; for our Lord satisfied the
stomach before satisfying the eye, but the imagination acts in the
reverse fashion." Thereupon he inserted his hand in his pocket,
took from it a cigarcase, struck a match, and began to smoke.
When Constantin Constantius protested against this sovereign free
way of transforming the banquet planned into an illusory fragment
of life, Victor declared that he did not believe for one moment that
such a banquet could be got up and that, in any case, it had beena
mistake to let it become the subject of discussion in advance.
"Whatever is to be good must come at once; for 'at once' is the
divinest of all categories and deserves to be honored as in the
language of the Romans: ex templo,3 because it is the starting
point for all that is divine in life, and so much so that what is not
done at once is of evil." However, he remarked, he did not care to
argue this point. In case the others wished to speak and act
differently he would not say a word, but if they wished him to
explain the sense of his remarks more fully he must have leave to
make a speech, because he did not consider it all desirable to
provoke a discussion on the subject.

Permission was given him; and as the others called on him to do
so at once, he spoke as follows: "A banquet is in itself a difficult
matter, because even if it be arranged with ever so much taste and
talent there is something else essential to its success, towit, good
luck. And by this I mean not such matters as most likely would
give concern to an anxious hostess, but something different, a
something which no one can make absolutely sure of: a fortunate
harmonizing of the spirit and the minutiae of the banquet, that fine
ethereal vibration of chords, that soul stirring music which cannot
be ordered in advance from the town musicians. Look you,
therefore is it a hazardous thing to undertake, beause if things do
go wrong, perhaps from the very start, one may suffer such a
depression and loss of spirits that recovery from it might involve a
very long time.

"Sheer habit and thoughtlessness are father and godfather to most
banquets, and it is only due to the lack of critical sense among
people that one fails to notice the utter absence of any idea in
them. In the first place, women ought never to be present at a
banquet. Women may be used to advantage only in the Greek
style, as a chorus of dancers. As it is the main thing at a banquet
that there be eating and drinking, woman ought not to be present;
she cannot do justice to what is offered; or, if she can, it is most
unbeautiful. Whenever a woman is present the matter of eating and
drinking ought to be reduced to the very slightest proportions. At
most, it ought to be no more than some trifling feminine
occupation, to have something to busy one's hands with. Especially
in the country a little repast of this kindwhich, by the way, should
be put at other times than the principal meals-may be extremely
delightful; and if so, always owing to the presence of the other sex.
To do like the English, who let the fair sex retire as soon as the
real drinking is to start, is to fall between two stools, for every plan
ought to be a whole, and the very manner with which I take a seat
at the table and seize hold of knife and fork bears a definite
relation to this whole. In the same sense a political banquet
presents an unbeautiful ambiguity inasmuch as one does not4 want
to cut down to a very minimum the essentials of a banquet, and yet
does not wish to have the speeches thought of as having been made
over the cups.

"So far, we are agreed, I suppose; and our numberin case
anything should come of the banquet-is correctly chosen,
according to that beautiful rule: neither more than the Muses nor
fewer than the Graces. Now I demand the greatest superabundance
of everything thinkable. That is, even though everything be not
actually there, yet the possibility of having it must be at one's
immediate beck and call, aye, hover temptingly over the table,
more seductive even than the actual sight of it. I beg to be excused,
however, from banqueting on sulphurmatches or on a piece of
sugar which all are to suck in turn. My demands for such a banquet
will, on the contrary, be difficult to satisfy; for the feast itself must
be calculated to arouse and incite that unmentionable longing
which each worthy participant is to bring with him. I require that
the earth's fertility be at our service, as though everything sprouted
forth at the very moment the desire for it was born. I desire a more
luxurious abundance of wine than when Mephistopheles needed
but to drill holes into the table to obtain it. I demand an
illumination more splendid than have the gnomes when they lift up
the mountain on pillars and dance in a sea of blazing light. I
demand what most excites the senses, I demand their gratification
by deliciously sweet perfumes, more superb than any in the
Arabian Nights. I demand a coolness which voluptuously provokes
desire and breathes relaxation on desire satisfied. I demand a
fountain's unceasing enlivenment. If Maecenas could not sleep
without hearing the splashing of a fountain, I cannot eat without it.
Do not misunderstand me, I can eat stockfish without it; but I
cannot eat at a banquet without it; I can drink water without it, but
I cannot drink wine at a banquet without it. I demand a host of
servants, chosen and comely, as if I sate at table with the gods; I
demand that there shall be music at the feast, both strong and
subdued; and I demand that it shall be an accompaniment to my
thoughts; and what concerns you, my friends, my demands
regarding you are altogether incredible. Do you see, by reason of
all these demands-which are as many reasons against itI hold a
banquet to be a pium desideratum,5 and am so far from desiring a
repetition of it that I presume it is not feasible even a first time."

The only one who had not actually participated in this
conversation, nor in the frustration of the banquet, was Constantin.
Without him, nothing would have been done save the talking. He
had come to a different conclusion and was of the opinion that the
idea might well be realized, if one but carried the matter with a
high hand.

Then some time passed, and both the banquet and the discussion
about it were forgotten, when suddenly, one day, the participants
received a card of invitation from Constantius for a banquet the
very same evening. The motto of the Party had been given by him
as: In Vino Veritas, because there was to be speaking, to be sure,
and not only conversation; but the speeches were not to be made
except in vino, and no truth was to be uttered there excepting that
which is in vino--when the wine is a defense of the truth and the
truth a defense of the wine.

The place had been chosen in the woods, some ten miles distant
from Copenhagen. The hall in which they were to feast had been
newly decorated and in every way made unrecognizable; a smaller
room, separated from the hall by a corridor, was arranged for an
orchestra. Shutters and curtains were let down before all windows,
which were left open. The arrangement that the participants were
to drive to the banquet in the evening hour was to intimate to
themand that was Constantin's ideawhat was to follow. Even if one
knows that one is driving to a banquet, and the imagination
therefore indulges for a moment in thoughts of luxury, yet the
impression of the natural surroundings is too powerful to be
resisted. That this might possibly not be the case was the only
contingency he apprehended; for just as there is no power like the
imagination to render beautiful all it touches, neither is there any
power which can to such a degree disturb allmisfortune
conspiringif confronted with reality. But driving on a summer
evening does not lure the imagination to luxurious thoughts, but
rather to the opposite. Even if one does not see it or hear it, the
imagination will unconsciously create a picture of the longing for
home which one is apt to feel in the evening hoursone sees the
reapers, man and maid, returning from their work in the fields, one
hears the hurried rattling of the hay wagon, one interprets even the
faraway lowing from the meadows as a longing. Thus does a
summer evening suggest idyllic thoughts, soothing even a restless
mind with its assuagement, inducing even the soaring imagination
to abide on earth with an indwelling yearning for home as the
place from whence it came, and thus teaching the insatiable mind
to be satisfied with little, by rendering one content; for in the
evening hour time stands still and eternity lingers.

Thus they arrived in the evening hour: those invited; for
Constantin had come out somewhat earlier. Victor Eremita who
resided in the country not far away came on horseback, the others
in a carriage. And just as they had discharged it, a light open
vehicle rolled in through the gate caarrying a merry company of
four journeymen who were entertained to be ready at the decisive
moment to function as a corps of destruction: just as firemen are
stationed in a theatre, for the opposite reason at once to extinguish
a fire.

So long as one is a child one possesses sufficient imagination to
maintain one's soul at the very topnotch of expectation-for a whole
hour in the dark room, if need be; but when one has grown older
one's imagination may easily cause one to tire of the Christmas
tree before seeing it.

The folding doors were opened. The effect of the radiant
illumination, the coolness wafting toward them, the beguiling
fragrance of sweet perfumes, the excellent taste of the
arrangements, for a moment overwhelmed the feelings of those
entering; and when, at the same time, strains ftom the ballet of
"Don Juan" sounded from the orchestra, their persons seemed
transfigured and, as if out of reverence for an unseen spirit about
them, they stopped short for a moment like men who have been
roused by admiration and who have risen to admire.

Whoever knows that happy moment, whoever has appreciated its
delight, and has not also felt the apprehension lest suddenly
something might happen, some trifle perhaps, which yet might be
sufficient to disturb all! Whoever has held the lamp of Aladdin in
his hand and has not also felt the swooning of pleasure, because
one needs but to wish? Whoever has held what is inviting in his
hand and has not also learned to keep his wrist limber to let go at
once, if need be?

Thus they stood side by side. Only Victor stood alone, absorbed
in thought; a shudder seemed to pass through his soul, he almost
trembled; he collected himself and saluted the omen with these
words: "Ye mysterious, festive, and seductive strains which drew
me out of the cloistered seclusion of a quiet youth and beguiled me
with a longing as mighty as a recollection, and terrible, as though
Elvira had not even been seduced but had only desired to be!
Immortal Mozart, thou to whom I owe all; but no! as yet I do not
owe thee all. But when I shall have become an old manif ever I do
become an old man; or when I shall have become ten years olderif
ever I do; or when I am become oldif ever I shall become old; or
when I shall diefor that, indeed, I know I shall: then shall I say:
immortal Mozart, thou to whom I owe alland then I shall let my
admiration, which is my soul's first and only admiration, burst
forth in all its might and let it make away with me, as it often has
been on the point of doing. Then have I set my house in order,6
then have I remembered my beloved one, then have I confessed
my love, then have I fully established that I owe thee all, then am I
occupied no longer with thee, with the world, but only with the
grave thought of death."

Now there came from the orchestra that invitation in which joy
triumphs most exultantly, and heavenstorming soars aloft above
Elvira's sorrowful thanks; and gracefully apostrophizing, John
repeated: "Viva la liberta" "et veritas," said the Young Person; "but
above all, in vino," Constantin interrupted them, seating himself at
the table and inviting the others to do likewise.

How easy to prepare a banquet; yet Constantin declared that he
never would risk preparing another. How easy to admire; yet
Victor declared that he never again would lend words to his
admiration; for to suffer a discomfiture is more dreadful than to
become an invalid in war! How easy to express a desire, if one has
the magic lamp; yet that is at times more terrible than to perish of
want!

They were seated. In the same moment the little company were
launched into the very middle of the infinite sea of enjoymentas if
with one single bound. Each one had addressed all his thoughts
and all his desires to the banquet, had prepared his soul for the
enjoyment which was offered to overflowing and in which their
souls overflowed. The experienced driver is known by his ability
to start the snorting team with a single bound and to hold them
well abreast; the welltrained steed is known by his lifting him self
in one absolutely decisive leap: even if one or the other of the
guests perhaps fell short in some particular, cer tainly Constantin
was a good host.

Thus they banqueted. Soon, conversation had woven its beautiful
wreaths about the banqueters, so that they sat garlanded. Now, it
was enamored of the food, now of the wine, and now again of
itself; now, it seemed to develop into significance, and then again
it was altogether slight. Soon, fancy unfolded itselfthe splendid
one which blows but once, the tender one which straightway closes
its petals; now, there came an exclamation from one of the
banqueters: "These truffles are superb," and now, an order of the
host: "This Chateau Margaux!" Now, the music was drowned in
the noise, now it was heard again. Sometimes the servants stood
still as if in pausa, in that decisive moment when a new dish was
being brought out, or a new wine was ordered and mentioned by
name, sometimes they were all abustle. Sometimes there was a
silence for a moment, and then the reanimating spirit of the music
went forth over the guests. Now, one with some bold thought
would take the lead in the conversation and the others followed
after, almost forgetting to eat, and the music would sound after
them as it sounds after the jubilant shouts of a host storming on;
now, only the clinking of glasses and the clattering of plates was
heard and the feasting proceeded in silence, accompanied only by
the music that joyously advanced and again stimulated
conversation. Thus they banqueted.

How poor is language in comparison with that symphony of
sounds unmeaning, yet how significant, whether of a battle or of a
banquet, which even scenic representation cannot imitate and for
which language has but a few words! How rich is language in the
expression of the world of ideas, and how poor, when it is to
describe reality!

Only once did Constantin abandon his omnipresence ill which one
actually lost sight of his presence. At the very beginning he got
them to sing one of the old drinking songs, "by way of calling to
mind that jolly time when men and women feasted together," as he
saida proposal which had the positively burlesque effect he had
perhaps calculated it should have. It almost gained the upper hand
when the Dressmaker wanted them to sing the ditty: "When I shall
mount the bridal bed, hoiho!" After a couple of courses had been
served Constantin proposed that the banquet should conclude with
each one's making a speech, but that precautions should be taken
against the speakers' divagating too much. He was for making two
conditions, viz., there were to be no speeches until after the meal;
and no one was to speak before having drunk sufficiently to feel
the power of the wineelse he was to be in that condition in which
one says much which under other circumstances one would leave
unsaidwithout necessarily having the connection of speech and
thought constantly interrupted by hiccoughs.7 Before speaking,
then, each one was to declare solemnly that he was in that
condition. No definite quantity of wine was to be required,
capacities differed so widely. Against this proposal, John entered
protest. He could never become intoxicated, he averred, and when
he had come to a certain point he grew the soberer the more he
drank. Victor Eremita was, of the opinion that any such
preparatory premeditations to insure one's becoming drunk would
precisely militate against one's becoming so. If one desired to
become intoxicated the deliberate wish was only a hindrance.
Then there ensued some discussion about the divers influences of
wine on consciousness, and especially about the fact that, in the
caseof a reflective temperament, an excess of wine may manifest
itself, not in any particular impetus but, on the contrary, in a
noticeably cool selfpossession. As to the contents of the speeches,
Constantin proposed that they should deal with love, that is, the
relation between man and woman. No love stories were to be told
though they might furnish the text of one's remarks.

The conditions were accepted. All reasonable and just demands a
host may make on his guests were fulfilled: they ate and drank, and
"drank and were filled with drink," as the Bible has it;8 that is,
they drank stoutly.

The desert was served. Even if Victor had not, as yet, had his
desire gratified to hear the splashing of a fountain,which, for that
matter, he had luckily forgotten since that former conversationnow
champagne flowed profusely. The clock struck twelve. Thereupon
Constantin commanded silence, saluted the Young Person with a
goblet and the words quod felix sit faustumque9 and bade him to
speak first.

(The Young Person's Speech)

The Young Person arose and declared that he felt the power of
the wine, which was indeed apparent to some degree; for the blood
pulsed strongly in his temples, and his appearance was not as
beautiful as before the meal. He poke as follows:

If there be truth in the words of the poets, dear fellow
banqueters, then unrequited love is, indeed, the greatest of
sorrows. Should you require any proof of thisyou need but listen to
the speech of lovers. They say that it is death, certain death; and
the first time they believe itfor the space of two weeks. The next
time they say that it is death; and finally they will die sometimeas
the result of unrequited love. For that love has killed them, about
that there can obtain no doubt. And as to love's having to take hold
three times to make away with them, that is not different from the
dentist's having to pull three times before he is able to budge that
firmly rooted molar. But, if unrequited love thus means certain
death, how happy am I who have never loved and, I hope, will only
achieve dying some time, and not from unrequited love! But just
this may be the greatest misfortune, for all I know, and how
unfortunate must I then be!

The essence of love probably (for I speak as does a blind man
about colors), probably lies in its bliss; which is, in other words,
that the cessation of love brings death to the lover. This I
comprehend very well as in the nature of a hypothesis correlating
life and death. But, if love is to be merely by way of hypothesis,
why, then lovers lay themselves open to ridicule through their
actually falling in love. If, however, love is something real, why,
then reality must bear out what lovers say about it. But did one in
real life ever hear of, or observe, such things having taken place,
even if there is hearsay to that effect? Here I perceive already one
of the contradictions in which love involves a person; for whether
this is different for those initiated, that I have no means of
knowing; but love certainly does seem to involve people in the
most curious contradictions.

There is no other relation between human beings which makes
such demands on one's ideality as does love, and yet love is never
seen to have it. For this reason alone I would be afraid of love; for
I fear that it might have the power to make me too talk vaguely
about a bliss which I did not feel and a sorrow I did not have. I say
this here since I am bidden to speak on love, though unacquainted
with itI say this in surroundings which appeal to me like a Greek
symposion; for I should otherwise not care to speak on this subject
as I do not wish to disturb any one's happiness but, rather, am
content with my own thoughts. Who knows but these thoughts are
sheer imbecilities and vain imaginingsperhaps my ignorance is
explicable from the fact that I never have learned, nor have wished
to learn, from any one, how one comes to love; or from the fact
that I have never yet challenged a woman with a glancewhich is
supposed to be smartbut have always lowered my eyes, unwilling
to yield to an impression before having fully made sure about the
nature of the power into whose sphere I am venturing.

At this point he was interrupted by Constantin who expostulated
with him because, by his very confession of never having been in
love, he had debarred himself from speaking. The Young Person
declared that at any other time he would gladly obey an injunction
to that effect as he had often enough experienced how tiresome it
was to have to make a speech; but that in this case he would insist
upon his right. Precisely the fact that one had had no love affair, he
said, also constituted an affair of love; and he who could assert this
of himself was entitled to speak about Eros just because his
thoughts were bound to take issue with the whole sex and not with
individuals. He was granted permission to speak and continued.

Inasmuch as my right to speak has been challenged, this may serve
to exempt me from your laughter; for I know well that, just as
among rustics he is not considered a man who does not call a
tobacco pipe his own, likewise among menfolks he is not
considered a real man who is not experienced in love. If any one
feels like laughing, let him laughmy thought is, and remains, the
essential consideration for me. Or is love, perchance, privileged to
be the only event which is to be considered after, rather than
before, it happens? If that be the case, what then if I, having fallen
in love, should later on think that it was too late to think about it?
Look you, this is the reason why I choose to think about love
before it happens. To be sure, lovers also maintain that they gave
the matter thought, but such is not the case. They assume it to be
essential in man to fall in love; but this surely does not mean
thinking about love but, rather, assuming it, in order to make sure
of getting one's self a sweetheart.

In fact, whenever my reflection endeavors to pin down love,
naught but contradiction seems to remain. At times, it is true, I feel
as if something had escaped me, but I cannot tell what it is,
whereas my reflection is able at once to point out the
contradictions in what does occur. Very well, then, in my opinion
love is the greatest selfcontradiction imaginable, and comical at
the same time. Indeed, the one corresponds to the other. The
comical is always seen to occur in the category of
contradictionswhich truth I cannot take the time to demonstrate
now; but what I shall demonstrate now is that love is comical. By
love I mean the relation between man and woman. I am not
thinking of Eros in the Greek sense which has been extolled so
beautifully by Plato who, by the way, is so far from considering the
love of woman that he mentions it only in passing, holding it to be
inferior to the love of youths.10 I say, love is comical to a third
personmore I say not. Whether it is for this reason that lovers
always hate a third person I do not know; but I do know that
reflection is always in such a relation the third person, and for this
reason I cannot love without at the same time having a third person
present in the shape of my reflection.

This surely cannot seem strange to any one, every one having
doubted everything, whereas I am uttering my doubts only with
reference to love. And yet I do think it strange that people have
doubted everything and have again reached certainty, without as
much as dropping a word concerning the difficulties which have
held my thought captiveso much so that I have, now and then,
longed to be freed of themfreed by the aid of one, note well, who
was aware of these difficulties, and not of one who in his sleep had
a notion to doubt, and to have doubted, everything, and again in
his sleep had the notion that he is explaining, and has explained,
all.11

Let me then have your attention, dear fellow banqueters, and if you
yourselves be lovers do not therefore interrupt me, nor try to
silence me because you do not wish to hear the explanation.
Rather turn away and listen with averted faces to what I have to
say, and what I insist upon saying, having once begun.

In the first place I consider it comical that every one loves, and
every one wishes to love, without any one ever being able to tell
one what is the nature of the lovable or that which is the real
object of love. As to the word "to love" I shall not discuss it since
it means nothing definite; but as soon as the matter is broached at
all we are met by the question as to what it is one loves. No other
answer is ever vouchsafed us on that point other than that one
loves what is lovable. For if one should make answer, with
Plato,12 that one is to love what is good, one has in taking this
single step exceeded the bounds of the erotic.

The answer may be offered, perhaps, that one is to love what is
beautiful. But if I then should ask whether to love means to love a
beautiful landscape or a beautiful painting it would be
immediately perceived that the erotic is not, as it were, comprised
in the more general term of the love of things beautiful, but is
something entirely of its own kind. Were a loverjust to give an
exampleto speak as follows, in order to express adequately how
much love there dwelled in him: "I love beautiful landscapes, and
my Lalage, and the beautiful dancer, and a beautiful horse-in short,
love all that is beautiful," his Lalage would not be satisfied with
his encomium, however well satisfied she might be with him in all
other respects, and even if she be beautiful; and now suppose
Lalage is not beautiful and he yet loved her!

Again, if I should refer the erotic element to the bisection of
which Aristophanes tells us13 when he says that the gods severed
man into two parts as one cuts flounders, and that these parts thus
separated sought one another, then I again encounter a difficulty I
cannot get over, which is, in how far I may base my reasoning on
Aristophanes who in his speechjust because there is no reason for
the thought to stop at this point-goes further in his thought and
thinks that the gods might take it into their heads to divide man

into three parts, for the sake of still better fun. For the sake of still
better fun; for is it not true, as I said, that love renders a person
ridiculous, if not in the eyes of others others certainly in the eyes
of the gods?

Now, let me assume that the erotic element resides essentially in
the relation between man and womanwhat is to be inferred from
that? If the lover should say to his Lalage: I love you because you
are a woman; I might as well love any other woman, as for
instance, ugly Zoe: then beautiful Lalage would feel insulted.

In what, then, consists the lovable? This is my question; but
unfortunately, no one has been able to tell me, The individual
lover always believes that, as far as he is concerned, he knows.
Still he cannot make himself understood by any other lover; and he
who listens to the speech of a number of lovers will learn that no
two of them ever agree, even though they all talk about the same
thing. Disregarding those altogether silly explanations which leave
one as wise as before, that is, end by asserting that it is really the
pretty feet of the beloved damsel, or the admired mustachios of the
swain, which are the objects of lovedisregarding these, one will
find mentioned, even in the declamations of lovers in the higher
style, first a number of details and, finally, the declaration: all her
lovable ways; and when they have reached the climax: that
inexplicable something I do not know how to explain. And this
speech is meant to please especially beautiful Lalage. Me it does
not please, for I don't understand a word of it and find, rather, that
it contains a double contradictionfirst, that it ends with the
inexplicable, second, that it ends with the inexplicable; for he who
intends to end with the inexplicable had best begin with the
inexplicable and then say no more, lest he lay himself open to
suspicion. If he begin with the inexplicable, saying no more, then
this does not prove his helplessness, for it is, anyway, an
explanation in a negative sense; but if he does begin with
something else and lands in the inexplicable, then this does
certainly prove his helplessness.

So then we see: to love corresponds to the lovable; and the
lovable is the inexplicable. Well, that is at least something; but
comprehensible it is not, as little as the inexplicable way in which
love seizes on its prey. Who, indeed, would not be alarmed if
people about one, time and again, dropped down dead, all of a
sudden, or had convulsions, without anyone being able to account
for it? But precisely in this fashion does love invade life, only with
the difference that one is not alarmed thereby, since the lovers
themselves regard it as their greatest happiness, but that one, on
the contrary, is tempted to laugh; for the comical and the tragical
elements ever correspond to one another. Today, one may
converse with a person and can fairly well make him outtomorrow,
he speaks in tongues and with strange gestures: he is in love.

Now, if to love meant to fall in love with the first person that came
along, it would be easy to understand that one could give no
special reasons for it; but since to love means to fall in love with
one, one single person in all the world, it would seem as if such an
extraordinary process of singling out ought to be due to such an
extensive chain of reasoning that one might have to beg to be
excused from hear ing it-not so much because it did not explain
anything as because it might be too lengthy to listen to. But no, the
lovers are not able to explain anything at all. He has seen hundreds
upon hundreds of women; he is, perhaps, advanced in years and
has all along felt nothing-and all at once he sees her, her the Only
one, Catherine. Is this not comical? Is it not comical that the
relation which is to explain and beautify all life, love, is not like
the mustard seed from which there grows a great tree,14 but being
still smaller is, at bottom, nothing at all; for not a single antecedent
criterion can be mentioned, as e.g., that the

phenomenon occurred at a certain age, nor a single reason as to
why be should select her, her alone in all the worldand that by no
means in the same sense as when "Adam chose Eve, because there
was none other."15

Or is not the explanation which the lovers vouchsafe just as
comical; or, does it not, rather, emphasize the comical aspect of
love? They say that love renders one blind, and by this fact they
undertake to explain the phenomenon. Now, if a Person who was
going into a dark room to fetch something should answer, on my
advising him to take a light along, that it was only a trifling matter
he wanted and so he would not bother to take a light alongah! then
I would understand him excellently well. If, on the other hand, this
same person should take me aside and, with an air of mystery,
confide to me that the thing be was about to fetch was of the very
greatest importance and that it was for this reason that he was able
to do it in the darkah! then I wonder if my weak mortal brain could
follow the soaring flight of his speech. Even if I should refrain
from laughing, in order not to offend him, I should hardly be able
to restrain my mirth as soon as he had turned his back. But at love
nobody laughs; for I am quite prepared to be embarrassed like the
Jew who, after ending his story, asks: Is there no one who will
laugh?16 And yet I did not miss the point, as did the Jew, and as to
my laughter I am far from wanting to insult any one. Quite on the
contrary, I scorn those fools who imagine that their love has such
good reasons that they can afford to laugh at other lovers; for since
love is altogether inexplicable, one lover is as ridiculous as the
other. Quite as foolish and haughty I consider it also when a man
proudly looks about him in the circle of girls to find who may be
worthy of him, or when a girl proudly tosses her head to select or
reject; because such persons are simply basing their thoughts on an
unexplained assumption. No. What busies my thought is love as
such, and it is love which seems ridiculous to me; and therefore I
fear it, lest I become ridiculous in my own eyes, or ridiculous in
the eyes of the gods who have fashioned man thus. In other words,
if love is ridiculous it is equally ridiculous, whether now my
sweetheart be a princess or a servant girl; for the lovable, as we
have seen, is the inexplicable.

Look you, therefore do I fear love, and find precisely in this a
new proof of love's being comical; for my fear is so seriously
tragic that it throws light on the comical nature love. When people
wreck a building a sign is hung up to warn people, and I shall take
care to stand from under; when a bar has been freshly painted a
stone is laid in the road to apprise people of the fact; when a driver
is in danger of running a man over he will shout "look out"; when
there have been cases of cholera in a house a soldier is set as
guard; and so forth. What I mean is that if there is somedanger,
one may be warned and will successfully escape it by heeding the
warning. Now, fearing to be rendered ridiculous by love, I
certainly regard it as dangerous; so whatshall I do to escape it? In
other words, what shall I do to escape the danger of some woman
falling in love with me? I am far from entertaining the thought of
being an Adonis every girl is bound to fall in love with (relata
refero,17 for what this means I do not understand) goodness no!
But since I do not know what the lovable is I cannot, by
anymanners of means, know how to escape this danger.Since, for
that matter, the very opposite of beauty may constitute the lovable;
and, finally, since the inexplicable also is the lovable, I am
forsooth in the same situation as the man Jean Paul speaks of
somewhere who, standing on one foot, reads a sign saying,
"fox-traps here," and now does not dare,either to lift his foot or to
set it down. No, love any one I will not, before I have fathomed
what love is; but this I cannot, but have, rather, come to the
conclusion that it is comical. Hence I will not lovebut alas! I have
not thereby avoided the danger, for, since I do not know what the
lovable is and how it seizes me, or how it seizes a woman with
reference to me, I cannot make sure Whether I have avoided the
danger. This is tragical and, in a certain sense, even profoundly
tragical, even if no one is concerned about it, or if no one is
concerned about the bitter contradiction for one who thinksthat a
something exists which everywhere exercises its power and yet is
not to be definitely conceived by thought and which, perhaps, may
attack from the rear him who in vain seeks to conceive it. But as to
the tragic side of the matter it has its deep reason in the comic
aspects just pointed out. Possibly, every other person will turn all
this upside down and not find that to be comical which I do, but
rather that which I conceive to be tragical; but this too proves that
I am right to a certain extent. And that for which, if so happens, I
become either a tragic or comic victim is plain enough, viz., my
desire to reflect about all I do, and not imagine I am reflecting
about life by dismissing its every important circumstance with an
"I don't care, either way."

Man has both a soul and a body. About this the wisest and best of
the race are agreed. Now, in case one assumes the essence of love
to lie in the relation between man and woman, the comic aspect
will show again in the face-about which is seen when the highest
spiritual values express themselves in the most sensual terms. I am
now referring to all those extraordinary and mystic signals of
lovein short, to all the freemasonry which forms a continuation of
the abovementioned inexplicable something. The contradiction in
which love here involves a person lies in the fact that the symbolic
signs mean nothing at all orwhich amounts to the samethat no one
is able to explain what they do signify. Two loving souls vow that
they will love each the other in all eternity; thereupon they
embrace, and with a kiss they seal this eternal pact. Now I ask any
thinking person whether he would have hit upon that! And thus
there is constant shifting from the one to the other extreme in love.
The most spiritual is expressed by its very opposite, and the
sensual is to signify the most spiritual.Let me assume I am in love.
In that case I would conceive it to be of the utmost importance to
me that the one I love belonged to me for all time. This I
comprehend; for I am now, really, speaking only of Greek
eroticism which has to do with loving beautiful souls. Now when
the person I love had vowed to return my love I would believe her
or, in as far as there remained any doubt in me, try to combat my
doubt. But what happens actually? For if I were in love I would,
probably, behave like all the others, that is, seek to obtain still
some other assurance than merely to believe her I love; which,
though, is plainly the only assurance to *had.

When Cockatoo18 all at once begins to plume himself like a
duck which is gorged with food, and then emits the word
"Marian," everybody will laugh, and so will I.. I suppose the
spectator finds it comical that Cockatoo, who doesn't love Marian
at all, should be on such intimate terms with her. But suppose,
now, that Cockatoo does love Marian. Would that be comical still?
To me it would; and the comical would seem to me to lie in love's
having become capable of being expressed in such fashion.
Whether now this has been the custom since the beginning of the
world makes no difference whatsoever, for the comical has the
prescriptive right from all eternity to be present in
contradictionsand here is a contradiction. There is really nothing
comisal in the antics of a manikin since we see some one pulling
the strings. But to be a manikin at the beck of something
inexplicable is indeed comical, for the contradiction lies in our not
seeing any sensible reason why one should have to twitch now this
leg and now that. Hence, if I cannot explain what I am doing, I do
not care to do it; and if I cannot understand the power into whose
sphere I am venturing, I do not care to surrender myself to that
power. And if love is so mysterious a law which binds together the
extremest contradictions, then who will guarantee that I might not,
one day, become altogether confused? Still, that does not concern
me so much.

Again, I have heard that some lovers consider the behavior of
other lovers ridiculous. I cannot conceive how this ridicule is
justified, for if this law of love be a natural law, then all lovers are
subject to it; but if it be the law of their own choice, then those
laughing lovers ought to be able to explain all about love; which,
however, they are unable to do. But in this respect I understand
this matter better as it seems a convention for one lover to laugh at
the other because he always finds the other lover ridiculous, but
not himself. If it be ridiculous to kiss an ugly girl, it is also
ridiculous to kiss a pretty one; and the notion that doing this in
some particular way should entitle one to cast ridicule on another
who does it differently, is but presumptuousness and a conspiracy
which does not, for all that, exempt such a snob from laying
himself open to the ridicule which invariably results from the fact
that no one is able to explain what this act of kissing signifies,
whereas it is to signify allto signify, indeed, that the lovers desire
to belong to each other in all eternity; aye, what is still more
amusing, to render them certain that they will. Now, if a man
should suddenly lay his head on one side, or shake it, or kick out
with his leg and, upon my asking him why he did this, should
answer "To be sure I don't know, myself, I just happened to do so,
next time I may do something different, for I did it
unconsciously"ah, then I would understand him quite well. But if
he said, as the lovers say about their antics, that all bliss lay
therein, how could I help finding it ridiculousjust as I thought that
other man's motions ridiculous, to be sure in a different sense until
he restrained my laughter by declaring that they did not signify
anything. For by doing so he removed the contradiction which is
the basic cause of the comical. It is not at all comical that the
insignificant is declared to signify nothing, but it is very much so if
it be asserted to signify all.

As regards involuntary actions, the contradiction arises at the very
outset because involuntary actions are not looked for in a free
rational being. Thus if one supposed that the Pope had a coughing
spell the very moment he was to place the crown on Napoleon's
head; or that bride and groom, in the most solemn moment of the
wedding ceremony should fall to sneezingthese would be examples
of the comical, That is, the more a given action accentuates the
free rational being, the more comical are involuntary actions. This
holds true also in respect of the erotic gesticulations, where the
comical element appears a second time, owing to the circumstance
that the lovers attempt to explain away the contradiction by
attributing to their gesticulations an absolute value. As is well
known, children have a keen sense of the ridiculouswitness
children's testimony which can always be relied on in this regard.
Now as a rule children , will laugh at lovers, and if one makes
them tell what they have seen, surely no one can help laughing.
This is, perhaps, due to the fact that children omit the point. Very
strange! When the Jew omitted the point no one cared to laugh.
Here, on the contrary, every one laughs because the point is
omitted; since, however, no one can explain what the point iswhy,
then there is no point at all.

So the lovers explain nothing; and those who praise love explain
nothing but are merely intent onas one is bidden in the Royal Laws
of Denmarkon saying anent it all which may be pleasant and of
good report. But a man who thinks, desires to have his logical
categories in good order; and he who thinks about love wishes to
be sure about his categories also in this matter. The fact is, though,
that people do not think about love, and a "pastoral science" is still
lacking; for even if a poet in a pastoral poem makes an attempt to
show how love is born, everything is smuggled in again by help of
another person who teaches the lovers how to love!

As we saw, the comical element in love arose from the faceabout
whereby the highest quality of one sphere does not find expression
in that sphere but in the exactly opposite quality of another sphere.
It is comical that the soaring flight of lovethe desire to belong to
each other for all timelands ever, like Saft,19 in the pantry; but
still more comical is it that this conclusion is said to constitute
love's highest expression.

Wherever there is a contradiction, there the comical element is
present also. I am ever following that track. If it be disconcerting
to you, dear fellow banqueters, to follow me in what I shall have to
say now, then follow me with averted countenances. I myself am
speaking as if with veiled eyes; for as I see only the mystery in
these matters, why, I cannot see, or I see nothing.

What is a consequence? If it cannot, in some way or other, be
brought under the same head as its antecedent why, then it would
be ridiculous if it posed as a consequence. To illustrate: if a man
who wanted to take a bath jumped into the tank and, coming to the
surface again somewhat confused, groped for the rope to hold on
to, but caught the doucheline by mistake, and a shower now
descended on him with sufficient motivation and for excellent
good reasonwhy, then the consequence would be entirely in order.
The ridiculous here consisted in his seizing the wrong rope; but
there is nothing ridiculous in the shower descending when one
pulls the proper rope. Rather, it would be ridiculous if it did not
come; as for example, just to show the correctness of my
contention about contradictions, if a man nerved himself with bold
resolution in order to withstand the shock and, in the enthusiasm
of his decision, with a stout heart pulled the lineand the shower did
not come.

Let us see now how it is with regard to love. The lovers wish to
belong to each other for all time, and this they express, curiously,
by embracing each other with all the intensity of the moment; and
all the bliss of love is said to reside therein. But all desire is
egotistic. Now, to be sure, the lover's desire is not egotistic in
respect of the one he loves, but the desire of both in conjunction is
absolutely egotistic in so far as they in their union and love
represent a new ego. And yet they are deceived; for in the same
moment the race triumphs over the individual, the race is
victorious, and the individuals are debased to do its bidding.

Now this I find more ridiculous than what Aristophanes thought
so ridiculous. The ridiculous aspect of his theory of bi-section lies
in the inherent contradiction (which theancient author does not
sufficiently emphasize, however). In considering a person one
naturally supposes him to be an entity, and so one does believe till
it becomes apparent that, under the obsession of love, he is but a
half which runs about looking for its complement. There is nothing
ridiculous in half an apple. The comical would appear if a whole
apple turned out to be only half an apple. In thefirst case there
exists no contradiction, but certainly in the latter. If one actually
based one's reasoning on the figure of speech that woman is but
half a person she would not be ridiculous at all in her love. Man,
however, who has been enjoying civic rights as a whole person,
will certainly appear ridiculous when he takes to running about
(and looking for his other half);20 for he betrays thereby that he is
but half a person. In fact, the more one thinks about the matter the
more ridiculous it seems; because if man really be a whole, why,
then he will not become a whole in love, but he and woman would
make up one and a half. No wonder, then, that the gods laugh, and
particularly at man.

But let me return to my consequence. When the lovers have
found each other, one should certainly believe that they formed a
whole, and in this should lie the proof of their assertion that they
wished to live for each other for all time. But lo! instead of living
for each other they begin to live for the race, and this they do not
even suspect.

What is a consequence? If, as I observed, one cannot detect in it
the cause out of which it proceeded, the consequence is merely
ridiculous, and he becomes a laughing stock to whom this
happens. Now, the fact that the separated halves have found each
other ought to be a complete satisfaction and rest for them; and yet
the consequence is a new existence. That having found each other
should mean a new existence for the lovers, is comprehensible
enough; but not, that a new existence for a third being should take
its inception from this fact. And yet the resulting consequence is
greater than that of which it is the consequence, whereas such an
end as the lovers' finding each other ought to be infallible evidence
of no other, subsequent, consequence being thinkable.

Does the satisfaction of any other desire show an analogy to this
consequence? Quite on the contrary, the satisfaction of desire is in
every other case evinced by a period of rest; and even if a
tristitia21 does superveneindicating by the way, that every
satisfaction of an appetite is comicalthis tristitia is a
straightforward consequence, though no tristitia so eloquently
attests a preceding comical element as does that following love. It
is quite another matter with an enormous consequence such as we
are dealing with, a consequence of which no one knows whence it
comes, nor whether it will come; whereas, if it does come, it
comes as a consequence.

Who is able to grasp this? And yet that which for the initiates of
love constitutes the greatest pleasure is also the most important
thing for themso important that they even adopt new names,
derived from the consequence thereof which thus, curiously
enough, assumes retroactive force, The lover is now called father,
his sweetheart, mother; and these names seem to them the most
beautiful. And yet there is a being to whom these names are even
more beautiful; for what is as beautiful as filial piety? To me it
seems the most beautiful of all sentiments; and fortunately I can
appreciate the thought underlying it. We are taught that it is
seeming in a son to love his father. This I comprehend, I cannot
even suspect that there is any contradiction possible here, and I
acknowledge infinite satisfaction in being held by the loving bonds
of filial piety. I believe it is the greatest debt of all to owe another
being one's life. I believe that this debt cannot ever be wiped out,
or even fathomed by any calculation, and for this reason I agree
with Cicero when he asserts that the son is always in the wrong as
against his father; and it is precisely filial piety which teaches me
to believe this, teaches me not even to penetrate the hidden, but
rather to remain hidden in the father. Quite true, I am glad to be
another person's greatest debtor; but as to the opposite, viz., before
deciding to make another person my greatest debtor, I want to
arrive at greater clarity. For to my conception there is a world of
difference between being some person's debtor, and making some
person one's debtor to such an extent that he will never be able to
clear himself.

What filial piety forbids the son to consider, love bids the father
to consider. And here contradiction sets in again. If the son has an
immortal soul like his father, what does it mean, then, to be a
father? For must I not smile at myself when thinking of myself as a
fatherwhereas the son is most deeply moved when he reflects on
the relation he bears to his father? Very well do I understand Plato
when he says that an animal will give birth to an animal of the
same species, a plant, to a plant of the same species, and thus also
man to man .22 But this explains nothing, does not satisfy one's
thought, and arouses but a dim feeling; for an immortal soul
cannot be born. Whenever, then, a father considers his son in the
light of his son's immortalitywhich is, indeed, the essential
consideration23he will probably smile at himself, for he cannot, by
any means, grasp in their entirety all the beautiful and noble
thoughts which his son with filial piety entertains about him. If, on
the other hand, he considers his son from the point of view of his
animal nature he must smile again, because the conception of
fatherhood is too exalted an expression for it.

Finally, if it were thinkable that a father influenced his son in such
fashion that his own nature was a condition from which the son's
nature could not free itself, then the contradiction would arise in
another direction; for in this case nothing more terrible is
thinkable than being a father. There is no comparison between
killing a person and giving him lifethe former decides his fate only
in time, the other for all eternity. So there is a contradiction again,
and one both to laugh and to weep about. Is paternity then an
illusioneven if not in the same sense as is implied in Magdelone's
speech to Jeronymus24or is it the most terrible thought
imaginable? Is it the greatest benefit conferred on one, or is it the
sweetest gratification of one's desireis it something which just
happens, or is it the greatest task of life ?

Look you, for this reason have I forsworn all love, for my thought
is to me the most essential consideration. So even if love be the
most exquisite joy, I renounce it, without wishing either to offend
or to envy any one; and even if love be the condition for conferring
the greatest benefit imaginable I deny myself the opportunity
thereforbut my thought I have not prostituted. By no means do I
lack an eye for what is beautiful, by no means does my heart
remain unmoved when I read the songs of the poets, by no means
is my soul without sadness when it yields to the beautiful
conception of love; but I do not wish to becorne unfaithful to my
thought. And of what avail were it to be, for there is no happiness
possible for me except my thought have free sway. If it had not, I
would in desperation yearn for my thought, which I maynot
desert to cleave to a wife, for it is my immortal part and, hence, of
more importance than a wife. Well do I comprehend that if any
thing is sacred it is love; that if faithlessness in any relation is
base, it is doubly so in love; that if any deceit is detestable, it is
tenfold more detestable in love. But my soul is innocent of blame.
I have never looked at any woman to desire her, neither have I
fluttered about aimlessly before blindly plunging, or lapsing, into
the most decisive of all relations. If I knew what the lovable were I
would know with certainty whether I had offended by tempting
any one; but since I do not know, I am certain only of never having
had the conscious desire to do so.

Supposing I should yield to love and be made to laugh; or
supposing I should be cast down by terror, since I cannot find the
narrow path which lovers travel as easily as if it were the broad
highway, undisturbed by any doubts, which they surely have
bestowed thought on (seeing our times have, indeed, reflected
about all25 and consequently will comprehend me when I assert
that to act unreflectingly is nonsense, as one ought to have gone
through all possible reflections before acting)supposing, I say, 1
should yield to love! Would I not insult past redress my beloved
one if I laughed; or irrevocably plunge her into despair if I were
overwhelmed by terror? For I understand well enough that a
woman cannot be expected to have thought as profoundly about
these matters; and a woman who found love comical (as but gods
and men can, for which reason woman is a temptation luring them
to become ridiculous) would both betray a suspicious amount of
previous experience and understand me least. But a woman who
comprehended the terror of love would have lost her loveliness
and still fail to understand meshe would be annihilated; which is in
nowise my case, so long as my thought saves me.

Is there no one ready to laugh? When I began by wanting to
speak about the comical element in love you perhaps, expected to
be made to laugh, for it is easy to make you laugh, and I myself am
a friend of laughter; and still you did not laugh, I believe. The
effect of my speech was a different one, and yet precisely this
proves that I have spoken about the comical. If there be no one
who laughs at my speechwell, then laugh a little at me, dear
fellow-banqueters, and I shall not wonder; for I do not understand
what I have occasionally heard you say about love. Very probably,
though, you are among the initiated as I am not.

Thereupon the Young Person seated himself. He had
become more beautiful, almost, than before the meal. Now.he sat
quietly, looking down before him, unconcerned about the others.
John the Seducer desired at once to urge some objections against
the Young Person's speech but was interrupted by Constantin who
warned against discussions and ruled that on this occasion only
speeches were in order. John said if that was the case, he would
stipulate that he should be allowed to be the last speaker. This
again gave rise to a discussion as to the order in which they were
to speak, which Constantin closed by offering to speak forth with,
against their recognizing his authority to appoint the speakers in
their turn.

(Constantin's Speech)

Constantin spoke as follows:

There is a time to keep silence, and a time to speak,26 and now
it seems to be the time to speak briefly, for our young friend has
spoken much and very strangely. His vis comica27 has made us
struggle ancipiti proelio28 because his speech was full of doubts,
as he himself is, sitting there nowa perplexed man who knows not
whether to laugh, or weep, or fall in love. In fact, had I had
foreknowledge of his speech, such as he demands one should have
of love, I should have forbidden him to speak; but now it is too
late. I shall bid you then, dear fellowbanqueters, "gladsome and
merry to be," and even if I cannot enforce this I shall ask you to
forget each speech so soon as it is made and to wash it down with
a single draught.

And now as to woman, about whom I shall speak. I too have
pondered about her, and I have finally discovered the category to
which she belongs. I too have sought, but I have found, too, and I
have made a matchless discovery which I shall now communicate
to you. Woman is understood correctly only when placed in the
category of "the joke."

It is man's function to be absolute, to act in an absolute fashion,
or to give expression to the absolute. Woman's sphere lies in her
relativity.29 Between beings so radically different, no true
reciprocal relation can exist. Precisely in this incommensurability
lies the joke. And with woman the joke was born into the world. It
is to be understood, however, that man must know how to stick to
his role of being absolute; for else nothing is seenthat is to say,
something exceedingly common is seen, viz., that man and woman
fit each other, he as a half man and she as a halfman.

The joke is not an ‘sthetic, but an abortive ethical, category. Its
effect on thought is about the same as the impression we receive if
a man were solemnly to begin making a speech, recite a comma or
two with his pronouncement, then say "hm!" dash" and then stop.
Thus with woman. One tries to cover her with the ethical category,
one thinks of human nature, one opens one's eyes, one fastens one's
glances on the most excellent maiden in question, an effort is
made to redeem the claims of the ethical demand; and then one
grows ill at ease and says to one's self: ah, this is undoubtedly a
joke! The joke lies, indeed, in applying that category to her and
measuring her by it, because it would be idle to expect serious
results from her; but just that is the joke. Because if one could
demand it of her it would not be a joke at all. A mighty poor joke
indeed it would be, to place her under the airpump and draw the
air out of her indeed it were a shame; but to blow her up to
supernatural size and let her imagine herself to have attained all
the ideality which a little maiden of sixteen imagines she has, that
is the beginning of the game and, indeed, the beginning of a highly
entertaining performance. No youth has half so much imaginary
ideality as a young girl, but: "We shall soon be even" as says the
tailor in the proverb; for her ideality is but an illusion.

If one fails to consider woman from this point of view she may
cause irreparable harm; but through my conception of her she
becomes harmless and amusing. For a man there is nothing more
shocking than to catch himself twaddling. It destroys all true
ideality; for one may repent of having been a rascal, and one may
feel sorry for not having meant a word of what one said; but to
have talked nonsense, sheer nonsense, to have meant all one said
and behold! it was all nonsense that is too disgusting for
repentance incarnate to put up with. But this is not the case with
woman. She has a prescriptive right to transfigure herselfin less
than 24 hours in the most innocent and pardonable nonsense; for
far is it from her ingenuous soul to wish to deceive one! indeed,
she meant all she said, and now she says the precise opposite, but
with the same amiable frankness, for now she is willing to stake
everything on what she said last. Now in case a man in all
seriousness surrenders to love he may be called fortunate indeed if
he succeeds in obtaining an insurance if, indeed, he is able to
obtain it anywhere; for so inflammable a material as woman is
most likely to arouse the suspicions of an insurance agent. Just
consider for a moment what he has done in thus identifying
himself with her! If, some fine New Year's night she goes off like
some fireworks he will promptly follow suit; and even if this
should not happen he will have many a close call. And what may
he not lose! He may lose his all; for there is but one absolute
antithesis to the absolute, and that is nonsense. Therefore, let him
not seek refuge in some society for morally tainted individuals, for
he is not morally tainted far from it; only, he has been reduced in
absurdum and beatified in nonsense; that is, has been made a fool
of.

This will never happen among men. If a man should sputter off
in this fashion I would scorn him. If he should fool me by his
cleverness I need but apply the ethical category to him, and the
danger is trifling. If things go too far I shall put a bullet through his
brain; but to challenge a womanwhat is that, if you please? Who
does not see that it is a joke, just as when Xerxes had the sea
whipped? When Othello murders Desdemona, granting she really
had been guilty, he has gained nothing, for he has been duped, and
a dupe he remains; for even by his murdering her he only makes a
concession with regard to a consequence which originally made
him ridiculous; whereas Elvira30 may be an altogether pathetic
figure when arming herself with a dagger to obtain revenge. The
fact that Shakespeare has conceived Othello as a tragic figure
(even disregarding the calamity that Desdemona is innocent) is to
be explained and, indeed, to perfect satisfaction, by the hero being
a colored person. For a colored person, dear fellowbanqueters,
who cannot be assumed to represent spiritual qualities a colored
person, I say, who therefore becomes green in his face when his ire
is aroused (which is a physiological fact), a colored man may,
indeed, become tragic if he is deceived by a woman; just as a
woman has all the pathos of tragedy on her side when she is
betrayed by a man. A man who flies into a rage may perhaps
become tragic; but a man of whom one may expect a developed
mentality, he either not become jealous, or he will become
ridiculous if does; and most of all when he comes running with a
dagger in his hand.

A Pity that Shakespeare has not presented us with a comedy of
this description in which the claim raised by a woman's infidelity
is turned down by irony; for not every one who is able to see the
comical element in this situation is able also to develop the
thought and give it dramatic embodiment. Let one but imagine
Socrates surprising Xanthippe in the act for it would be unSocratic
even to think of Socrates being particularly concerned about his
wife's infidelity, or still worse, spying on her imagine it, and I
believe that the fine smile which transformed the ugliest man in
Athens into the handsomest, would for the first time have turned
into a roar of laughter. It is incomprehensible why Aristophanes,
who so frequently made Socrates the butt of his ridicule, neglected
to have him run on the stage shouting: "Where is she, where is she,
so that I may kill her, i.e., my unfaithful Xanthippe." For really it
does not matter greatly whether or no Socrates was made a
cuckold, and all that Xanthippe may do in this regard is wasted
labor, like snapping one's fingers in one's pocket; for Socrates
remains the same intellectual hero, even with a horn on his
forehead. But if he had in fact become jealous and had wanted to
kill Xanthippe alas! then would Xanthippe have exerted a power
over him such as the entire Greek nation and his sentence of death
could not to make him ridiculous.

A cuckold is comical, then, with respect to his wife; but he may
be regarded as becoming tragical with respect to other men. In this
fact we may find an explanation of the Spanish conception of
honor. But the tragic element resides chiefly in his not being able
to obtain redress, and the anguish of his suffering consists really in
its being devoid of meaning which is terrible enough. To shoot the
woman, to challenge her, to despise her, all this would only serve
to render the poor man still more ridiculous; for woman is the
weaker sex. This consideration enters in everywhere and confuses
all. If she performs a great deed she is admired more than man,
because it is more than was expected of her. If she is betrayed, all
the pathos is on her side; but if a man is deceived one has scant
sympathy and little patience while he is present and laughs at him
whell his back is turned.

Look you, therefore is it advisable betimes to consider woman
as a joke. The entertainment she affords is simply incomparable.
Let one consider her a fixed quantity, and one's self a relative one;
let one by no means contradict her, for that would simply be
helping her; let one never doubt what she says but, rather, believe
her every word; let one gallivant about her, with eyes rendered
unsteady unspeakable admiration and blissful intoxication, and
with the mincing steps of a worshipper; let one languishingly fall
on one's knees, then lift up one's eyes up to her languishingly and
heave a breath again; let one do all she bids one, like an obedient
slave. And now comes the cream of the joke. We need no proof
that woman can speak, i.e., use words. Unfortunately, however,
she does not possess sufficient reflection for making sure against
her in the long run which is, at most, eight days contradicting
herself; unless indeed man, by contradicting her, exerts a
regulative influence. So the consequence is that within a short time
confusion will reign supreme. If one had not done what she told
one to, the confusion would pass unnoticed; for she forgets again
as quickly as she talks. But since her admirer has done all, and has
been at her beck and call in every instance, the confusion is only
too glaring.

The more gifted the woman, the more amusing the situation.
For the more gifted she is, the more imagination she will possess.
Now, the more imagination she possesses, the greater airs she will
give herself and the greater the confusion which is bound to
become evident in the next instant. In life, such entertainment is
rarely had, because this blind obedience to a woman's whims
occurs but seldom. And if it does, in some languishing swain, most
likely he is not qualified to see the fun. The fact is, the ideality a
little maiden assumes in moments when her imagination is at work
is encountered nowhere else, whether in gods or man; but it is all
the more entertaining to believe her and to add fuel to the fire.

As I remarked, the fun is simply incomparable indeed, I know it
for a fact, because I have at times not been able to sleep at night
with the mere thought of what new confusions I should live to see,
through the agency of my sweetheart and my humble zeal to please
her. Indeed, no one who gambles in a lottery will meet with more
remarkable combinations than he who has a passion for this game.
For this is sure, that every woman without exception possesses the
same qualifications for being resolved and transfigured in
nonsense with a gracefulness, a nonchalance, an assurance such as
befits the weaker sex.

Being a rightminded lover one naturally discovers every
possible charm in one's beloved. Now, when discovering genius in
the above sense, one ought not to let it remain a mere possibility
but ought, rather, to develop it into virtuosity. I do not need to be
more specific, and more cannot be said in a general way, yet every
one will understand me. Just as one may find entertainment in
balancing a cane on one's nose, in swinging a tumbler in a circle
without spilling a drop, in dancing between eggs, and in other
games as amusing and profitable, likewise, and not otherwise, in
living with his beloved the lover will have a source of
incomparable entertainment and food for most interesting study. In
matters pertaining to love let one have absolute belief, not only in
her protestations of fidelity one soon tires of that game but in all
those explosions of inviolable Romanticism by which she would
probably perish if one did not contrive a safetyvalve through which
the sighs and the smoke, and "the aria of Romanticism31" may
escape and make her worshipper happy. Let one compare her
admiringly to Juliet, the difference being only that no person ever
as much as thought of touching a hair on her Romeo's head. With
regard to intellectual matters, let one hold her capable of all and, if
one has been lucky enough to find the right woman, in a trice one
will have a cantankerous authoress, whilst wonderingly shading
one's eyes with one's hand and duly admiring what the little black
hen may yield besides.32 It is altogether incomprehensible why
Socrates did not choose this course of action instead of bickering
with Xanthippe oh, well! to be sure he wished to acquire practice,
like the riding master who, even though he has the best trained
horse, yet knows how to tease him in such fashion that there is
good reason for breaking him in again."33

Let me be a little more concrete, in order to illustrate a
particular and highly interesting phenomenon. A great deal has
been said about feminine fidelity, but rarely with any discretion.34
From a purely ‘sthetic point of view this fidelity is to be regarded
as a piece of poetic fiction which steps on the stage to find her
lover a fiction which sits by the spinning wheel and waits for her
lover to come; but when she has found him, or he has come, why,
then ‘sthetics is at a loss. Her infidelity, on the other hand, as
contrasted with her previous fidelity, is to be judged chiefly with
regard to its ethical import, when jealousy will appear as a tragic
passion. There are three possibilities, so the case is favorable for
woman; for there are two cases of fidelity, as against one of
infidelity. Inconceivably great is her fidelity when she is not
altogether sure of her cavalier; and ever so inconceivably great is it
when he repels her fidelity. The third case would be her infidelity.
Now granted one has sufficient intellect and objectivity to make
reflections, one will find sufficient justification, in what has been
said, for my category of "the joke." Our young friend whose
beginning in a manner deceived me seemed to be on the point of
entering into this matter, but backed out again, dismayed at the
difficulty. And yet the explanation is not difficult, providing one
really sets about it seriously, to make unrequited love and death
correspond to one another, and providing one is serious enough to
stick to his thought and so much seriousness one ought to have for
sake of the joke.

Of course this phrase of unrequited love being death originated
either with a woman or a womanish male. Its origin is easily made
out, seeing that it is one of those categorical outbursts which,
spoken with great bravado, on the spur of the moment, may count
on a great and immediate applause; for although this business is
said to be a matter of life and death, yet the phrase is meant for
immediate consumption like creampuffs. Although referring to
daily experience it by no means binding on him who is to die, but
only obliges the listener to rush posthaste to the assistance of the
dying lover. If a man should take to using such phrases it would
not be amusing at all, for he would be too despicable to laugh at.
Woman, however, possesses genius, is lovable in the measure she
possesses it, and is amusing at all times. Well, then, the
languishing lady dies of love why certainly, for did she not say so
herself? In this matter she is pathetic, for woman has enough
courage to say what no man would have the courage to do so then
she dies! In saying so I have measured her by ethical standards. Do
ye likewise, dear fellowbanqueters, and understand your Aristotle
aright, now! He observes very correctly that woman cannot be used
in tragedy.35 And very certainly, her proper sphere is the pathetic
and serious divertissement, the half-hour face, not the fiveact
drama. So then she dies. But should she for that reason not be able
to love again? Why not? that is, if it be possible to restore her to
life. Now, having been restored to life, she is of course a new
being another person, that is, and begins afresh and falls in love for
the first time: nothing remarkable in that! Ah, death, great is thy
power; not the most violent emetic and not the most powerful
laxative could ever have the same purging effect!

The resulting confusion is capital, if one but is attentive and
does not forget. A dead man is one of the most amusing characters
to be met with in life. Strange that more use is not made of him on
the stage, for in life he is seen, now and then. When you come to
think of it, even one who has only been seemingly dead is a
comical figure; but one who was really dead certainly contributes
to our entertainment all one can reasonably expect of a man. All
depends on whether one is attentive. I myself had my attention
called to it, one day, as I was walking with one of my
acquaintances. A couple passed us. I judged from the expression
on his face that he knew them and asked whether that was the
case. "Why, yes," he answered, "I know them very well, and
especially the lady, for she is my departed one." "What departed
one?" I asked. "Why, my departed first love," he answered.
"Indeed, this is a strange affair. She said: I shall die. And that very
same moment she departed, naturally enough, by death else one
might have insured her beforehand in the widow's insurance. Too
late! Dead she was and dead she remained; and now I wander
about, as says the poet, vainly seeking the grave of my lady-love
that I may shed my tears thereon." Thus this broken-hearted man
who remained alone in the world, though it consoled him to find
her pretty far along with some other man.

It is a good thing for the girls, thought I, that they don't have to be
buried, every time they die; for if parents have hitherto considered
a boychild to be the more expensive, the girls might become even
more so!

A simple ease of infidelity is not as amusing, by far. I mean, if a
girl should fall in love with some one else and should say to her
lover: "I cannot help it, save me from myself!" But to die from
sorrow because she cannot endure being separated from her lover
by his journey to the West Indies, to have put up with his
departure, however, and then, at his return, be not only not dead,
but attached to some one else for all time that certainly is a strange
fate for a lover to undergo. No wonder, then, that the heartbroken
man at times consoled himself with the burthen of an old song
which runs: "Hurrah for you and me, I say, we never shall forget
that day!"

Now forgive me, dear fellowbanqueters, if I have spoken at too
great length; and empty a glass to love and to woman. Beautiful
she is and lovely, if she be considered ‘sthetically. That is
undeniable. But, as has often been said, and as I shall say also: one
ought not to remain standing here, but should go on.36 Consider
her, then, ethically and you will hardly have begun to do so before
the humor of it will become apparent. Even Plato and Aristotle
assume that woman is an imperfect form, an irrational quantity,
that is, one which might some time, in a better world, be
transformed into a man. In this life one must take her as she is.
And what this is becomes apparent very soon; for she will not be
content with the ‘sthetic sphere, but goes on, she wants to become
emancipated, and she has the courage to say so. Let her wish be
fulfilled and the amusement will be simply incomparable.

When Constantin had finished speaking he forthwith ruled Victor
Eremita to begin. He spoke as follows:

(Victor Eremita's Speech)

As will be remembered, Plato offers thanks to the gods for four
things. In the fourth place he is grateful for having been permitted
to be a contemporary of Socrates. For the three other boons
mentioned by him,37 an earlier Greek philosopher38 had already
thanked the gods, and so I conclude that they are worthy our
gratitude. But alas! even if I wanted to express my gratitude like
these Greeks I would not be able to do so for what was denied me.
Let me then collect my soul in gratitude for the one good which
was conferred on me also that I was made a man and not a woman.

To be a woman is something so curious, so heterogeneous and
composite that no predicate will fully express these qualities; and
if I should use many predicates they would contradict one another
in such fashion that only a woman would be able to tolerate the
result and, what is worse, feel happy about it. The fact that she
really signifies less than man that is not her misfortune, and still
less so if she got to know it, for it might be borne with fortitude.
No, her misfortune consists in her life's having become devoid of
fixed meaning through a romantic conception of things, by virtue
of which, now she signifies all, and now, nothing at all; without
ever finding out what she really does signify and even that is not
her misfortune but, rather, the fact that, being a woman, she never
will be able to find out. As for myself, if I were a woman, I should
prefer to be one in the Orient and as a slave; for to be a slave,
neither more nor less is at any rate something, in comparison with
being, now heyday, now nothing.

Even if a woman's life did not contain such contrasts, the
distinction she enjoys, and which is rightly assumed to be hers as a
woman a distinction she does not share with man would by itself
point to the meaninglessness of her life. The distinction I refer to is
that of gallantry. To be gallant to woman is becoming in men.
Now gallantry consists very simply in conceiving in fantastic
categories that person to whom one is gallant. To be gallant to a
man is, therefore, an insult, for he begs to be excused from the
application of fantastic categories to him. For the fair sex,
however, gallantry signifies a tribute, a distinction, which is
essentially its privilege. Ah me, if only a single cavalier were
gallant to them the case would not be so serious. But far from it!
At bottom every man is gallant, he is unconsciously so. This
signifies, therefore, that it is life itself which has bestowed this
perquisite on the fair sex. Woman on her part unconsciously
accepts it. Here we have the same trouble again; for if only a
single woman did so, another explanation would be necessary.
This is life's characteristic irony.

Now if gallantry contained the truth it ought to be reciprocal,
i.e., gallantry would be the accepted quotation for the stated
difference between beauty on the one hand, and power, astuteness,
and strength, on the other. But this is not the case, gallantry is
essentially woman's due; and the fact that she unconsciously
accepts it may be explained through the solicitude of nature for the
weak and those created in a stepmotherly fashion by her, who feel
more than recompensed by an illusion. But precisely this illusion is
misfortune. It is not seldom the case that nature comes to the
assistance of an afflicted creature by consoling him with the notion
that he is the most beautiful. If that is so, why, then we may say
that nature made good the deficiency since now the creature is
endowed with even more than could be reasonably demanded. But
to be beautiful only in one's imagination, and not to be overcome,
indeed, by sadness, but to be fooled into an illusion why, that is
still worse mockery. Now, as to being afflicted, woman certainly is
far from having been treated in a stepmotherly fashion by nature;
still she is so in another sense inasmuch as she never can free
herself from the illusion with which life has consoled her.

Gathering together one's impressions of a woman's existence, in
order to point out its essential features, one is struck by the fact
that every woman's life gives one an entirely phantastic
impression. In a far more decisive sense than man she may be said
to have turning points in her career; for her turning points turn
everything upside down. In one of Tieck's39 Romantic dramas
there occurs a person who, having once been king of
Mesopotamia, now is a green-grocer in Copenhagen. Exactly as
fantastic is every feminine existence. If the girl's name is Juliana,
her life is as follows: erstwhile empress in the wide domains of
love, and titulary queen of all the exaggerations of tomfoolery;
now, Mrs. Peterson, corner Bath Street.

When a child, a girl is less highly esteemed than a boy. When a
little older, one does not know exactly what to make of her. At last
she enters that decisive period in which she holds absolute sway.
Worshipfully man approaches her as a suitor. Worshipfully, for so
does every suitor, it is not the scheme of a crafty deceiver. Even
the executioner, when laying down his fasces to go awooing, even
he bends his knee, although he is willing to offer himself up,
within a short time, to domestic executions which he finds so
natural that he is far from seeking any excuse for them in the fact
that public executions have grown so few. The cultured person
behaves in the very same manner. He kneels, he worships, he
conceives his ladylove in the most fantastic categories; and then he
very quickly forgets his kneeling position in fact, he knew full well
the while he knelt that it was fantastic to do so.

If I were a woman I would prefer to be sold by my father to the
highest bidder, as is the custom in the Orient; for there is at least
some sense in such a deal. What misfortune to have been born a
womah! Yet her misfortune really consists in her not being able to
comprehend it, being a woman. If she does complain, she
complains rather about her Oriental, than her Occidental, status.
But if I were a woman I would first of all refuse to be wooed, and
resign myself to belong to the weaker sex, if such is the case, and
be careful which is most important if one is proud of not going
beyond the truth. However, that is of but little concern to her.
Juliana is in the seventh heaven, and Mrs. Peterson submits to her
fate.

Let me, then, thank the gods that I was born a man and not a
woman. And still, how much do I forego! For is not all poetry,
from the drinking song to the tragedy, a deification of woman? All
the worse for her and for him who admires her; for if he does not
look out he will, all of a sudden, have to pull a long face. The
beautiful, the excellent, all of man's achievement, owes its origin
to woman, for she inspires him. Woman is, indeed, the inspiring
element in life. How many a lovelorn shepherd has played on this
theme, and how many a shepherdess has listened to it! Verily, my
soul is without envy and feels only gratitude to the gods; for I
would rather be a man, though in humble station, but really so,
than be a woman and an indeterminate quantity, rendered happy by
a delusion I would rather be a concrete thing, with a small but
definite meaning, than an abstraction which is to mean all.

As I have said, it is through woman that ideality is born into the
world and what were man without her! There is many a man who
has become a genius through a woman, many a one a hero, many a
one a poet, many a one even a saint; but he did not become a
genius through the woman he married, for through her he only
became a privy councillor; he did not become a hero through the
woman he married, for through her he only became a general; he
did not become a poet through the woman he married, for through
her he only became a father; he did not become a saint through the
woman he married, for he did not marry, and would have married
but one the one whom he did not marry; just as the others became
a genius, became a hero, became a poet through the help of the
woman they did not marry. If woman's ideality were in itself
inspiring, why, then the inspiring woman would be the one to
whom a man is united for life. But life tells a different story. It is
only by a negative relation to her that man is rendered productive
in his ideal endeavors. In this sense she is inspiring; but to say that
she is inspiring, without qualifying one's statement, is to be guilty
of a paralogism40 which one must be a woman to overlook. Or has
any one ever heard of any man having become a poet through his
wife? So long as man does not possess her she inspires him. It is
this truth which gives rise to the illusions entertained in poetry and
by women. The fact that he does not possess her signifies, either,
that he is still fighting for her thus has woman inspired many a one
and rendered him a knight; but has any one ever heard of any man
having been rendered a knight valiant through his wife? Or, the
fact that he does not possess her signifies that he cannot obtain her
by any manner of means thus has woman inspired many a one and
roused his ideality; that is, if there is anything in him worth while.
But a wife, who has things ever so much worth while for her
husband, will hardly arouse any ideal strivings in him. Or, again,
the fact that be does not possess her signifies that he is pursuing an
ideal. Perchance he loves many, but loving many is also a kind of
unrequited love; and yet the ideality of his soul is to be seen in this
striving and yearning, and not in the small bits of lovableness
which make up the sum total of the contributions of all those he
loves.

The highest ideality a woman can arouse in a man consists, in
fact, in the awakening within him of the consciousness of
immortality. The point of this proof lies in what one might call the
necessity of a reply. Just as one may remark about some play that
it cannot end without this or that person getting in his say, likewise
(says ideality) our existence cannot be all over with death: I
demand a reply! This proof is frequently furnished, in a positive
fashion, in the public advertiser. I hold that to be entirely proper,
for if proof is to be made in the public advertiser it must be made
in a positive fashion. Thus: Mrs. Petersen, we learn, has lived a
number of years, until in the night of the 24th it pleased
Providence, etc. This produces in Mr. Petersen an attack of
reminiscences from his courting days or, to express it quite plainly,
nothing but seeing her again will ever console him. For this
blissful meeting he prepare himself, in the meanwhile, by taking
unto himself another wife; for, to be sure, this marriage is by no
means as poetic as the first still it is a good imitation. This is the
proof positive. Mr. Petersen is not satisfied with demanding a
reply, no, he wants a meeting again in the hereafter.

As is well known, a base metal will often show the gleam of
precious metal. This is the brief silvergleam. With respect to the
base metal this is a tragic moment, for it must once for all resign
itself to being a base metal. Not so with Mr. Petersen. The
possession of ideality is by rights inherent in every person and
now, if I laugh at Mr. Petersen it is not because he, being in reality
of base metal, had but a single silvergleam; but, rather, because
just this silvergleam betrays his having become a base metal. Thus
does the philistine look most ridiculous when, arrayed in ideality,
he affords fitting occasion to say, with Holberg: What! does that
cow wear a fine dress, too?41

The case is this: whenever a woman arouses ideality in man,
and thereby the consciousness of immortality, she always does so
negatively. He who really became a genius, hero, a poet, a saint
through woman, he has by that very fact seized on the essence of
immortality. Now if the inspiring element were positively present
in woman, why, then a man's wife, and only his wife, ought to
awaken inthe consciousness of immortality. But the reverse holds
true. That is, if she is really to awaken ideality in husband she must
die. Mr. Petersen, to be sure, is not affected, for all that. But if
woman, by her death, does awaken man's ideality, then is she
indeed the cause of all the great things poetry attributes to her; but
note well: that which she did in a positive fashion for him in no
wise roused his ideality. In fact, her significance in this regard
becomes the more doubtful the longer she lives, because she will
at length really begin to wish to signify something positive.
However, the more positive the proof the less it proves; for then
Mr. Petersen's longing will be for some past common experiences
whose content was, to all intents and purposes, exhausted when
they were had. Most positive of all the proof becomes if the object
of his longing concerns their marital spooning that time when they
visited the Deer Park together! In the same way one might
suddenly feel a longing for the old pair of slippers one used to be
so comfortable in; but that proof is not exactly a proof for the
immortality of the soul. On the other hand, the more negative the
proof, the better it is; for the negative is higher than the positive,
inasmuch as it concerns our immortality, and is thus the only
positive value.

Woman's main significance lies in her negative contribution,
whereas her positive contributions are as nothing in comparison
but, on the contrary, pernicious. It is this truth which life keeps
from her, consoling her with an illusion which surpasses all that
might arise in any man's brain, and with parental care ordering life
in such fashion that both language and everything else confirm her
in her illusion. For even if she be conceived as the very opposite of
inspiring, and rather as the wellspring of all corruption; whether
now we imagine that with her, sin came into the world, or that it is
her infidelity which ruined all our conception of her is always
gallant. That is, when hearing such opinions one might readily
assume that woman were really able to become infinitely more
culpable than man, which would, indeed, amount to an immense
acknowledgment of her powers. Alas, alas! the case is entirely
different. There is a secret reading of this text which woman
cannot comprehend; for, the very next moment, all life owns to the
same conception as the state, which makes man responsible for his
wife. One condemns her as man never is condemned (for only a
real sentence is passed on him, and there the matter ends), not with
her receiving a milder sentence; for in that case not all of her life
would be an illusion, but with the case against her being dismissed
and the public, i.e., life, having to defray the costs. One moment,
woman is supposed to be possessed of all possible wiles, the next
moment, one laughs at him whom she deceived, which surely is a
contradiction. Even such a case as that of Potiphar's wife does not
preclude the possibility of her having really been seduced. Thus
has woman an enormous possibility, such as no man has an
enormous possibility; but her reality is in proportion. And most
terrible of all is the magic of illusion in which she feels herself
happy.

Let Plato then thank the gods for having been born a contemporary
of Socrates: I envy him; let him offer thanks for being a Greek: I
envy him; but when he is grateful for having been born a man and
not a woman I join him with all my heart. If I had been born a
woman and could understand what now I can understand it were
terrible! But if I had been born a woman and therefore could not
understand it that were still more terrible!

But if the case is as I stated it, then it follows that one had better
refrain from any positive relation with woman. Wherever she is
concerned one has to reckon with that inevitable hiatus which
renders her happy as she does not detect the illusion, but which
would be a man's undoing if he detected it.

I thank the gods, then, that I was born a man and not a woman;
and I thank them, furthermore, that no woman by some lifelong
attachment holds me in duty bound to be constantly reflecting that
it ought not to have been.

Indeed, what a passing strange device is marriage! And what
makes it all the stranger is the suggestion that it is to be a step
taken without thought. And yet no step is more decisive, for
nothing in life is as inexorable and masterful as the marriage tie.
And now so important a step as marriage ought, so we are told, to
be taken without reflection! Yet marriage is not something simple
but something immensely complex and indeterminate. Just as the
meat of the turtle smacks of all kinds of meat, so likewise does
marriage have a taste of all manner of things; and just as the turtle
is a sluggish animal, likewise is marriage a sluggish thing. Falling
in love is, at least, a simple thing, but marriage ! Is it something
heathen or something Christian, something spiritual or something
profane, or something civil, or something of all things? Is it an
expression of an inexplicable love, the elective affinity of souls in
delicate accord with one another; or is it a duty, or a partnership,
or a mere convenience, or the custom of certain countries or is it a
duty, or a partnership, or a mere convenience, or the custom of
certain countries or is it a little of all these? Is one to order the
music for it from the town musician or the organist, or is one to
have a little from both? Is it the minister or the police sergeant
who is to make the speech and enroll the names in the book of life
or in the town register? Does marriage blow a tune on a comb, or
does it listen to the whisperings "like to those of the fairies from
the grottoes of a summer night"42

And now every Darby imagines he performed such a Potpourri,
such incomparably complex music, in getting married and
imagines that he is still performing it while living a married life!
My dear fellowbanqueters, ought we not, in default of a wedding
present and congratulations, give each of the conjugal partners a
demerit for re peated inattentiveness? It is taxing enough to
express a single idea in one's life; but to think something so
complicated as marriage and, consequently, bring it under one
head; to think something so complicated and yet to do jus tice to
each and every element in it, and have everything present at the
same time verily, he is a great man who can accomplish all this!
And still every Benedict accom plishes it so he does, no doubt; for
does he not say that he does it unconsciously? But if this is to be
done uncon sciously it must be through some higher form of uncon
sciousness permeating all one's reflective powers. But not a word
is said about this! And to ask any married man about it means just
wasting one's time.

He who has once committed a piece of folly will con stantly be
pursued by its consequences. In the case of mar riage the folly
consists in one's having gotten into a mess, and the punishment, in
recognizing, when it is too late, what one has done. So you will
find that the married man, now, becomes chesty, with a bit of
pathos, thinking he has done something remarkable in having
entered wedlock; now, puts his tail between his legs in dejection;
then again, praises marriage in sheer selfdefense. But as to a
thoughtunit which might serve to hold together the disjecta
membra43 of the most heterogeneous conceptions of life
contained in marriage for that we shall wait in vain.

Therefore, to be a mere Benedict is humbug, and to be a
seducer is humbug, and to wish to experiment with woman for the
sake of "the joke" is also humbug. In fact, the two last mentioned
methods will be seen to involve concessions to woman on the part
of man quite as large as those found in marriage. The seducer
wishes to rise in his own estima tion by deceiving her; but this very
fact that he deceives and wishes to deceive that he cares to
deceive, is also a demonstration of his dependence on woman. And
the same is true of him who wishes to experiment with her.

If I were to imagine any possible relation with woman it would
be one so saturated with reflecton that it would, for that very
reason, no longer be any relation with her at all.To be an excellent
husband and yet on the sly seduce every girl; to seem a seducer
and yet harbor within one all the ardor of romanticism there would
be something to that, or the concession in the first instance were
then annihilated in the second. Certain it is that man finds his true
ideality only in such a reduplication. All merely unconscious ex
istence must be obliterated, and its obliteration ever cun ningly
guarded by some sham expression. Such a reduplication is
incomprehensible to woman, for it removes from her the
possibility of expressing man's true nature in one form. If it were
possible for woman to exist in such a reduplication, no erotic
relation with her were thinkable. But, her nature being such as we
all know it to be, any disturbance of the erotic relation is brought
about by man's true nature which ever consists precisely in the
annihilation of that in which she has her being.

Am I then preaching the monastic life and rightly called
Eremita? By no means. You may as well eliminate the cloister, for
after all it is only a direct expression of spirit uality and as such but
a vain endeavor to express it in direct terms. It makes small
difference whether you use gold, or silver, or paper money; but he
who does not spend a farthing but is counterfeit, he will
comprehend me. He to whom every direct expression is but a
fraud, he and he only, is safeguarded better than if he lived in a
cloistercell he will be a hermit even if he travelled in an omnibus
and night.

Scarcely had Victor finished when the Dressmaker jumped to
his feet and threw over a bottle of wine standing before him; then
he spoke as follows:

(The Dressmaker's Speech)

Well spoken, dear fellow-banqueters, well spoken! The longer I
hear you speak the more I grow convinced that you are
fellowconspirators I greet you as such, I understand you as such;
for fellowconspirators one can make out from afar. And yet, what
know you? What does your bit of theory to which you wish to give
the appearance of experience, your bit of experience which you
make over into a theory what does it amount to? For every now
and then you believe her a moment and are caught in a moment!
No, I know woman from her weak side, that is to say, I know her. I
shrink from no means to make sure about what I have learned; for
I am a madman, and a madman one must be to understand her, and
if one has not been one before, one will become a madman, once
one understands her. The robber has his hiding place by the noisy
highroad, and the antlion his funnel in the loose sand, and the
pirate his haunts by the roaring sea: likewise have I may
fashionshop in the very midst of the teeming streets, seductive,
irresistible to woman as is the Venusberg to men. There, in a
fashionshop, one learns to know woman, in a practical way and
without any theoretical ado.

Now, if fashion meant nothing than that woman in the heat of her
desire threw off all her clothing why, then it would stand for
something. But this is not the ease, fashion is not plain sensuality,
not tolerated debauchery, but an illicit trade in indecency
authorized as proper. And, just as in heathen Prussia the
marriageable girl wore a bell whose ringing served as a signal to
the men, likewise is a woman's existence in fashion a continual
bellringing, not for debauchees but for lickerish voluptuaries.
People hold Fortune to be a woman ah, yes it is, to be sure, fickle;
still, it is fickle in something, as it may also give much; and insofar
it is not a woman. No; but fashion is a woman, for fashion is
fickleness in nonsense, and is consistent only in its becoming ever
more crazy.

One hour in my shop is worth more than days and years without, if
it really be one's desire to learn to know woman; in my shop, for it
is the only one in the capital, there is no thought of competition.
Who, forsooth, would dare to enter into competition with one who
has entirely devoted himself, and is still devoting himself, as
highpriest in this idol worship? No, there is not a distinguished
assemblage which does not mention my name first and last; and
there is not a Middleclass gathering where my name, whenever
mentioned, does not inspire sacred awe, like that of the king; and
there is no dress so idiotic but is accompanied by whisters of
admiration when its owner proceeds down the hall provided it
bears my name; and there is not the lady of gentle birth who dares
pass my shop by, nor the girl of humble origin but passes it sighing
and thinking: if only I could afford it! Well, neither was she
deceived. I deceive no one; I furnish the finest goods and the most
costly, and at the lowest price, indeed, I sell below cost. The fact
is, I do not wish to make a profit. On the contrary, every year I
sacrifice large sums. And yet do I mean to win, I mean to, I shall
spend my last farthing in order to corrupt, in order to bribe, the
tools of fashion so that I may win the game. To me it is a delight
beyond compare to unroll the most precious stuffs, to cut them out,
to clip pieces from genuine Brusselslace, in order to make a fool's
costume I sell to the lowest prices, genuine goods and in style.

You believe, perhaps, that woman wants to be dressed fashionably
only at certain times? No such thing, she wants to be so all the
time and that is her only thought. For a woman does have a mind,
only it is employed about as well as is the Prodigal Son's
substance; and woman does possess the power of reflection in an
incredibly high degree, for there is nothing so holy but she will in
no time discover it to be reconcilable with her finery and the
chiefest expression of finery is fashion. What wonder if she does
discover it to be reconcilable; for is not fashion holy to her? And
there is nothing so insignificant but she certainly will know how to
make it count in her finery and the most fatuous expression of
finery is fashion. And there is nothing, nothing in all her attire, not
the least ribbon, of whose relation to fashion she has not a definite
conception and concerning which she is not immediately aware
whether the lady who just passed by noticed it; because, for whose
benefit does she dress, if not for other ladies!

Even in my shop where she comes to be fitted out … la mode, even
there she is in fashion. Just as there is a special bathing costume
and a special riding habit, likewise there is a particular kind of
dress which it is the fashion to wear to the dressmaker's shop. That
costume is not insouciant in the same sense as is the neglig‚e a
lady is pleased to be surprised in, earlier in the forenoon, where the
point is her belonging to the fair sex and the coquetry lies in her
letting herself be surprised. The dressmaker costume, on the other
hand, is calculated to be nonchalant and a bit careless without her
being embarrassed thereby; because a dressmaker stands in a
different relation to her from a cavalier. The coquetry here consists
in thus showing herself to a man who, by reason of his station,
does not presume to ask for the lady's womanly recognition, but
must be content with the perquisites which fall abundantly to his
share, without her ever thinking of it; or without it even so much
as entering her mind to play the lady before a dressmaker. The
point is, therefore, that her being of the opposite sex is, in a certain
sense, left out of consideration, and her coquetry invalidated, by
the superciliousness of the noble lady who would smile if any one
alluded to any relation existing between her and her dressmaker.
When visited in her neglig‚e she conceals herself, thus displaying
her charms by this very concealment. In my shop she exposes her
charms with the utmost nonchalance, for he is only a dressmaker
and she is a woman. Now, her shawl slips down and bares some
part of her body, and if I did not know what that means, and what
she expects, my reputation would be gone to the winds. Now, she
draws herself up, a priori fashion, now she gesticulates a
posteriori; now, she sways to and fro in her hips; now, she looks at
herself in the mirror and sees my admiring phiz behind her in the
glass; now, she minces her words; now, she trips along with short
steps; now, she hovers; now, she draws her foot after her in a
slovenly fashion; now, she lets herself sink softly into an armchair,
whilst I with humble demeanor offer her a flask of smelling salts
and with my adoration assuage her agitation; now, she strikes after
me playfully; now, she drops her handkerchief and, without as
much as a single motion, lets her relaxed arm remain in its pendent
position, whilst I bend down low to pick it up and return it to her,
receiving a little patronizing nod as a reward. These are the ways
of a lady of fashion when in my shop. Whether Diogenes44 made
any impression on the Woman who was praying in a somewhat
unbecoming posture, when he asked her whether she did not
believe the gods could see her from behind that I do not know; but
this I do know, that if I should say to her ladyship kneeling down
in church: "The folds of your gown do not fall according to
fashion," she would be more alarmed than if she had given offense
to the gods. Woe to the outcast, the male Cinderella, who has not
comprehended this! Pro dii immortales45 what, pray, is a woman
who is not in fashion; per deos obsecro,46 and what when she is in
fashion!

Whether all this is true? Well, make trial of it: let the swain,
when his beloved one sinks rapturously on his breast, whispering
unintelligibly: "thine forever," and hides her head on his bosom let
him but say to her: "My sweet Kitty, your coiffure is not at all in
fashion." Possibly, men don't give thought to this; but he who
knows it, and has the reputation of knowing it, he is the most
dangerous man in the kingdom. What blissful hours the lover
passes with his sweetheart before marriage I do not know; but of
the blissful hours she spends in my shop he hasn't the slightest
inkling, either. Without my special license and sanction a marriage
is null and void, anyway or else an entirely plebeian affair. Let it
be the very moment when they are to meet before the altar, let her
step forward with the very best conscience in the world that
everything was bought in my shop and tried on there and now, if I
were to rush up And exclaim: "But mercy! gracious lady, your
myrtle wreath is all awry" why, the whole ceremony might be
postponed, for aught I know. But men do not suspect these things,
one must be a dressmaker to know. So immense is the power of
reflection needed to fathom a woman's thought that only a man
who dedicates himself wholly to the task will succeed, and even
then only if gifted to start with. Happy therefore the man who does
not associate with any woman, for she is not his, anyway, even if,
she be no other man's; for she is possessed by that phantorn born of
the unnatural intercourse of woman's reflection with itself, fashion.
Do you see, for this reason should woman always swear by fashion
then were there some force in her oath; for after all, fashion is the
thing she is always thinking of, the only thing she can think
together with, and into, everything. For instance, the glad message
has gone forth from my shop to all fashionable ladies that fashion
decrees the use of a particular kind of headdress to be worn in
church, and that this headdress, again, must be somewhat different
for High Mass and for the afternoon service. Now when the bells
are ringing the carriage stops in front of my door. Her ladyship
descends (for also this has been decreed, that no one can adjust
that headdress save I, the fashiondealer), I rush out, making low
bows, and lead her into my cabinet. And whilst she languishingly
reposes I put everything in order. Now she is ready and has looked
at herself in the mirror; quick as any messenger of the gods I
hasten in advance, open the door of my cabinet with a bow, then
hasten to the door of my shop and lay my arm on my breast, like
some oriental slave; but encouraged by a gracious courtesy, I even
dare to throw her an adoring and admiring kiss now she is seated
in her carriage oh dear! she left her hymn book behind. I hasten out
again and hand it to her through the carriage window, I permit
myself once more to remind her to hold her head a trifle more to
the right, and herself to arrange things, should her headdress
become a bit disordered when descending. She drives away and is
edified.

You believe, perhaps, that it is only great ladies who worship
fashion, but far from it! Look at my sempstresses for whose dress I
spare no expense, so that the dogmas of fashion may be
proclaimed most emphatically from my shop. They form a chorus
of halfwitted creatures, and I myself lead them on as highpriest, as
a shining example, squandering all, solely in order to make all
womankind ridiculous. For when a seducer makes the boast that
every woman's virtue has its price, I do not believe him; but I do
believe that every woman at an early time will be crazed by the
maddening and defiling introspection taught her by fashion, which
will corrupt her more thoroughly than being seduced. have made
trial more than once. If not able to corrupt her myself I set on her a
few of fashion's slaves of her own nation; for just as one may train
rats to bite rats, likewise is the crazed woman's sting like that of
the tarantula. And most especially dangerous is it when some man
lends his help.

Whether I serve the Devil or God I do not know; but I am right,
I shall be right, I will be, so long as I possess a single farthing, I
will be until the blood spurts out of my fngers. The physiologist
pictures the shape of woman to show the dreadful effects of
wearing a corset, and beside it he draws a picture of her normal
figure. That is all entely correct, but only one of the drawings has
the validity of truth: they all wear corsets. Describe, therefore, the
miserable, stunted perversity of the fashionmad woman, Describe
the insidious introspection devouring her, and then describe the
womanly modesty which least of all knows about itself do so and
you have judged woman, have in very truth passed terrible
sentence on her. If ever I discover such a girl who is contented and
demure and not yet corrupted by indecent intercourse with women
she shall fall nevertheless. I shall catch her in my toils, already she
stands at the sacrificial altar, that is to say, in my shop. With the
most scornful glance a haughty monchalance can assume I
measure her appearance, she perishes with fright; a peal of
laughter from the adjoining room where sit my trained
accomplices annihilates her. And afterwards, when I have gotten
her rigged up … la mode and she looks crazier than a lunatic, as
crazy as one who would not be accepted even in a lunatic asylum,
then she leaves me in a state of bliss no man, not even a god, were
able to inspire fear in her; for is she not dressed in fashion?

Do you comprehend me now, do you comprehend why I call you
fellowconspirators, even though in a distant way? Do you now
comprehend my conception of woman? Everything in life is a
matter of fashion, the fear of God is a matter of fashion, and so are
love, and crinolines, and a ring through the nose. To the utmost of
my ability will I therefore come to the support of the exalted
genius who wishes to laugh at the most ridiculous of all animals. If
woman has reduced everything to a matter of fashion, then will I,
with the help of fashion, prostitute her, as she deserves to be; I
have no peace, I the dressmaker, my soul rages when I think of my
task she will yet be made to wear a ring through her nose. Seek
therefore no sweetheart, abandon love as you would the most
dangerous neighborhood; for the one whom you love would also
be made to go with a ring through her nose.

Thereupon John, called the Seducer, spoke as follows:

(The Speech of John the Seducer)

My dear boon companions, is Satan plaguing you? For, indeed, you
speak like so many hired mourners, your eyes are red with tears
and not with wine. You almost move me to tears also, for an
unhappy lover does have a miserable time of it in lif e. Hinc illae
lacrimae.47 I, however, am a happy lover, and my only wish is to
remain so. Very possibly, that is one of the concessions to woman
which Victor is so afraid of. Why not? Let it be a concession!
Loosening the lead foil of this bottle of champagne also is a
concession; letting its foaming contents flow into my glass also is
a concession; and so is raising it to my lips now I drain it
concedo.48 Now, however, it is empty, hence I need no more
concessions. Just the same with girls. If some unhappy lover has
bought his kiss too dearly, this proves to me only that he does not
know, either how to take what is coming to him or how to do it. I
never pay too much for this sort of thing that is a matter for the
girls to decide. What this signifies? To me it signifies the most
beautiful, the most delicious, and wellnigh the most persuasive,
argumentum ad hominem; but since every woman, at least once in
her life, possesses this argumentative freshness I do not see any
reason why I should not let myself be persuaded. Our young friend
wishes to make this experience in his thought. Why not buy a
cream puff and be content with looking at it? I mean to enjoy. No
mere talk for me! Just as an old song has it about a kiss: es ist
kaum zu sehn, es ist nur filr Lippen, die genau sich verstehn49
understand each other so exactly that any reflection about the
matter is but an impertinence and a folly. He who is twenty and
does not grasp the existence of the categorical imperative "enjoy
thyself" he is a fool; and he who does not seize the opportunity is
and remains a Christianfelder.50

However, you all are unhappy lovers, and that is why you are not
satisfied with woman as she is. The gods forbid! As she is she
pleases me, just as she is. Even Constantin's category of "the joke"
seems to contain a secret desire. I, on the other hand, I am gallant.
And why not? Gallantry costs nothing and gives one all and is the
condition for all, erotic pleasure. Gallantry is the Masonic
language of the senses and of voluptuousness, between man and
woman. It is a natural language, as love's language in general is. It
consists not of sounds but of desires disguised and of ever
changing wishes. That an unhappy lover may be ungallant enough
to wish to convert his deficit into a draught payable in immortality
that I understand well enough. That is to say, I for my part do not
understand it; for to me a woman has sufficient intrinsic value. I
assure every woman of this, it is the truth; and at the same time it
is certain that I am the only one who is not deceived by this truth.
As to whether a despoiled woman is worth less than man about
that I find no information in my price list. I do not pick flowers
already broken, I leave them to the married men to use for
Shrovetide decoration. Whether e. g. Edward, wishes to consider
the matter again, and again fall in love with Cordelia,51 or simply
repeat the affair in his reflection that is his own business. Why
should I concern myself with other peoples' affairs! I explained to
her at an earlier time what I thought of her; and, in truth, she
convinced me, convinced me to my absolute satisfaction, that my
gallantry was well applied.

Concedo. Concessi.52 If I should meet with another Cordelia, why
then I shall enact a comedy "Ring number 2."53 But you are
unhappy lovers and have conspired together, and are worse
deceived than the girls, notwithstanding that you are richly
endowed by nature. But decision the decision of desire, is the most
essential thing in life. Our young friend will always remain an
onlooker. Victor is an unpractical enthusiast. Constantin has
acquired his good sense at too great a cost; and the fashion dealer
is a madman. Stuff and nonsense! With all four of you busy about
one girl, nothing would come of it.

Let one have enthusiasm enough to idealize, taste enough to join in
the clinking of glasses at the festive board of enjoyment, sense
enough to break off to break off absolutely, as does Death,
madness enough to wish to enjoy all over again if you have all that
you will be the favorite of gods and girls.

But of what avail to speak here? I do not intend to make
proselytes. Neither is this the place for that. To be sure I love wine,
to be sure I love the abundance of a banquet all that is good; but let
a girl be my company, and then I shall be eloquent. Let then
Constantin have my thanks for the banquet, and the wine, and the
excellent appointments the speeches, however, were but
indifferent. But in order that things shall have a better ending I
shall pronounce a eulogy on woman.

Just as he who is to speak in praise of the divinity must be
inspired by the divinity to speak worthily, and must therefore be
taught by the divinity as to what he shall say, Likewise he who
would speak of women. For woman, even less than the divinity, is
a mere figment of man's brain, a daydream, or a notion that occurs
to one and which one pay argue about pro et contra. Nay, one
learns from woman alone what to say of her. And the more
teachers one has had, the better. The first time one is a disciple,
the next time one is already over the chief difficulties, just as one
learns in formal and learned disputations how to use the last
opponent's compliments against a new opponent. Nevertheless
nothing is lost. For as little as a kiss is a mere sample of good
things, and as little as an embrace is an exertion, just as little is
this experience exhaustive. In fact it is essentially different from
the mathematical proof of a theorem, which remains ever the
same, even though other letters be substituted. This method is one
befitting mathematics and ghosts, but not love and women,
because each is a new proof, corroborating the truth of the theorem
in a different manner. It is my joy that, far from being less perfect
than man, the female sex is, on the contrary, the more perfect. I
shall, however, clothe my speech in a myth; and I shall exult, on
woman's account whom you have so unjustly maligned, if my
speech pronounce judgment on your souls, if the enjoyment of her
beckon you only to flee you, as did the fruits from Tantalus;
because you have fled, and thereby insulted, woman. Only thus,
forsooth, may she be insulted, even though she scorn it, and though
punishment instantly falls on him who had the audacity. I,
however, insult no one. That is but the notion of married men, and
a slander; whereas, in reality, I respect her more highly than does
the man she is married to.

Originally there was but one sex, so the Greeks relate, and that
was man's. Splendidly endowed he was, so he did honor to the
gods so splendidly endowed that the same happened to them as
sometimes happens to a poet who has expended all his energy on a
poetic invention: they grew jealous of man. Ay, what is worse, they
feared that he would not willingly bow under their yoke; they
feared, though with small reason, that he might cause their very
heaven to totter. Thus they had raised up a power they scarcely
held themselves able to curb. Then there was anxiety and alarm in
the council of the gods. Much had they lavished in their generosity
on the creation of man; but all must be risked now, for reason of
bitter necessity; for all was at stake so the gods believed and
recalled he could not be, as a poet may recall his invention. And by
force he could not be subdued, or else the gods themselves could
have done so; but precisely of that they despaired. He would have
to be caught and subdued, then, by a power weaker than his own
and yet stronger one strong enough to compel him. What a
marvellous power this would have to be! However, necessity
teaches even the gods to surpass themselves in inventiveness. They
sought and they found. That power was woman, the marvel of
creation, even in the eyes of the gods a greater marvel than man a
discovery which the gods in their n„ivet‚ could not help but
applaud themselves for. What more can be said in her praise than
that she was able to accomplish what even the gods did not believe
themselves able to do; and what more can be said in her praise
than that she did accomplish it! But how marvellous a creation
must be hers to have accomplished it.

It was a ruse of the gods. Cunningly the enchantress was
fashioned, for no sooner had she bewitched man than she changed
and caught him in all the circumstantialities of existence. It was
that the gods had desired. But what, pray, can be more delicious,
or more entrancing and bewitching, than what the gods themselves
contrived, when battling for their supremacy, as the only means of
luring man? And most assuredly it is so, for woman is the only,
and the most seductive, power in heaven and on earth. When
compared with her in this sense man will indeed be found to be
exceedingly imperfect.

And the stratagem of the gods was crowned with success; but not
always. There have existed at all times some men a few who have
detected the deception. They perceive well enough woman's
loveliness more keenly, indeed than the others but they also
suspect the real state of affairs. I call them erotic natures and count
myself among them. Men call them seducers, woman has no name
for them such persons are to her unnameable. These erotic natures
are the truly fortunate ones. They live more luxuriously than do the
very gods, for they regale themselves with food more delectable
than ambrosia, and they drink what is more delicious than nectar;
they eat the most seductive invention of the gods' most ingenious
thought, they are ever eating dainties set for a bait ah,
incomparable delight, ah, blissful fare they are ever eating but the
dainties set for a bait; and they are never caught. All other men
greedily seize and devour it, like bumpkins eating their cabbage,
and are caught. Only the erotic nature fully appreciates the dainties
set out for bait he prizes them infinitely. Woman divines this, and
for that reason there is a secret understanding between him and
her. But he knows also that she is a bait, and that secret he keeps to
himself.

That nothing more marvellous, nothing more delicious,
nothing more seductive, than woman can be devised, for that
vouch the gods and their pressing need which hightened their
powers of invention; for that vouches also the fact that they risked
all, and in shaping her moved heaven and earth.

I now forsake the myth. The conception "man" corresponds to
his "idea." I can therefore, if necessary, think of an individual man
as existing. The idea of woman, on the other hand, is so general
that no one single woman is able to express it completely. She is
not contemporaneous with man (and hence of less noble origin),
but a later creation, though more perfect than he. Whether now the
gods took some part from him whilst he slept, from fear of waking
him by taking too much; or whether they bisected him and made
woman out of the one half at any rate it was man who was
partitioned. Hence she is the equal of man only after this partition.
She is a delusion and a snare, but is so only afterwards, and for
him who is deluded. She is finiteness incarnate; but in her first
stage she is finiteness raised to the highest degree in the deceptive
infinitude of all divine and human illusions. Now, the deception
does not exist one instant longer, and one is deceived.

She is finiteness, and as such she is a collective: one woman
represents all women. Only the erotic nature comprehends this and
therefore knows how to love many without ever being deceived,
sipping the while all the delights the cunning gods were able to
prepare. For this reason, as I said, woman cannot be fully
expressed by one formula, but is, rather, an infinitude of finalities.
He who wishes to think her "idea" will have the same experience
as he who gazes on a sea of nebulous shapes which ever form
anew, or as he who is dazed by looking over the waves whose
foamy crests ever mock one's vision; for her "idea" is but the
workshop of possibilities. And to the erotic nature these
possibilities are the everlasting reason for his worship.

So the gods created her delicate and ethereal as if out of the
mists of the summer night, yet goodly like ripe fruit; light like a
bird, though the repository of what attracts all the world light
because the play of the forces is harmoniously balanced in the
invisible center of a negative relation;54 slender in growth, with
definite lines, yet her body sinuous with beautiful curves; perfect,
yet ever appearing as if completed but now; cool, delicious, and
refreshing like new-fallen snow, yet blushing in coy transparency;
happy like some pleasantry which makes one forget all one's
sorrow; soothing as being the end of desire, and satisfying in
herself being the stimulus of desire. And the gods had calculated
that man, when first beholding her, would be amazed, as one who
sees himself, though familiar with that sight would stand in amaze
as one who sees himself in the splendor of perfection would stand
in amaze as one who beholds what he did never dream he would,
yet beholds what, it would seem, ought to have occurred to him
before sees what is essential to life and yet gazes on it as being the
very mystery of existence. It is precisely this contradiction in his
admiration which nurses desire to life, while this same admiration
urges him ever nearer, so that he cannot desist from gazing, cannot
desist from believing himself familiar with the sight, without
really daring to approach, even though he cannot desist from
desiring.

When the gods had thus planned her form they were seized with
fear lest they might not have the wherewithal to give it existence;
but what they feared even more was herself. For they dared not let
her know how beautiful she was, apprehensive of having some one
in the secret who might spoil their ruse. Then was the crowning
touch given to their wondrous creation: they made her faultless;
but they concealed all this from her in the nescience of her
innocence, and concealed it doubly from her in the impenetrable
mystery of her modesty. Now she was perfect, and victory certain.
Inviting she had been before, but now doubly so through her
shyness, and beseeching through her shrinking, and irresistible
through herself offering resistance. The gods were jubilant. And no
allurement has ever been devised in the world so great as is
woman, and no allurement is as compelling as is innocence, and
no temptation is as ensnaring as is modesty, and no deception is as
matchless as is woman. She knows of nothing, still her modesty is
instinctive divination. She is distinct from man, and the separating
wall of modesty parting them is more decisive than Aladdin's
sword separating him from Gulnare;55 and yet, when like Pyramis
he puts his head to this dividing wall of modesty, the erotic nature
will perceive all pleasures of desire divined within as from afar.

Thus does woman tempt. Men are wont to set forth the most
precious things they possess as a delectation for the gods, nothing
less will do. Thus is woman a showbread. the gods knew of naught
comparable to her. She exists, she is present, she is with us, close
by; and yet she is removed from us to an infinite distance when
concealed in her modestyuntil she herself betrays her hiding place,
she knows not how: it is not she herself, it is life which informs on
her. Roguish she is like a child who in playing peeps forth from his
hiding place, yet her roguishness is inexplicable, for she does not
know of it herself, she is ever mysteriousmysterious when she
casts down her eyes, mysterious when she sends forth the
messengers of her glance which no thought, let alone any word, is
able to follow. And yet is the eye the "interpreter" of the soul!
What, then, is the explanation of this mystery if the interpreter too
is unintelligible? Calm she is like the hushed stillness of eventide,
when not a leaf stirs; calm like a consciousness as yet unaware of
aught. Her heartbeats are as regular as if life were not present; and
yet the erotic nature, listening with his stethoscopically practiced
ear, detects the dithyrambic pulsing of desire sounding along
unbeknown. Careless she is like the blowing of the wind, content
like the profound ocean, and yet full of longing like a thing biding
its explanation. My friends! My mind is softened, indescribably
softened. I comprehend that also my life expresses an idea, even if
you do not comprehend me. I too have discovered the secret of
existence; I too serve a divine idea and, assuredly, I do not serve it
for nothing. If woman is a ruse of the gods, this means that she is
to be seduced; and if woman is not an "idea," the true inference is
that the erotic nature wishes to love as many of them as possible.

What luxury it is to relish the ruse without being duped, only the
erotic nature comprehends. And how blissful it is to be seduced,
woman alone knows. I know that from woman, even though I
never yet allowed any one of them time to explain it to me, but
reasserted my independence, serving the idea by a break as sudden
as that caused by death; for a bride and a break are to one another
like female and male.56 Only woman is aware of this, and she is
aware of it together with her seducer. No married man will ever
grasp this. Nor does she ever speak with him about it. She resigns
herself to her fate, she knows that it must be so and that she can be
seduced only once. For this reason she never really bears malice
against the man who seduced her. That is to say, if he really did
seduce her and thus expressed the idea. Broken marriage vows and
that kind of thing is, of course, nonsense and no seduction. Indeed,
it is by no means so great a misfortune for a woman to be seduced.
In fact, it is a piece of good fortune for her. An excellently seduced
girl may make an excellent wife. If I myself were not fit to be a
seducer however deeply I feel my inferior qualifications in this
respect if I chose to be a married man, I should always choose a
girl already seduced, so that I would not have to begin my
marriage by seducing my wife. Marriage, to be sure, also expresses
an idea; but in relation to the idea of marriage that quality is
altogether immaterial which is the absolutely essential condition
for my idea. Therefore, a marriage ought never to be planned to
begin as though it were the beginning of a story of seduction. So
much is sure: there is a seducer for every woman. Happy is she
whose good fortune it is to meet just him.

Through marriage, on the other hand, the gods win their victory. In
it the once seduced maiden walks through life by the side of her
husband, looking back at times, full of longing, resigned to her
fate, until she reaches the goal of life. She dies; but not in the same
sense as man dies. She is volatilized and resolved into that
mysterious primal element of which the gods formed her she
disappears like a dream, like an impermanent shape whose hour is
past. For what is woman but a dream, and the highest reality
withal! Thus does the erotic nature comprehend her, leading her,
and being led by her in the moment of seduction, beyond time
where she has her true existence, being an illusion. Through her
husband, on the other hand, she becomes a creature of this world,
and he through her.

Marvellous nature! If I did not admire thee, a woman would teach
me; for truly she is the venerabile of life. Splendidly didst thou
fashion her, but more splendidly still in that thou never didst
fashion one woman like another. In man, the essential is the
essential, and insofar always alike; but in woman the adventitious
is the essential, and is thus an inexhaustible source of differences.
Brief is her splendor; but quickly the pain is forgotten, too, when
the same splendor is proffered me anew. It is true, I too am aware
of the unbeautiful which may appear in her thereafter; but she is
not thus with her seducer.

They rose from the table. It needed but a hint from Constantin, for
the participants understood each other with military precision
whenever there was a question of face or turn about. With his
invisible baton of command, elastic like a divining rod in his hand,
Constantin once more touched them in order to call forth in them a
fleeting reminiscence of the banquet and the spirit of enjoyment
which had prevailed before but was now, in some measure,
submerged through the intellectual effort of the speeches in order
that the note of glad festivity which had disappeared might, by way
of resonance, return once more among the guests in a brief
moment of recollection. He saluted with his full glass as a signal
of parting, emptying it, and then flinging it against the door in the
rear wall. The others followed his example, consummating this
symbolic action with all the solemnity of adepts. Justice was thus
done the pleasure of stopping short that royal pleasure which,
though briefer, yet is more liberating than any other pleasure. With
a libation this pleasure ought to be entered upon, with the libation
of flinging one's glass into destruction and oblivion, and tearing
one's self passionately away from every memory, as if it were a
danger to one's life: this libation is to the gods of the nether world.
One breaks off, and strength is needed to do that, greater strength
than to sever a knot by a swordblow; for the difficulty of the knot
tends to arouse one's passion, but the passion required for breaking
off must be of one's own making. In a superficial sense the result
is, of course, the same; but from an artistic int of view there is a
world of difference between something ceasing or simply coming
to an end, and it being broken off by one's own free will whether it
is a mere occurrence or a passionate decision; whether it is all
over, like a school song, because there is no more to it, or whether
it is terminated by the C‘sarian operation of one's own Pleasure;
whether it is a triviality every one has experienced, or the secret
which escapes most.

Constantin's flinging his beaker against the door was intended
merely as a symbolic rite; nevertheless, his so doing was, in a way,
a decisive act; for when the last glass was shattered the door
opened, and just as he who presumpuously knocked at Death's
door and, on its opening, beheld the powers of annihilation, so the
banqueters beheld the corps of destruction ready to demolish
everything a memento which in an instant put them to flight from
that place, while at the very same moment the entire surroundings
had been reduced to the semblance of ruin.

A carriage stood ready at the door. At Constantin's invitation they
seated themselves in it and drove away in good spirits; for that
tableau of destruction which they left behind had given their souls
fresh elasticity. After having covered a distance of several miles a
halt was made. Here Constantin took his leave as host, informing
them that five carriages were at their disposal each one was free to
suit his own pleasure and drive wherever he wanted, whether alone
or in company with whomsoever he pleased. Thus a rocket,
propelled by the force of the powder, ascends at a single shot,
remains collected for an instant, in order then to spread out to all
the winds.

While the horses were being hitched to the carriages the nocturnal
banqueters strolled a little way down the road. The fresh air of the
morning purified their hot blood with its coolness, and they gave
themselves up to it entirely. Their forms, and the groups in which
they ranged themselves, made a phantastic impression on me. For
when the morning sun shines on field and meadow, and on every
creature which in the night found rest and strength to rise up
jubilating with the sun in this there is only a pleasing, mutual
understanding; but a nightly company, viewed by the morning light
and in smiling surroundings, makes a downright uncanny
impression. It makes one think of spooks which have been
surprised by daylight, of subterranean spirits which are unable to
regain the crevice through which they may vanish, because it is
visible only in the dark; of unhappy creatures in whom the
difference between day and night has become obliterated through
the monotony of their sufferings.

A foot path led them through a small patch of field toward a
garden surrounded by a hedge, from behind whose concealment a
modest summercottage peeped forth. At the end of the garden,
toward the field, there was an arbor formed by trees. Becoming
aware of people being in the arbor, they all grew curious, and with
the spying glances of men bent on observation, the besiegers
closed in about that pleasant place of concealment, hiding
themselves, and as eager as emissaries of the police about to take
some one by surprise. Like emissaries of the police well, to be
sure, their appearance made the misunderstanding possible that it
was they whom the minions of the law might be looking for. Each
one had occupied a point of vantage for peeping in, when Victor
drew back a step and said to his neighbor, "Why, dear me, if that is
not Judge William and his wife!"

They were surprised not the two whom the foliage concealed and
who were all too deeply concerned with their domestic enjoyment
to be observers. They felt themselves too secure to believe
themselves an object of any one's observation excepting the
morning sun's which took pleasure in looking in to them, whilst a
gentle zephyr moved the boughs above them, and the
reposefulness of the countryside, as well as all things around them
girded the little arbor about with peace. The happy married couple
was not surprised and noticed nothing. That they were a married
couple was clear enough; one could perceive that at a glance alas!
if one is something of an observer one's self. Even if nothing in the
wide world, nothing, whether overtly or covertly, if nothing, I say,
threatens to interfere with the happiness of lovers, yet they are not
thus secure when sitting together. They are in a state of bliss; and
yet it is as if there were some power bent on separating them, so
firmly they clasp one another; and yet it is as if there were some
enemy present against whom they must defend themselves; ,and
yet it is as if they could never become, sufficiently reassured. Not
thus married people, and not thus that married couple in the arbor.
How long they had been married, however, that was not to be
determined with certainty. To be sure, the wife's activity at the
teatable revealed a sureness of hand born of practice, but at the
same time such almost childlike interest in her occupation as if she
were a newly married woman and in that middle condition when
she is not, as yet, sure whether marriage is fun or earnest, whether
being a housewife is a calling, or a game, or a pastime. Perhaps
she had been married for some longer time but did not generally
preside at the teatable, or perhaps did so only out here in the
country, or did it perhaps only that morning which, possibly, had a
special significance for them. Who could tell? All calculation is
frustrated to a certain degree by the fact that every personality
exhibits some originality which keeps time from leaving its marks.
When the sun shines in all his summer glory one thinks
straightway that there must be some festal occasion at hand that it
cannot be so for everyday use, or that it is the first time, or at least
one of the first times; for surely, one thinks, it cannot be repeated
for any length of time. Thus would think he who saw it but once,
or saw it for the first time; and I saw the wife of the justice for the
first time. He who sees the object in question every day may think
differently; provided he sees the same thing. But let the judge
decide about that!

As I remarked, our amiable housewife was occupied. She
poured boiling water into the cups, probably to warm them,
emptied them again, set a cup on a platter, poured the tea and
served it with sugar and cream now all was ready; was it fun or
earnest? In case a person did not relish tea at other times he should
have sat in the judge's place; for just then that drink seemed most
inviting to me. only the inviting air of the lovely woman herself
seemeo to me more inviting.

It appeared that she had not had time to speak until then. Now
she broke the silence and said, while serving him his tea: "Quick,
now, dear, and drink while it is hot, the morning air is quite cool,
anyway; and surely the least I can do for you is to be a little careful
of you." "The least?" the judge answered laconically. "Yes, or the
most, or the only thing." The judge looked at her inquiringly, and
whilst he was helping himself she continued: "You interrupted me
yesterday when I wished to broach the subject, but I have thought
about it again; many times I have thought about it, and now
particularly, you know yourself in reference to whom: it is
certainly true that if you hadn't married, you would have been far
more successful in your career." With his cup still on the platter
the judge sipped a first mouthful with visible enjoyment,
thoroughly refreshed; or was it perchance the joy over his lovely
wife; I for my part believe it was the latter. She, however, seemed
only to be glad that it tasted so good to him. Then he put down his
cup on the table at his side, took out a cigar, and said: "May I light
it at your chafingdish"? "Certainly," she said, and handed him a
live coal on a teaspoon. He lit his cigar and put his arm about her
waist whilst she leaned against his shoulder. He turned his head
the other way to blow out the smoke and then he let his eyes rest
on her with a devotion such as only a glance can reveal; yet he
smiled, but this glad smile had in it a dash of sad irony. Finally he
said: "Do you really believe so, my girl?" "What do you mean?"
she answered. He was silent again, his smile gained the upper
hand, but his voice remained quite serious, nevertheless. "Then I
pardon you your previous folly, seeing that you yourself have
forgotten it so quickly; thou speakest as one of the foolish women
speaketh57 what great career should I have had?" His wife seemed
embarrassed for a moment by this return, but collected her wits
quickly and, now explained her meaning with womanly eloquence.
The judge looked down before him, without interrupting her; but
as she continued he began to drum on the table with the fingers of
his right hand, at the same time humming a tune. The words of the
song were audible for a moment, just as the pattern of a texture
now becomes visible, now disappears again; and then again they
were heard no longer as he hummed the tune of the song: "The
goodman he went to the forest, to cut the wands so white." After
this melodramatic performance, consisting in the justice's wife
explaining herself whilst he hummed his tune, the dialogue set in
again. "I am thinking," he remarked, "I am thinking you are
ignorant of the fact that the Danish Law permits a man to castigate
his wife58 a pity only that the law does not indicate on which
occasions it is permitted." His wife smiled at his threat and
continued: "Now why can I never get you to be serious when I
touch on this matter? You do not understand me: believe me, I
mean it sincerely, it seems to me a very beautiful thought. Of
course, if you weren't my husband I would not dare to entertain it;
but now I have done so, for your sake and for my sake; and now be
nice and serious, for my sake, and answer me frankly." "No, you
can't get me to be serious, and a serious answer you won't get; I
must either laugh at you, or make you forget it, as before, or beat
you; or else you must stop talking, about it, or I shall have to make
you keep silent about it some other way. You see, it is a joke, and
that is why there are so many ways out." He arose, pressed a kiss
on her brow, laid her arm in his, and then disappeared in a leafy
walk which led from the arbor.

The arbor was empty; there was nothing else to do, so the hostile
corps of occupation withdrew without making any gains. Still, the
others were content with uttering some malicious remarks. The
company returned but missed Victor. He had rounded the corner
and, in walking along the garden, had come up to the country
home. The doors of a gardenroom facing the lawn were open, and
likewise a window. Very probably he had seen something which
attracted his attention. He leapt into the window, and leapt out
again just as the party were approaching, for they had been looking
for him. Triumphantly he held up some papers in his hand and
exclaimed: "One of the judge's manuscripts!59 Seeing that I edited
his other works it is no more than my duty that I should edit this
one too." He put it into his pocket; or, rather, he was about to do
so; for as he was bending his arm and already had his hand with
the manuscript halfway down in his pocket I managed to steal it
from him.

But who, then, am I? Let no one ask! If it hasn't occurred to
you before to ask about it I am over the difficulty for now the
worst is behind me. For that matter, I am not worth asking about,
for I am the least of all things, people would put me in utter
confusion by asking about me. I am pure existence, and therefore
smaller, almost, than nothing. I am "pure existence" which is
present everywhere but still is never noticed; for I am ever
vanishing. I am like the line above which stands the summa
summarum who cares about the line? By my own strength I can
accomplish nothing, for even the idea to steal the manuscript from
Victor was not my own idea; for this very idea which, as a thief
would say, induced me to "borrow" the manuscript, was borrowed
from him. And now, when editing, this manuscript, I am, again,
nothing at all; for it rightly belongs to the judge. And as editor, I
am in my nothingness only a kind of nemesis on Victor, who
imagined that he had the prescriptive right to do so.

1 Cf. Luke XIV, 19-20.

2 Words used in the banns.

3 Which in Latin means both "from the temple" and "at once."

4 The omission of the negative particle in the original is no doubt
unintentional.

5 Pious wish.

6 2 Kings 20,1; Isaiah 38,1.

7 An allusion to the plight of Aristophanes in Plato's Symposion.

8 Haggai 1, 6 (inexact).

9 May it be fortunate and favorable.

10 Symposion, ch.9.

11 This ironic sally refers, not to Descartes' principle of skepsis,
but to the numerous Danish followers of Hegel and his "method";
cf. Fear and Trembling, p. 119.

12 Symposion, ch. 24.

13 Ibid., ch. 15-16.

14 Cf. Matthew 13, 31, etc.

15 A quotation from Musaeus, Volksmarchen der Deutschen,
III,219.

16 The reference is to a situation in Richard Cumberland's
(1732-1811) play of "The Jew," known to Copenhagen playgoers
in an adaptation.

17 I relate what I have been told.

18 A character in the Danish playwright Overskou's vaudeville of
"Capriciosa" (Comedies III, 184).

19 The glutton in Oehlenschloeger's vaudeville of "Sovedrikken."

20 Supplied by the translator to complete the sense.

21 Dejection. Cf. the Maxim: omne animal post coitune [?]
[transcipt unreadable] triste.

22 This statement is to be found, rather, in Aristotle's Ethics II, 6.

23 There is a pun here in the original.

24 In Holberg's comedy of "Erasmus Montanus," III,6.

25 Cf. note p. 60.

26 Eccles. 3, 7.

27 Comical power.

28 In uncertain battle.

29 According to the development of these terms in Kierkegaard's
previous works, the "absolute" belongs to the ethic, the "relative"
to the ‘sthetic sphere.

30 Heroine of Mozart's "Don Juan."

31 Quotations from Wessel's famous comedy of "Love without
Stockings," III, 3.

32 Viz. besides the eggs she duly furnishes; Holberg, "The
Busybody," II, 1.

33 This figure is said by Diogenes Laertios II,37 to have been used
by Socrates himself about his relation to Xanthippe.

34 The following sentences are not as clear in meaning as is
otherwise the case in Kierkegaard.

35 Poetics, chap.15.

36 Cf. note p. 60. [re: footnote 11 of this document.]

37 They are, that he had been created a man and not an animal, a
man and not a woman, a Greek and not a Barbarian (Lactantius,
Instit. III, 19,17).

38 Thales of Miletos (Diogenes Laertios I, 33).

39 German poet of the Romantic School (1773-1853).

40 Reasoning against the rules of logic.

41 "The Lying-in Room," II, 2.

42 A quotation from Oehlenschl„ger's "Aladdin."

43 Scattered members.

44 See Diogenes L‘rtios, VI, 37.

45 By the immortal gods.

46 I adjure you by the gods.

47 Therefore those tears.

48 I concede.

49 It can hardly be seen, it is but for lips which understand each
other exactly.

50 Christiansfeld , a town in South Jutland, was the seat of a
colony of Herrhutian Pietists.

51 The reference is to the "Diary of the Seducer" (in "Either Or,"
part I). Edward is the scorned lover of Cordelia who is seduced by
John.

52 I concede. I have conceded.

53 Reference to a comedy by Farquhar, which enjoyed a moderate
popularity in Copenhagen.

54 I.e., evidently, she does not exist because of herself; hence she
is in a "negative" relation to herself. The center of this relation is
"what attracts all the world."

55 In Oehlenschl„ger's "Aladdin."

56 In the Danish, a pun on the hominyms en brud and et brud.

57 Job 2,10.

58 According to the Jutland Laws (A. D. 1241) a man is permitted
to punish his wife, when she has misbehaved, with stick and with
rod, but not with weapon. In the Danish Law (1683) this right is
restricted to children and servants. S.V.

59 Containing the second part of "Stages on Life's Road." entitled
"Reflections on Marriage in Refutation of Objections."

FEAR AND TREMBLING

INTRODUCTION

Not only in the world of commerce but also in the world of ideas
our age has arranged a regular clearance-sale. Everything may be
had at such absurdedly low prices that very soon the question will
arise whether any one cares to bid. Every waiter with a speculative
turn who carefully marks the significant progress of modern
philosophy, every lecturer in philosophy, every tutor, student,
every sticker-andquitter of philosophy they are not content with
doubting everything, but "go right on." It might, possibly, be
illtimed and inopportune to ask them whither they are bound; but it
is no doubt polite and modest to take it for granted that they have
doubted everything else it were a curious statement for them to
make, that they were proceeding onward. So they have, all of
them, completed that preliminary operation and, it would seem,
with such ease that they do not think it necessary to waste a word
about how they did it. The fact is, not even he who looked
anxiously and with a troubled spirit for some little point of
information, ever found one, nor any instruction, nor even any
little dietetic prescription, as to how one is to accomplish this
enormous task. "But did not Descartes proceed in this fashion?"
Descartes, indeed! that venerable, humble, honest thinker whose
writings surely no one can read without deep emotion Descartes
did what he said, and said what he did. Alas, alas! that is a mighty
rare thing in our times! But Descartes, as he says frequently
enough, never uttered doubts concerning his faith. . . .

In our times, as was remarked, no one is content with faith, but
"goes right on." The question as to whither they are proceeding
may be a silly question; whereas it is, a sign of urbanity and
culture to assume that every one has faith, to begin with, for else it
were a curious statement for them to make, that they are
proceeding further. In the olden days it was different. Then, faith
was a task for a whole lifetime because it was held that proficiercy
in faith was not to be won within a few days or weeks. Hence,
when the tried patriarch felt his end approaching, after having
fought his battles and preserved his faith, he was still young
enough at heart not to have forgotten the fear and trembling which
disciplined his youth and whichthe mature man has under control,
but which no one entirely outgrows except insofar as he succeeds
in "going on" as early as possible. The goal which those venerable
men reached at last at that spot every one starts, in our times, in
order to "proceed further.". . .

PREPARATION

There lived a man who, when a child, had heard the beautiful
Bible story of how God tempted Abraham and how he stood the
test, how he maintained his faith and, against his expectations,
received his son back again. As this man grew older he read this
same story with ever greater admiration; for now life had separated
what had been united in the reverent simplicity of the child. And
the older he grew, the more frequently his thoughts reverted to that
story. His enthusiasm waxed stronger and stronger, and yet the
story grew less and less clear to him. Finally he forgot everything
else in thinking about it, and his soul contained but one wish,
which was, to behold Abraham; and but one longing, which was,
to have been witness to that event. His desire was, not to see the
beautiful lands of the Orient, and not the splendor of the Promised
Land, and not the reverent couple whose old age the Lord had
blessed with children, and not the venerable figure of the aged
patriarch, and not the godgiven vigorous youth of Isaac it would
have been the same to him if the event had come to pass on some
barren heath. But his wish was, to have been with Abraham on the
three days' journey, when he rode with sorrow before him and with
Isaac at his side. His wish was, to have been present at the moment
when Abraham lifted up his eyes and saw Mount Moriah afar off;
to have been present at the moment when he left his asses behind
and wended his way up to the mountain alone with Isaac. For the
mind of this man was busy, not with the delicate conceits of the
imagination, but rather with his shuddering thought.

The man we speak of was no thinker, he felt no desire to go
beyond his faith: it seemed to him the most glorious fate to be
remembered as the Father of Faith, and a most enviable lot to be
possessed of that faith, even if no one knew it.

The man we speak of was no learned exegetist, be did not even
understand Hebrew who knows but a knowledge of Hebrew might
have helped him to understand readily both the story and
Abraham.

I.

And God tempted Abraham and said unto him: take Isaac, thine
only son, whom thou lovest and go to the land Moriah and
sacrifice him there on a mountain which I shall show thee.[1]

It was in the early morning, Abraham arose betimes and had his
asses saddled. He departed from his tent, and Isaac with him; but
Sarah looked out of the window after them until they were out of
sight. Silently they rode for three days; but on the fourth morning
Abraham said not a word but lifted up his eyes and beheld Mount
Moriah in the distance. He left his servants behind and, leading
Isaac by the hand, he approached the mountain. But Abraham said
to himself: "I shall surely conceal from Isaac whither he is going."
He stood still, he laid his hand on Isaac's head to bless him, and
Isaac bowed down to receive his blessing. And Abraham's aspect
was fatherly, his glance was mild, his speech admonishing. But
Isaac understood him not, his soul would not rise to him; he
embraced Abraham's knees, he besought him at his feet, he begged
for his young life, for his beautiful hopes, he recalled the joy in
Abraham's house when he was born, he reminded him of the
sorrow and the loneliness that would be after him. Then did
Abraham raise up the youth and lead him by his hand, and his
words were full of consolation and admonishment. But Isaac
understood him not. He ascended Mount Moriah, but Isaac
understood him not. Then Abraham averted his face for a moment;
but when Isaac looked again, his father's countenance was
changed, his glance wild, his aspect terrible, he seized Isaac and
threw him to the ground and said: "Thou foolish lad, believest thou
I am thy father? An idolworshipper am I. Believest thou it is God's
cornmand? Nay, but my pleasure." Then Isaac trembled and cried
out in his fear: "God in heaven, have pity on me, God of Abraham,
show mercy to me, I have no father on earth, be thou then my
father!" But Abraham said softly to himself : "Father in heaven, I
thank thee. Better is it that he believes me inhuman than that he
should lose his faith in thee."

When the child is to be weaned, his mother blackens her breast;
for it were a pity if her breast should look sweet to him when he is
not to have it. Then the child believes that her breast has changed;
but his mother is ever the same, her glance is full of love and as
tender as ever. Happy he who needed not worse means to wean his
child!

II.

It was in the early morning. Abraham arose betimes and embraced
Sarah, the bride of his old age. And Sarah kissed Isaac who had
taken the shame from her Isaac, her pride, her hope for all coming
generations. Then the twain rode silently along their way, and
Abraham's glance was fastened on the ground before him; until on
the fourth day, when he lifted up his eyes and beheld Mount
Moriah in the distance; but then his eyes again sought the ground.
Without a word he put the fagots in order and bound Isaac, and
without a word he unsheathed his knife. Then he beheld the ram
God had chosen, and sacrificed him, and wended his way home. . .
. From that day on Abraham grew old. He could not forget that
God had required this of him. Isaac flourished as before; but
Abraham's eye was darkened, he saw happiness no more.

When the child has grown and is to be weaned, his mother will in
maidenly fashion conceal her breast. Then the child has a mother
no longer. Happy the child who lost not his mother in any other
sense!

III.

It was in the early morning. Abraham arose betimes he kissed
Sarah, the young mother, and Sarah kissed Isaac, her joy, her
delight for all times. And Abraham rode on his way, lost in thought
he was thinking of Hagar and her son whom he had driven out into
the wilderness. He ascended Mount Moriah and he drew the knife.

It was a calm evening when Abraham rode out alone, and he rode
to Mount Moriah. There he cast himself down on his face and
prayed to God to forgive him his sin in that he had been about to
sacrifice his son Isaac, and in that the father had forgotten his duty
toward his son. And yet oftener he rode on his lonely way, but he
found no rest. He could not grasp that it was a sin that he had
wanted to sacrifice to God his most precious possession, him for
whom he would most gladly have died many times. But, if it was a
sin, if he had not loved Isaac thus, then could he not grasp the
possbility that he could be forgiven : for what sin more terrible ?

When the child is to he weaned, the mother is not without sorrow
that she and her child are to be separated more and more, that the
child who had first lain under her heart, and afterwards at any rate
rested at her breast, is to be so near to her no more. So they sorrow
together for that brief while. Happy he who kept his child so near
to him and needed not to sorrow more!

IV.

It was in the early morning. All was ready for the journey in the
house of Abraham. He bade farewell to Sarah; and Eliezer, his
faithful servant, accompanied him along the way for a little while.
They rode together in peace, Abraham and Isaac, until they came
to Mount Moriah. And Abraham prepared everything for the
sacrifice, calmly and mildly; but when his father turned aside in
order to unsheath his knife, Isaac saw that Abraham's left hand was
knit in despair and that a trembling shook his frame but Abraham
drew forth the knife.

Then they returned home again, and Sarah hastened to meet them;
but Isaac had lost his faith, No one in all the world ever said a
word about this, nor did Isaac speak to any man concerning what
he had seen, and Abraham suspected not that any one had seen it.

When the child is to be weaned, his mother has the stronger food
ready lest the child perish. Happy he who has in readiness this
stronger food!

Thus, and in many similar ways, thought the man whom I have
mentioned about this event. And every time he returned, after a
pilgrimage to Mount Moriah, he sank down in weariness, folding
his hands and saying: "No one, in truth, was great as was Abraham,
and who can understand him?"

A PANEGYRIC ON ABRAHAM

If a consciousness of the eternal were not implanted in man; if the
basis of all that exists were but a confusedly fermenting element
which, convulsed by obscure passions, Produced all, both the great
and the insignificant; if under everything there lay a bottomless
void never to be filled what else were life but despair? If it were
thus, and if there were no sacred bonds between man and man; if
one generation arose after another, as in the forest the leaves of
one season succeed the leaves of another, or like the songs of birds
which are taken up one after another; if the generations of man
passed through the world like a ship passing through the sea and
the wind over the desert a fruitless and a vain thing; if eternal
oblivion were ever greedily watching for its prey and there existed
no power strong enough to wrest it from its clutches how empty
were life then, and how dismal! And therefore it is not thus; but,
just as God created man and woman, he likewise called into being
the hero and the poet or orator. The latter cannot perform the
deeds of the hero he can only admire and love him and rejoice in
him. And yet he also is happy and not less so; for the hero is, as it
were, his better self with which he has fallen in love, and he is glad
he is not himself the hero, so that his love can express itself in
admiration.

The poet is the genius of memory, and does nothing but recall
what has been done, can do nothing but admire what has been
done. He adds nothing of his own, but he is Jealous of what has
been entrusted to him. He obeys the choice of his own heart; but
once he has found what he has been seeking, he visits every man's
door with his song and with his speech, so that all may admire the
hero as he does, and be proud of the hero as he is. This is his
achievement, his humble work, this is his faithful service in the
house of the hero. If thus, faithful to his love, he battles day and
night against the guile of oblivion which wishes to lure the hero
from him, then has he accomplished his task, then is he gathered to
his hero who loves him as faithfully; for the poet is as it were the
hero's better self, unsubstantial, to be sure, like a mere memory,
but also transfigured as is a memory. Therefore shall no one be
forgotten who has done great deeds; and even if there be delay,
even if the cloud of misunderstanding obscure the hero from our
vision, still his lover will come some time; and the more time has
passed, the more faithfully will he cleave to him.

No, no one shall be forgotten who was great in this world. But
each hero was great in his own way, and each one was eminent in
proportion to the great things he loved. For he who loved himself
became great through himself, and he who loved others became
great through his devotion, but he who loved God became greater
than all of these. Everyone of them shall be remembered, but each
one became great in proportion to his trust. One became great by
the possible; another, by hoping for the eternal; hoped for the
impossible, he became greater than all of these. Every one shall be
remembered; but each one was great in proportion to the power
with which he strove. For he who strove with the world became
great by overcoming himself; but he who strove with God, he
became the greatest of them all. Thus there have been struggles in
the world, man against man, one against a thousand; but he who
struggled with God, he became greatest of them all. Thus there
was fighting on this earth, and there was he who conquered
everything by his strength, and there was he who conquered God
by his weakness. There was he who, trusting in himself, gained all;
and there was he who, trusting in his strength sacrificed
everything; but he who believed in God was greater than all of
these. There was he who was great through his strength, and he
who was great through his wisdom, and he who was great through
his hopes, and he who was great through his love; but Abraham
was greater than all of these great through the strength whose
power is weakness, great through the wisdom whose secret is folly,
great through the hope whose expression is madness, great through
the love which is hatred of one's self.

Through the urging of his faith Abraham left the land of his
forefathers and became a stranger in the land of promise. He left
one thing behind and took one thing along: he left his worldly
wisdom behind and took with him faith. For else he would not
have left the land of his fathers. but would have thought it an
unreasonable demand. Through his faith he came to be a stranger
in the land of promise, where there was nothing to remind him of
all that had been dear to him, but where everything by its newness
tempted his soul to longing. And yet was he God's chosen, he in
whom the Lord was well pleased! Indeed, had he been one cast off,
one thrust out of God's mercy, then might he have comprehended
it; but now it seemed like a mockery of him and of his faith. There
have been others who lived in exile from the fatherland which they
loved. They are not forgotten, nor is the song of lament forgotten
in which they mournfully sought and found what they had lost. Of
Abraham there exists no song of lamentation. It is human to
complain, it is human to weep with the weeping; but it is greater to
believe, and more blessed to consider him who has faith.

Through his faith Abraham received the promise that in his seed
were to be blessed all races of mankind. Time passed, there was
still the possibility of it, and Abraharn had faith. Another man
there was who also lived in hopes. Time passed, the evening of his
life was approaching; neither was he paltry enough to have
forgotten his hopes: neither shall he be forgotten by us! Then he
sorrowed, and his sorrow did not deceive him, as life had done, but
gave him all it could; for in the sweetness of sorrow he became
possessed of his disappointed hopes. It is human to sorrow, it is
human to sorrow with the sorrowing; but it is greater to have faith,
and more blessed to consider him who has faith.

No song of lamentation has come down to us from Abraham. He
did not sadly count the days as time passed; he did not look at
Sarah with suspicious eyes, whether she was becoming old; he did
not stop the sun's course lest Sarah should grow old and his hope
with her; he did not lull her with his songs of lamentation.
Abraham grew old, and Sarah became a laughingstock to the
people; and yet was he God's chosen, and heir to the promise that
in his seed were to be blessed all races of mankind. Were it, then,
not better if he had not been God's chosen? For what is it to be
God's chosen? Is it to have denied to one in one's youth all the
wishes of youth in order to have them fulfilled after great labor in
old age?

But Abraham had faith and steadfastly lived in hope. Had
Abraham been less firm in his trust, then would he have given up
that hope. He would have said to God: "So it is, perchance, not Thy
will, after all, that this shall come to pass. I shall surrender my
hope. It was my only one, it was my bliss. I am sincere, I conceal
no secret grudge for that Thou didst deny it to me." He would not
have remained forgotten, his example would have saved many a
one; but he would not have become the Father of Faith. For it is
great to surrender one's hope, but greater still to abide by it
steadfastly after having surrendered it; for it is great to seize hold
of the eternal hope, but greater till to abide steadfastly by one's
worldly hopes after having rendered them.

Then came the fulness of time. If Abraham had not had faith, then
Sarah would probably have died of sorrow, and Abraham, dulled
by his grief, would not have understood the fulfilment, but would
have smiled about it as a dream of his youth.But Abraham had
faith, and therefore he remained young; for he who always hopes
for the best, him life will deceive, and he will grow old; and he
who is always prepared for the worst, he will soon age; but he who
has faith, he will preserve eternal youth. Praise, therefore, be to
this story! For Sarah, though advanced in age, was young enough
to wish for the pleasures of a mother, and Abraham, though grey of
hair, was young enough to wish to become a father. In a superficial
sense it may be considered miraculous that what they wished for
came to pass, but in a deeper sense the miracle of faith is to be
seen in Abraham's and Sarah's being young enough to wish, and
their faith having preserved their wish and therewith their youth.
The promise he had received was fulfilled, and he accepted it in
faith, and it came to pass according to the promise and his faith;
whereas Moses smote the rock with his staff but believed not.

There was joy in Abraham's house when Sarah celebrated the day
of her Golden Wedding. But it was not to remain thus; for once
more was Abraham to be tempted. He had struggled with that
cunning power to which nothing is impossible, with that ever
watchful enemy who never sleeps, with that old man who outlives
all he had struggled with Time and had preserved his faith. And
now all the terror of that fight was concentrated in one moment.
"And God tempted Abraham, saying to him: take now thine only
son Isaac, whom thou lovest, and get thee into the land of Moriah;
and offer him there for a burnt offering upon one of the mountains
which I will tell thee of.[2]

All was lost, then, and more terribly than if a son had never been
given him! The Lord had only mocked Abraham, then!
Miraculously he had realized the unreasonable hopes of Abraham;
and now he wished to take away what be had given. A foolish hope
it had been, but Abraham had not laughed when the promise had
been made him. Now all was lost the trusting hope of seventy
years, the brief joy at the fulfilment of his hopes. Who, then, is he
that snatches away the old man's staff, who that demands that he
himself shall break it in two? Who is he that renders disconsolate
the grey hair of old age, who is he that demands that he himself
shall do it? Is there no pity for the venerable old man, and none for
the innocent child? And yet was Abraham God's chosen one, and
yet was it the Lord that tempted him. And now all was to be lost I
The glorious remembrance of him by a whole race, the promise of
Abraham's seedall that was but a whim, a passing fancy of the
Lord, which Abraham was now to destroy forever! That glorious
treasure, as old as the faith in Abraham's heart, and many, many
years older than Isaac, the fruit of Abraham's life, sanctified by
prayers, matured in struggles the blessing on the lips of Abraham:
this fruit was now to be plucked before the appointed time, and to
remain without significance; for of what significance were it if
Isaac was to be sacrificed? That sad and yet blessed hour when
Abraham was to take leave f rom all that was dear to him, the hour
when he would once more lift up his venerable head, when his
face would shine like the countenance of the Lord, the hour when
he would collect his whole soul for a blessing strong enough to
render Isaac blessed all the days, of his lifethat hour was not to
come! He was to say farewell to Isaac, to be sure, but in such wise
that he himself was to remain behind; death was to part them, but
in such wise that Isaac was to die. The old man was not in
happiness to lay his hand on Isaac's head when the hour of death
came, but, tired of life, to lay violent hands on Isaac. And it was
God who tempted him. Woe, woe to the messenger who would
have come before Abraham with such a command! Who would
have dared to be the messenger of such dread tidings? But it was
God that tempted Abraham.

But Abraham had faith, and had faith for this life. Indeed, had his
faith been but concerning the life to come, then might he more
easily have cast away all, in order to hasten out of this world which
was not his. . . .

But Abraham had faith and doubted not, but trusted that the
improbable would come to pass. If Abraham had doubted, then
would he have undertaken something else, something great and
noble; for what could Abraham have undertaken but was great and
noble! He would have proceeded to Mount Moriah, he would have
cloven the wood, and fired it, and unsheathed his knife he would
have cried out to God: "Despise not this sacrifice; it is not, indeed,
the best I have; for what is an old man against a child foretold of
God; but it is the best I can give thee. Let Isaac never know that he
must find consolation in his youth." He would have plunged the
steel in his own breast. And he would have been admired
throughout the world, and his name would not have been
forgotten; but it is one thing to be admired and another, to be a
lodestar which guides one troubled in mind.

But Abraham had faith. He prayed not for mercy and that he might
prevail upon the Lord: it was only when just retribution was to be
visited upon Sodom and Gomorrha that Abraham ventured to
beseech Him for mercy.

We read in Scripture: "And God did tempt Abraham, and said unto
him, Abraham: and he said, Behold here I am."[3] You, whom I
am now addressing did you do likewise? When you saw the dire
dispensations of Providence approach threateningly, did you not
then say to the mountains, Fall on me; and to the hills, Cover
me?[4] Or, if you were stronger in faith, did not your step linger
along the way, longing for the old accustomed paths, as it were?
And when the voice called you, did you answer, then, or not at all,
and if you did, perchance in a low voice, or whispering? Not thus
Abraham, but gladly and cheerfully and trustingly, and with a
resonant voice he made answer: "Here am I" And we read further:
"And Abraham rose up early in the morning.[5] He made haste as
though for some joyous occasion, and early in the morning he was
in the appointed place, on Mount Moriah. He said nothing to
Sarah, nothing to Eliezer, his steward; for who would have
understood him? Did not his temptation by its very nature demand
of him the vow of silence? "He laid the wood in order, and bound
Isaac his son, and laid him on the altar upon the wood. And
Abraham stretched forth his hand, and took the knife to slay his
son." My listener! Many a father there has been who thought that
with his child he lost the dearest of all there was in the world for
him; yet assuredly no child ever was in that sense a pledge of God
as was Isaac to Abraham. Many a father there has been who lost
his child; but then it was God, the unchangeable and inscrutable
will of the Almighty and His hand which took it. Not thus with
Abraham. For him was reserved a more severe trial, and Isaac's
fate was put into Abraham's hand together with the knife. And
there he stood, the old man, with his only hope! Yet did he not
doubt, nor look anxiously to the left or right, nor challenge Heaven
with his prayers. He knew it was God the Almighty who now put
him to the test; he knew it was the greatest sacrifice which could
be demanded of him; but he knew also that no sacrifice was too
great which God demanded and he drew forth hisknife.

Who strengthened Abraham's arm, who supported his right arm
that it drooped not powerless? For he who contemplates this scene
is unnerved. Who strengthened Abraham's soul so that his eyes
grew not too dim to see either Isaac or the ram? For he who
contemplates this scene will be struck with blindness. And yet, it is
rare enough that one is unnerved or is struck with blindness, and
still more rare that one narrates worthily what there did take place
between father and son. To be sure, we know well enough it was
but a trial!

If Abraham had doubted, when standing on Mount Moriah; if he
had looked about him in perplexity; if he had accidentally
discovered the ram before drawing his knife; if God had permitted
him to sacrifice it instead of Isaac then would he have returned
home, and all would have been as before, he would have had Sarah
and would have kept Isaac; and yet how different all would have
been! For then had his return been a flight, his salvation an
accident, his reward disgrace, his future, perchance, perdition.
Then would he have borne witness neither to his faith nor to God's
mercy, but would have witnessed only to the terror of going to
Mount Moriah. Then Abraham would not have been forgotten, nor
either Mount Moriah. It would be mentioned, then, not as is Mount
Ararat on which the Ark landed, but as a sign of terror, because it
was there Abraham doubted.

Venerable patriarch Abraham! When you returned home from
Mount Moriah you required no encomiums to console you for
what you had lost; for, indeed, you did win all and still kept Isaac,
as we all know. And the Lord did no more take him from your
side, but you sate gladly at table with him in your tent as in the life
to come you will, for all times. Venerable patriarch Abraham!
Thousands of years have passed since those times, but still you
need no lateborn lover to snatch your memory from the power of
oblivion, for every language remembers you and yet do you reward
your lover more gloriously than any one, rendering him blessed in
your bosom, and taking heart and eyes captive by the marvel of
your deed. Venerable patriarch Abraham! Second father of the
race! You who first perceived and bore witness to that unbounded
passion which has but scorn for the terrible fight with the ragring
elements and the strength of brute creation, in order to struggle
with God; you who first felt that sublimest of all passions, you who
found the holy, pure, humble expression for the divine madness
which was a marvel to the heathen forgive him who would speak
in your praise, in case he did it not fittingly. He spoke humbly, as
if it concerned the desire of his heart; he spoke briefly, as is
seemly; but he will never forget that you required a hundred years
to obtain a son of your old age, against all expections; that you had
to draw the knife before being permitted to keep Isaac; he will
never forget that in a hundred and thirty years you never got farther
than to faith.

PRELIMINARY EXPECTORATION

An old saying, derived from the world of experience, has it that
"he who will not work shall not eat. But, strange to say, this does
not hold true in the world where it is thought applicable; for in the
world of matter the law of imperfection prevails, and we see, again
and again, that he also who will not work has bread to eat indeed,
that he who sleeps has a greater abundance of it than he who
works. In the world of matter everything belongs to whosoever
happens to possess it; it is thrall to the law of indifference, and he
who happens to possess the Ring also has the Spirit of the Ring at
his beck and call, whether now he be Noureddin or Aladdin[7]
and he who controls the treasures of this world, controls them,
howsoever he managed to do so. It is different in the world of
spirit. There, an eternal and divine order obtains, there the rain
does not fall on the just and the unjust alike, nor does the sun shine
on the good and the evil alike;[8] but there the saying does hold
true that he who will not work shall not eat, and only he who was
troubled shall find rest, and only he who descends into the nether
world shall rescue his beloved, and only he who unsheathes his
knife shall be given Isaac again. There, he who will not work shall
not eat, but shall be deceived, as the gods deceived Orpheus with
an immaterial figure instead of his beloved Euridice,[9] deceived
him because he was lovesick and not courageous, deceived him
because he was a player on the cithara rather than a man.. There, it
avails not to have an Abraham for one's father,[10] or to have
seventeen ancestors. But in that world the saying about Israel's
maidens will hold true of him who will not work: he shall bring
forth wind;[11] but he who will work shall give birth to his own
father.

There is a kind of learning which would presumptuously introduce
into the world of spirit the same law of indifference under which
the world of matter groans. It is thought that to know about great
men and great deeds is quite sufficient, and that other exertion is
not necessary. And therefore this learning shall not eat, but shall
perish of hunger while seeing all things transformed into gold by
its touch. And what, forsooth, does this learning really know?
There were many thousands of contemporaries, and countless men
in after times, who knew all about the triumphs of Miltiades; but
there was only one whom they rendered sleepless.[12] There have
existed countless generations that knew by heart, word for word,
the story of Abraham; but how many has it rendered sleepless?

Now the story of Abraham has the remarkable property of always
being glorious, in however limited a sense it is understood; still,
here also the point is whether one means to labor and exert one's
self. Now people do not care to labor and exert themselves, but
wish nevertheless to understand the story. They extol Abraham,
but how? By expressing the matter in the most general terms and
saying: "the great thing about him was that he loved God so
ardently that he was willing to sacrifice to Him his most precious
possession." That is very true; but "the most precious possession"
is an indefinite expression. As one's thoughts, and one's mouth, run
on one assumes, in a very easy fashion, the identity of Isaac and
"the most precious possession" and meanwhile he who is
meditating may smoke his pipe, and his audience comfortably
stretch out their legs. If the rich youth whom Christ met on his
way[13] had sold all his possessions and given all to the poor, we
would extol him as we extol all which is great aye, would not
understand even him without labor; and yet would he never have
become an Abraham, notwithstanding his sacrificing the most
precious possessions he had. That which people generally forget in
the story of Abraham is his fear and anxiety; for as regards money,
one is not ethically responsible for it, whereas for his son a father
has the highest and most sacred responsibility. However, fear is a
dreadful thing for timorous spirits, so they omit it. And yet they
wish to speak of Abraham.

So they keep on speaking, and in the course of their speech the two
terms Isaac and "the most precious thing" are used alternately, and
everything is in the best order. But now suppose that among the
audience there was a man who suffered with sleeplessness and
then the most terrible and profound, the most tragic, and at the
same time the, most comic, misunderstanding is within the range
of possibility. That is, suppose this man goes home and wishes to
do as did Abraham; for his son is his most precious possession. If a
certain preacher learned of this he would, perhaps, go to him, he
would gather up all his spiritual dignity and exclaim: "'Thou
abominable creature, thou scum of humanity, what devil possessed
thee to wish to murder son?" And this preacher, who had not felt
any particular warmth, nor perspired while speaking about
Abraham, this preacher would be astonished himself at the earnest
wrath with which he poured forth his thunders against that poor
wretch; indeed, he would rejoice over himself, for never had he
spoken with such power and unction, and he would have said to
his wife: "I am an orator, the only thing I have lacked so far was
the occasion. Last Sunday, when speaking about Abraham, I did
not feel thrilled in the least."

Now, if this same orator had just a bit of sense to spare, I believe
he would lose it if the sinner would reply, in a quiet and dignified
manner: "Why, it was on this very same matter you preached, last
Sunday!" But however could the preacher have entertained such
thoughts? Still, such was the case, and the preacher's mistake was
merely not knowing what he was talking about. Ah, would that
some poet might see his way clear to prefer such a situation to the
stuff and nonsense of which novels and comedies are full! For the
comic and the tragic here run parallel to infinity. The sermon
probably was ridiculous enough in itself, but it became infinitely
ridiculous through the very natural consequence it had. Or,
suppose now the sinner was converted by this lecture without
daring to raise any objection, and this zealous divine now went
home elated, glad in the consciousness of being effective, not only
in the pulpit, but chiefly, and with irresistible power, as a spiritual
guide, inspiring his congregation on Sunday, whilst on Monday he
would place himself like a cherub with flaming sword before the
man who by his actions tried to give the lie to the old saying that
"the course of the world follows not the priest's word."

If, on the other hand, the sinner were not convinced of his error his
position would become tragic. He would probably be executed, or
else sent to the lunatic asylum at any rate, he would become a
sufferer in this world; but in another sense I should think that
Abraham rendered him happy; for he who labors, he shall not
perish.

Now how shall we explain the contradiction contained in that
sermon? Is it due to Abraham's having the reputation of being a
great man so that whatever he does is great, but if another should
undertake to do the same it is a sin, a heinous sin ? If this be the
case I prefer not to participate in such thoughtless laudations. If
faith cannot make it a sacred thing to wish to sacrifice one's son,
then let the same judgment be visited on Abraham as on any other
man. And if we perchance lack the courage to drive our thoughts
to the logical conclusion and to say that Abraham was a murderer,
then it were better to acquire that courage, rather than to waste
one's time on undeserved encomiums. The fact is, the ethical
expression for what Abraham did is that he wanted to murder
Isaac; the religious, that he wanted to sacrifice him. But precisely
in this contradiction is contained the fear which may well rob one
of one's sleep. And yet Abraham were not Abraham without this
fear. Or, again, supposing Abraham did not do what is attributed to
him, if his action was an entirely different one, based on
conditions of those times, then let us forget him; for what is the
use of calling to mind that past which can no longer become a
present reality? Or, the speaker had perhaps forgotten the essential
fact that Isaac was the son. For if faith is eliminated, having been
reduced to a mere nothing, then only the brutal fact remains that
Abraham wanted to murder Isaac which is easy for everybody to
imitate who has not the faith the faith, that is, which renders it
most difficult for him. . . .

Love has its priests in the poets, and one bears at times a poet's
voice which worthily extols it. But not a word does one hear of
faith. Who is there to speak in honor of that passion? Philosophy
"goes right on." Theology sits at the window with a painted visage
and sues for philosophy's favor, offering it her charms. It is said to
be difficult to understand the philosophy of Hegel; but to
understand Abraham, why, that is an easy matter! To proceed
further than Hegel is a wonderful feat, but to proceed further than
Abraham, why, nothing is easier! Personally, I have devoted a
considerable amount of time to a study of Hegelian philosophy and
believe I understand it fairly well; in fact, I am rash enough to say
that when, notwithstanding an effort, I am not able to understand
him in some passages, is because he is not entirely clear about the
matter himself. All this intellectual effort I perform easily and
naturally, and it does not cause my head to ache. On the other
hand, whenever I attempt to think about Abraham I am, as it were,
overwhelmed. At every moment I am aware of the enormous
paradox which forms the content of Abraham's life, at every
moment I am repulsed, and my thought, notwithstanding its
passionate attempts, cannot penetrate into it, cannot forge on the
breadth of a hair. I strain every muscle in order to envisage the
problem and become a paralytic in the same moment.

I am by no means unacquainted with what has been admired as
great and noble, my soul feels kinship with it, being satisfied, in all
humility, that it was also my cause the hero espoused; and when
contemplating his deed I say to myself: "jam tua causa agitur."[14]
I am able to identify myself with the hero; but I cannot do so with
Abraham, for whenever I have reached his height I fall down
again, since he confronts me as the paradox. It is by no means my
intention to maintain that faith is something inferior, but, on the
contrary, that it is the highest of all things; also that it is dishonest
in philosophy to offer something else instead, and to pour scorn on
faith; but it ought to understand its own nature in order to know
what it can offer. It should take away nothing; least of all, fool
people out of something as if it were of no value. I am not
unacquainted with the sufferings and dangers of life, but I do not
fear them, and cheerfully go forth to meet them. . . . But my
courage is not, for all that, the courage of faith, and is as nothing
compared with it. I cannot carry out the movement of faith: I
cannot close my eyes and confidently plunge into the absurd it is
impossible for me; but neither do I boast of it. . .

Now I wonder if every one of my contemporaries is really able to
perform the movements of faith. Unless I am much mistaken they
are, rather, inclined to be proud of making what they perhaps think
me unable to do, viz., the imperfect movement. It is repugnant to
my soul to do what is so often done, to speak inhumanly about
great deeds, as if a few thousands of years were an immense space
of time. I prefer to speak about them in a human way and as
though they had been done but yesterday, to let the great deed
itself be the distance which either inspires or condemns me. Now
if I, in the capacity of tragic hero for a higher flight I am unable to
take if I had been summoned to such an extraordinary royal
progress as was the one to Mount Moriah, I know very well what I
would have done. I would not have been craven enough to remain
at home; neither would I have dawdled on the way; nor would I
have forgot my knife just to draw out the end a bit. But I am rather
sure that I would have been promptly on the spot, with every thing
in order in fact, would probably have been there before the
appointed time, so as to have the business soon over with. But I
know also what I would have done besides. In the moment I
mounted my horse I would have said to myself: "Now all is lost,
God demands Isaac, I shall sacrifice him, and with him all my joy
but for all that, God is love and will remain so for me; for in this
world God and I cannot speak together, we have no language in
common."

Possibly, one or the other of my contemporaries will be stupid
enough, and jealous enough of great deeds, to wish to persuade
himself and me that if I had acted thus I should have done
something even greater than what Abraham did; for my sublime
resignation was (he thinks) by far more ideal and poetic than
Abraham's literalminded action. And yet this is absolutely not so,
for my sublime resignation was only a substitute for faith. I could
not have made more than the infinite movement (of resignation) to
find myself and again repose in myself. Nor would I have loved
Isaac as Abraham loved him. The fact that I was resolute enough
to resign is sufficient to prove my courage in a human sense, and
the fact that I loved him with my whole heart is the very
presupposition without which my action would be n. me; but still I
did not love as did Abraham, for else I ould have hesitated even in
the last minute, without, for that matter, arriving too late on Mount
Moriah. Also, I would have spoiled the whole business by my
behavior; for if I had had Isaac restored to me I would have been
embarrassed. That which was an easy matter for Abraham would
have been difficult for me, I mean, to rejoice again in Isaac; for he
who with all the energy of his soul proprio motu et propriis
auspiciis[15] has made the infinite movement of resignation and
can do no more, he will retain possession of Isaac only in his
sorrow.

But what did Abraham? He arrived neither too early nor too late.
He mounted his ass and rode slowly on his way. And all the while
he had faith, believing that God would not demand Isaac of him,
though ready all the while to sacrifice him, should it be demanded
of him. He believed this on the strength of the absurd; for there
was no question of human calculation any longer. And the
absurdity consisted in God's, who yet made this demand of him,
recalling his demand the very next moment. Abraham ascended
the mountain and whilst the knife already gleamed in his hand he
believed that God would not demand Isaac of him. He was, to be
sure, surprised at the outcome; but by a double movement he had
returned at his first state of mind and therefore received Isaac back
more gladly than the first time. . . .

On this height, then, stands Abraham. The last stage he loses sight
of is that of infinite resignation. He does really proceed further, he
arrives at faith. For all these caricatures of faith, wretched
lukewarm sloth, which thinks. "Oh, there is no hurry, it is not
necessary to worry before the time comes"; and miserable
hopefulness, which says: "One cannot know what will happen,
there might perhaps," all these caricatures belong to the sordid
view of life and have already fallen under the infinite scorn of
infinite resignation.

Abraham, I am not able to understand; and in a certain sense I can
learn nothing from him without being struck with wonder. They
who flatter themselves that by merely considering the outcome of
Abraham's story they will necessarily arrive at faith, only deceive
themselves and wish to cheat God out of the first movement of
faith it were tantamount to deriving worldly wisdom from the
paradox. But who knows, one or the other of them may succeed in
doing this; for our times are not satisfied with faith, and not even
with the miracle of changing water into wine they "go right on"
changing wine into water.

Is it not preferable to remain satisfied with faith, and is it not
outrageous that every one wishes to "go right on". If people in our
times decline to be satisfied with love, as is proclaimed from
various sides, where will we finally land? In worldly shrewdness,
in mean calculation, in paltriness and baseness, in all that which
renders man's divine origin doubtful. Were it not better to stand
fast in the faith, and better that he that standeth take heed lest he
fall;[16] for the movement of faith must ever be made by virtue of
the absurd, but, note well, in such wise that one does not lose the
things of this world but wholly and entirely regains them.

As far as I am concerned, I am able to describe most excellently
the movements of faith; but I cannot make them myself. When a
person wishes to learn how to swim he has himself suspended in a
swimmingbelt and then goes through the motions; but that does
not mean that he can swim. In the same fashion I too can go
through the motions of faith; but when I am thrown into the water I
swim, to be sure (for I am not a wader in the shallows), but I go
through a different set of movements, towit, those of infinity;
whereas faith does the opposite, towit, makes the movements to
regain the finite after having made those of infinite resignation.
Blessed is he who can make these movements, for he performs a
marvellous feat, and I shall never weary of admiring him, whether
now it be Abraham himself or the slave in Abraham's house,
whether it be a professor of philosophy or a poor servantgirl: it is
all the same to me, for I have regard only to the movements. But
these movements I watch closely, and I will not be deceived,
whether by myself or by any one else. The knights of infinite
resignation are easily recognized, for their gait is dancing and
bold. But they who possess the jewel of faith frequently deceive
one because their bearing is curiously like that of a class of people
heartily despised by infinite resignation as well as by faith the
philistines.

Let me admit frankly that I have not in my experience encountered
any certain specimen of this type; but I do not refuse to admit that
as far as I know, every other person may be such a specimen. At
the same time I will say that I have searched vainly for years. It is
the custom of scientists to travel around the globe to see rivers and
mountains, new stars, gaycolored birds, misshapen fish, ridiculous
races of men. They abandon themselves to a bovine stupor which
gapes at existence and believe they have seen something worth
while. All this does not interest me; but if I knew where there lived
such a knight of faith I would journey to him on foot, for that
marvel occupies my thoughts exclusively. Not a moment would I
leave him out of sight, but would watch how he makes the
movements, and I would consider myself provided for life, and
would divide my time between watching him and myself
practicing the movements, and would thus use all my time in
admiring him,

As I said, I have not met with such a one; but I can easily imagine
him. Here he is. I make his acquaintance and am introduced to
him. The first moment I lay my eyes on him I push him back,
leaping back myself, I hold up my hands in amazement and say to
myself: "Good Lord! that person? Is it really he why, he looks like
a parishbeadle!" But it is really he. I become more closely
acquainted with him, watching his every movement to see whether
some trifling incongruous movement of his has escaped me, some
trace, perchance, of a signalling from the infinite, a glance, a look,
a gesture, a melancholy air, or a smile, which might betray the
presence of infinite resignation contrasting with the finite.

But no! I examine his figure from top to toe to discover whether
there be anywhere a chink through which the infinite might be
seen to peer forth. But no! he is of a piece, all through. And how
about his footing? Vigorous, altogether that of finiteness, no
citizen dressed in his very best, prepared to spend his Sunday
afternoon in the park, treads the ground more firmly. He belongs
altogether to this world, no philistine more so. There is no trace of
the somewhat exclusive and haughty demeanor which marks off
the knight of infinite resignation. He takes pleasure in all, things, is
interested in everything, and perseveres in whatever he does with
the zest characteristic of persons wholly given to worldly things.
He attends to his business, and when one sees him one might think
he was a clerk who had lost his soul in doing double bookkeeping,
he is so exact. He takes a day off on Sundays. He goes to church.
But no hint of anything supernatural or any other sign of the
incommensurable betrays him, and if one did not know him it
would be impossible to distinguish him in the congregation, for his
brisk and manly singing proves only that he has a pair of good
lungs.

In the afternoon he walks out to the forest. He takes delight in all
he sees, in the crowds of men and women, the new omnibusses,
the Sound if one met him on the promenade one might think he
was some shopkeeper who was having a good time, so simple is
his joy; for he is not a poet, and in vain have I tried to lure him into
betraying some sign of the poet's detachment. Toward evening he
walks home again, with a gait as steady as that of a mailcarrier. On
his way he happens to wonder whether his wife will have some
little special warm dish ready for him, when he comes home as she
surely has as, for instance, a roasted lamb's head garnished with
greens. And if he met one minded like him he is very likely to
continue talking about this dish with him till they reach the East
Gate, and to talk about it with a zest befitting a chef. As it
happens, he has not four shillings to spare, and yet he firmly
believes that his wife surely has that dish ready for him. If she has,
it would be an enviable sight for distinguished people, and an
inspiring one for common folks, to see him eat, for he has an
appetite greater than Esau's. His wife has not prepared it strange,
he remains altogether the same.

Again, on his way he passes a building lot and there meets another
man. They fall to talking, and in a trice he erects a building, freely
disposing of everything necessary. And the stranger will leave him
with the impression that he has been talking with a capitalist the
fact being that the knight of my admiration is busy with the
thought that if it really came to the point he would unquestionably
have the means wherewithal at his disposal.

Now he is lying on his elbows in the window and looking over the
square on which he lives. All that happens there, if it be only a rat
creeping into a gutterhole, or children playing together everything
engages his attention, and yet his mind is at rest as though it were
the mind of a girl of sixteen. He smokes his pipe in the evening,
and to look at him you would swear it was the greengrocer from
across the street who is lounging at the window in the evening
twilight. Thus he shows as much unconcern as any worthless
happygolucky fellow; and yet, every moment he lives he purchases
his leisure at the highest price, for he makes not the least
movement except by virtue of the absurd; and yet, yet indeed, I
might become furious with anger, if for no other reason than that
of envy and yet, this man has performed, and is performing every
moment, the movement of infinity . . . He has resigned everything
absolutely, and then again seized hold of it all on the strength of
the absurd. . .

But this miracle may so easily deceive one that it will be best if I
describe the movements in a given case which may illustrate their
aspect in contact with reality; and that is the important point.
Suppose, then, a young swain falls in love with a princess, and all
his life is bound up in this love. But circumstances are such that it
is out of the question to think of marrying her, an impossibility to
translate his dreams into reality. The slaves of paltriness, the frogs
in the sloughs of life, they will shout, of course: "Such a love is
folly, the rich brewer's widow is quite as good and solid a match."
Let them but croak. The knight of infinite resignation does not
follow their advice, he does not surrender his love, not for all the
riches in the world. He is no fool, he first makes sure that this love
really is the contents of his life, for his soul is too sound and too
proud to waste itself on a mere intoxication. He is no coward, he is
not afraid to let his love insinuate itself into his most secret and
most remote thoughts, to let it wind itself in innumerable coils
about every fiber of his consciousness if he is disappointed in his
love he will never be able to extricate himself again. He feels a
delicious pleasure in letting love thrill his every nerve, and yet his
soul is solemn as is that of him who has drained a cup of poison
and who now feels the virus mingle with every drop of his blood,
poised in that moment between life and death.

Having thus imbibed love, and being wholly absorbed in it, he
does not lack the courage to try and dare all. He surveys the whole
situation, he calls together his swift thoughts which like tame
pigeons obey his every beck, he gives the signal, and they dart in
all directions. But when they return, every one bearing a message
of sorrow, and explain to him that it is impossible, then he
becomes silent, he dismisses them, he remains alone; and then he
makes the movement. Now if what I say here is to have any
significance, it is of prime importance that the movement be made
in a normal fashion. The knight of resignation is supposed to have
sufficient energy to concentrate the entire contents of his life and
the realization of existing conditions into one single wish. But if
one lacks this concentration, this devotion to a single thought; if
his soul from the very beginning is scattered on a number of
objects, he will never be able to make the movement he will be as
worldlywise in the conduct of his life as the financier who invests
his capital in a number of securities to win on the one if he should
lose on the other; that is, he is no knight. Furthermore, the knight
is supposed to possess sufficient energy to concentrate all his
thought into a single act of consciousness. If he lacks this
concentration he will only run errands in life and will never be
able to assume the attitude of infinite resignation; for the very
minute he approaches it he will suddenly discover that he forgot
something so that he must remain behind. The next minute, thinks
he, it will be attainable again, and so it is; but such inhibitions will
never allow him to make the movement but will, rather, tend to
him sink ever deeper into the mire.

Our knight, then, performs the movement which movement? Is he
intent on forgetting the whole affair, which, too, would presuppose
much concentration? No, for the knight does not contradict
himself, and it is a contradiction to forget the main contents of
one's life and still remain the same person. And he has no desire to
become another person; neither does he consider such a desire to
smack of greatness. Only lower natures forget themselves and
become something different. Thus the butterfly has forgotten that
it once was a caterpillar who knows but it may forget her that it
once was a butterfly, and turn into a fish! Deeper natures never
forget themselves and never change their essential qualities. So the
knight remembers all; but precisely this remembrance is painful.
Nevertheless, in his infinite resignation he has become reconciled
with existence. His love for the princess has become for him the
expression of an eternal love, has assumed a religious character,
has been transfigured into a love for the eternal being which, to be
sure, denied him the fulfilment of his love, yet reconciled him
again by presenting him with the abiding consciousness of his
love's being preserved in an everlasting form of which no reality
can rob him. . . .

Now, he is no longer interested in what the princess may do, and
precisely this proves that he has made the movement of infinite
resignation correctly. In fact, this is a good criterion for detecting
whether a person's movement is sincere or just makebelieve. Take
a person who believes that he too has resigned, but lo! time passed,
the princess did something on her part, for example, married a
prince, and then his soul lost the elasticity of its resignation. This
ought to show him that he did not make the movement correctly,
for he who has resigned absolutely is sufficient unto himself. The
knight does not cancel his resignation, but preserves his love as
fresh and young as it was at the first moment, he never lets go of it
just because his resignation is absolute. Whatever the princess
does, cannot disturb him, for it is only the lower natures who have
the law for their actions in some other person, i.e. have the
premises of their actions outside of themselves. . . .

Infinite resignation is the last stage which goes before faith, so that
every one who has not made the movement of infinite resignation
cannot have faith; for only through absolute resignation do I
become conscious of my eternal worth, and only then can there
arise the problem of again grasping hold of this world by virtue of
faith.

We will now suppose the knight of faith in the same case. He does
precisely as the other knight, he absolutely resigns the love which
is the contents of his life, he is reconciled to the pain; but then the
miraculous happens, he makes one more movement, strange
beyond comparison, saying: "And still I believe that I shall marry
her marry her by virtue of the absurd, by virtue of the act that to
God nothing is impossible." Now the absurd is not one of the
categories which belong to the understanding proper. It is not
identical with the improbable, the unforeseen, the unexpected. The
very moment our knight resigned himself he made sure of the
absolute impossibility, in any human sense, of his love. This was
the result reached by his reflections, and he had sufficient energy
to make them. In a transcendent sense, however, by his very
resignation, the attainment of his end is not impossible; but this
very act of again taking possession of his love is at the same time a
relinquishment of it. Nevertheless this kind of possession is by no
means an absurdity to the intellect; for the intellect all the while
continues to be right, as it is aware that in the world of finalities, in
which reason rules, his love was and is, an impossibility. The
knight of faith realizes this fully as well. Hence the only thing
which can save him is recourse to the absurd, and this recourse he
has through his faith. That is, he clearly recognizes the
impossibility, and in the same moment he believes the absurd; for
if he imagined he had faith, without at the same time recognizing,
with all the passion his soul is capable of, that his love is
impossible, he would be merely deceiving himself, and his
testimony would be of no value, since he had not arrived even at
the stage of absolute resignation. . . .

This last movement, the paradoxical movement of faith, I cannot
make, whether or no it be my duty, although I desire nothing more
ardently than to be able to make it. It must be left to a person's
discretion whether he cares to make this confession; and at any
rate, it is a matter between him and the Eternal Being, who is the
object of his faith, whether an amicable adjustment can be
affected. But what every person can do is to make the movement
of absolute resignation, and I for my part would not hesitate to
declare him a coward who imagines he cannot perform it. It is a
different matter with faith. But what no person has a right to, is to
delude others into the belief that faith is something of no great
significance, or that it is an easy matter, whereas it is the greatest
and most difficult of all things.

But the story of Abraham is generally interpreted in a different
way. God's mercy is praised which restored Isaac to him it was but
a trial! A trial. This word may mean much or little, and yet the
whole of it passes off as quickly as the story is told: one mounts a
winged horse, in the same instant one arrives on Mount Moriah,
and presto one sees the ram. It is not remembered that Abraham
only rode on an ass which travels but slowly, that it was a three
days' journey for him, and that he required some additional time to
collect the firewood, to bind Isaac, and to whet his knife.

And yet one extols Abraham. He who is to preach the sermon may
sleep comfortably until a quarter of an hour before he is to preach
it, and the listener may comfortably sleep during the sermon, for
everything is made easy enough, without much exertion either to
preacher or listener. But now suppose a man was present who
suffered with sleeplessness and who went home and sat in a corner
and reflected as follows: "The whole lasted but a minute, you need
only wait a little while, and then the ram will be shown and the
trial will be over." Now if the preacher should find him in this
frame of mind, I believe he would confront him in all his dignity
and say to him: "Wretch that thou art, to let thy soul lapse into
such folly; miracles do not happen, all life is a trial." And as he
proceeded he would grow more and more passionate, and would
become ever more satisfied with himself; and whereas he had not
noticed any congestion in his head whilst preaching about
Abraham, he now feels the veins on his forehead swell. Yet who
knows but he would stand aghast if the sinner should answer him
in a quiet and dignified manner that it was precisely this about
which he preached the Sunday before.

Let us then either waive the whole story of Abraharn, or else learn
to stand in awe of the enormous paradox which constitutes his
significance for us, so that we may learn to understand that our
age, like every age, may rejoice if it has faith. If the story of
Abraham is not a mere nothing, an illusion, or if it is just used for
show and as a pastime, the mistake cannot by any means be in the
sinner's wishing to do likewise; but it is necessary to find out how
great was the deed which Abraham performed, in order that the
man may judge for himself whether he has the courage and the
mission to do likewise. The comical contradiction in the procedure
of the preacher was his reduction of the story of Abraham to
insignificance whereas he rebuked the other man for doing the
very same thing.

But should we then cease to speak about Abraham? I certainly
think not. But if I were to speak about him I would first of all
describe the terrors of his trial. To that end leechlike I would suck
all the suffering and distress out of the anguish of a father, in order
to be able to describe what Abraham suffered whilst yet preserving
his faith. I would remind the hearer that the journey lasted three
days and a goodly part of the fourth in fact, these three and half
days ought to become infinitely longer than the few thousand years
which separate me from Abraham. I would remind him, as I think
right, that every person is still permitted to turn about before trying
his strength on this formidable task; in fact, that he may return
every instant in repentence. Provided this is done, I fear for
nothing. Nor do I fear to awaken great desire among people to
attempt to emulate Abraham. But to get out a cheap edition of
Abraham and yet forbid every one to do as he did, that I call
ridiculous.

[1] Freely after Genesis 22.

[2] Genesis 20, 11 f.

[3] Genesis 22,1.

[4] Luke 23, 30.

[5] Genesis 22, 3 and 9.

Cf. Thessalonians 3, 10.

[7] In Aladin, Oehlenschl„ger's famous dramatic poem, Aladdin,
"the cheerful son of nature," is contrasted with Noureddin,
representing the gloom of doubt and night.

[8] Matthew 5, 45.

[9] Cf. not the legend but Plato's Symposion.

[10] Matthew 3, 9.

[11] Isaiah 26, 18.

[12] Themistocles, that is; see Plutarch, Lives.

[13] Matthew 19,16f.

[14] Your cause, too, is at stake.

[15] By his own impulse and on his own responsibility.

[16] Cf. I Cor. 10,12.

The above, with the omissions indicated, constitutes about
one-third of "Fear and Trembling."

PREPARATION FOR A CHRISTIAN LIFE

I

"COME HITHER UNTO ME, ALL YE THAT LABOR AND ARE
HEAVY LADEN, AND I WILL GIVE YOU REST."
(MATTHEW 11,28.)

THE INVITATION

I

"C o m e h i t h e r!" It is not at all strange if he who is in danger
and needs help speedy, immediate help, perhaps it is not strange if
he cries out: "come hither"! Nor it is strange that a quack cries his
wares: "come hither, I cure all maladies"; alas, for in the case of
the quack it is only too true that it is the physician who has need of
the sick. "Come hither all ye who at extortionate prices can pay for
the cure or at any rate for the medicine; here is physic for
everybody who can pay; come hither!"

In all other cases, however, it is generally true that he who can
help must be sought; and, when found, may be difficult of access;
and, if access is had, his help may have to be implored a long time;
and when his help has been implored a long time, he may be
moved only with difficulty, that is, he sets a high price on his
services; and sometimes, precisely when he refuses payment or
generously asks for none, it is only an expression of how infinitely
high he values his services. On the other hand, he who sacrificed
himself, he sacrifices himself, here too; it is indeed he who seeks
those in need of help, is himself the one who goes about and calls,
almost imploringly: "come hither!" He, the only one who can help,
and help with what alone is indispensable, and can save from the
one truly mortal disease, he does not wait for people to come to
him, but comes himself, without having been called; for it is he
who calls out to them, it is he who holds out help and what help!
Indeed, that simple sage of antiquity was as infinitely right as the
majority who do the opposite are wrong, in setting no great price,
whether on himself or his instruction; even if he thus in a certain
sense proudly expressed the utter difference in kind between
payment and his services. But he was not so solicitous as to beg
any one to come to him, notwithstanding or shall I say because? he
was not altogether sure what his help signified; for the more sure
one is that his help is the only one obtainable, the more reason has
he, in a human sense, to ask a great price for it; and the less sure
one is, the more reason has he to offer freely the possible help he
has, in order to do at least something for others. But he who calls
himself the Savior, and knows that he is, he calls out solicitously:
"come hither unto me!"

"Come hither a l l y e!" Strange! For if he who, when it comes to
the point, perhaps cannot help a single one if such a one should
boastfully invite everybody, that would not seem so very strange,
man's nature being such as it is. But if a man is absolutely sure of
being able to help, and at the same time willing to help, willing to
devote his all in doing so, and with all sacrifices, then he generally
makes at least one reservation; which is, to make a choice among
those he means to help. That is, however willing one may be, still
it is not everybody one cares to help; one does not care to sacrifice
one's self to that extent. But he, the only one who can really help,
and really help everybody the only one, therefore, who really can
invite everybody he makes no conditions whatever; but utters the
invitation which, from the beginning of the world, seems to have
been reserved for him: "Come hither all ye!" Ah, human
self-sacrifice, even when thou art most beautiful and noble, when
we admire thee most: this is a sacrifice still greater, which is, to
sacrifice every provision for one's own self, so that in one's
willingness to help there is not even the least partiality. Ah, the
love that sets no price on one's self, that makes one forget
altogether that he is the helper, and makes one altogether blind as
to who it is one helps, but infinitely careful only that he be a
sufferer, whatever else he may be; and thus willing unconditionally
to help everybody different, alas! in this from everybody!

"Come hither u n t o m e!" Strange! For human compassion also,
and willingly, does something for them that labor and are heavy
laden; one feeds the hungry, clothes the naked, makes charitable
gifts, builds charitable institutions, and if the compassion be
heartfelt, perhaps even visits those that labor and are heavy laden.
But to invite them to come to one, that will never do, because then
all one's household and manner of living would have to be
changed. For a man cannot himself live in abundance, or at any
rate in well-being and happiness, and at the same time dwell in one
and the same house together with, and in daily intercourse with,
the poor and miserable, with them that labor and are heavy laden!
In order to be able to invite them in such wise, a man must himself
live altogether in the same way, as poor as the poorest, as lowly as
the lowliest, familiar with the sorrows and sufferings of life, and
altogether belonging to the same station as they, whom he invites,
that is, they who labor and are heavy laden. If he wishes to invite a
sufferer, he must either change his own condition to be like that of
the sufferer, or else change that of the sufferer to be like his own;
for if this is not done the difference will stand out only the more by
contrast. And if you wish to invite all those who suffer for you may
make an exception with one of them and change his condition it
can be done only in one way, which is, to change your condition so
as to live as they do; provided your life be not already lived thus,
as was the case with him who said: "Come hither unto me, all ye
that labor and are heavy laden!" Thus said he; and they who lived
with him saw him, and behold! there was not even the least thing
in his manner of life to contradict it. With the silent and truthful
eloquence of actual performance his life expresses even though he
had never in his life said these words his life expresses: "Come
hither unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden"! He abides
by his word, or he himself is the word; he is what he says, and also
in this sense he is the Word.

"A l l y e t h a t l a b o r a n d a r e h e a v y l a d e n." Strange!
His only concern is lest there be a single one who labors and is
heavy laden who does not hear this invitation. Neither does he fear
that too many will come. Ah, heart-room makes house-room; but
where wilt thou find heart-room, if not in his heart? He leaves it to
each one how to understand his invitation: he has a clear
conscience about it, for he has invited all those that labor and are
heavy laden.

But what means it, then, to labor and be heavy laden? Why does he
not offer a clearer explanation so that one may know exactly
whom he means, and why is he so chary of his words? Ah, thou
narrow-minded one, he is so chary of his words, lest he be
narrow-minded; and thou narrow-hearted one, he is so chary of his
words lest he be narrow-hearted. For such is his love and love has
regard to all as to prevent any one from troubling and searching his
heart whether he too be among those invited. And he who would
insist on a more definite explanation, is he not likely to be some
self-loving person who is calculating whether this explanation
does not particularly fit himself; one who does not consider that
the more of such exact explanations are offered, the more certainly
some few would be left in doubt as to whether they were invited?
Ah man, why does thine eye see only thyself, why is it evil because
he is good?a The invitation to all men opens the arms of him who
invites, and thus he stands of aspect everlasting; but no sooner is a
closer explanation attempted which might help one or the other to
another kind of certainty, than his aspect would be transformed
and, as it were, a shadow of change would pass over his
countenance.

"I w i l l g i v e y o u r e s t." Strange! For then the words "come
hither unto me" must be understood to mean: stay with me, I am
rest; or, it is rest to remain with me. It is not, then, as in other cases
where he who helps and says "come hither" must afterwards say:
"now depart again," explaining to each one where the help he
needs is to be found, where the healing herb grows which will cure
hirn, or where the quiet spot is found where he may rest frorn
labor, or where the happier continent exists where one is not heavy
laden. But no, he who opens his arms, inviting every one ah, if all,
all they that labor and are heavy laden came to him, he would fold
them all to his heart, saying: "stay with me now; for to stay with
me is rest." The helper himself is the help. Ah, strange, he who
invites everybody and wishes to help everybody, his manner of
treating the sick is as if calculated for every sick man, and as if
every sick man who comes to him were his only patient. For
otherwise a physician divides his time among many patients who,
however great their number, still are far, far from being all
mankind. He will prescribe the medicine, he will say what is to be
done, and how it is to be used, and then he will go to some other
patient; or, in case the patient should visit him, he will let him
depart. The physician cannot remain sitting all day with one
patient, and still less can he have all his patients about him in his
home, and yet sit all day with one patient without neglecting the
others. For this reason the helper and his help are not one and the
same thing. The help which the physician prescribes is kept with
him by the patient all day so that he may constantly use it, whilst
the physician visits him now and again; or he visits the physician
now and again. But if the helper is also the help, why, then he will
stay with the sick man all day, or the sick man with him ah,
strange that it is just this helper who invites all men!

II

COME HITHER ALL YE THAT LABOR AND ARE HEAVY
LADEN, I WILL GIVE YOU REST.

What enormous multiplicity, what an almost boundless adversity,
of people invited; for a man, a lowly man, may, indeed, try to
enumerate only a few of these diversities that he who invites must
invite all men, even if every one especially and individually.

The invitation goes forth, then along the highways and byways,
and along the loneliest paths; aye, goes forth ere there is a path so
lonely that one man only, and no one else, knows of it, and goes
forth where there is but one track, the track of the wretched one
who fled along that path with his misery, that and no other track;
goes forth even where there is no path to show how one may
return: even where the invitation penetrates and by itself easily and
surely finds its way back most easily, indeed, when it brings the
fugitive along to him that issued the invitation. Come hither, come
hither all ye, also thou, and thou, and thou, too, thou loneliest of
all fugitives!

Thus the invitation goes forth and remains standing, wheresoever
there is a parting of the ways, in order to call out. Ah, just as the
trumpet call of the soldiers is directed to the four quarters of the
globe, likewise does this invitation sound wherever there is a
meeting of roads; with no uncertain sound for who would then
come? but with the certitude of eternity.

It stands by the parting of the ways where worldly and earthly
sufferings have set down their crosses, and calls out: Come hither,
all ye poor and wretched ones, ye who in poverty must slave in
order to assure yourselves, not of a care-free, but of a toilsome,
future; ah, bitter contradiction, to have to slave for a s s u r i n g
one's self of that under which one groans, of that which one f l e e
s! Ye despised and overlooked ones, about whose existence no
one, aye, no one is concerned, not so much even as about some
domestic animal which is of greater value! Ye sick, and halt, and
blind, and deaf, and crippled, come hither! Ye bed-ridden, aye,
come hither, ye too; for the invitation makes bold to invite even
the bed-ridden to come! Ye lepers; for the invitation breaks down
all differences in order to unite all, it wishes to make good the
hardship caused by the difference in men, the difference which
seats one as a ruler over millions, in possession of all gifts of
fortune, and drives another one out into the wilderness and why?
(ah, the cruelty of it!) because (ah, the cruel human inference!) b e
c a u s e he is wretched, indescribably wretched. Why then?
Because he stands in need of help, or at any rate, of compassion.
And why, then? Because human compassion is a wretched thing
which is cruel when there is the greatest need of being
compassionate, and compassionate only when, at bottom, it is not
true compassion! Ye sick of heart, Ye who only through your
anguish learned to know that a man's heart and an animal's heart
are two different things, and what it means to be sick at heart what
it means when the physician may be right in declaring one sound
of heart and yet heart-sick; ye whom faithlessness deceived and
whom human sympathy for the sympathy of man is rarely late in
coming whom human sympathy made a target for mockery; all ye
wronged and aggrieved and ill-used; all ye noble ones who, as any
and everybody will be able to tell you, deservedly reap the reward
of ingratitude (for why were ye simple enough to be noble, why
foolish enough to be kindly, and disinterested, and faithful) all ye
victims of cunning, of deceit, of backbiting, of envy, whom
baseness chose as its victim and cowardice left in the lurch,
whether now ye be sacrificed in remote and lonely places, after
having crept away in order to die, or whether ye be trampled
underfoot in the thronging crowds where no one asks what rights
ye have, and no one, what wrongs ye suffer, and no one, where ye
smart or how ye smart, whilst the crowd with brute force tramples
you into the dust come ye hither!

The invitation stands at the parting of the ways, where death parts
death and life. Come hither all ye that sorrow and ye that vainly
labor! For indeed there is rest in the grave; but to sit by a grave, or
to stand by a grave, or to visit a grave, all that is far from lying in
the grave; and to read to one's self again and again one's own
words which he knows by heart, the epitaph which one devised
one's self and understands best, namely, who it is that lies buried h
e r e, all that is not the same as to lie buried one's self. In the grave
there is rest, but by the grave there is no rest; for it is said: so far
and no farther, and so you may as well go home again. But
however often, whether in your thoughts or in fact, you return to t
h a t grave you will never get any farther, you will not get away
from the spot, and this is very trying and is by no means rest.
Come ye hither, therefore: here is the way by which one may go
farther, here is rest by the grave, rest from the sorrow over loss, or
rest in the sorrow of loss through him who everlastingly re-unites
those that are parted, and more firmly than nature unites parents
with their children, and children with their parents for, alas! they
were parted; and more closely than the minister unites husband
and wife for, alas! their separation did come to pass; and more
indissollubly than the bond of friendship unites friend with friend
for, alas! it was broken. Separation penetrated everywhere and
brought with it sorrow and unrest; but here is rest! Come hither
also ye who had your abodes assigned you among the graves, ye
who are considered dead to human society, but neither missed nor
mourned not buried and yet dead; that is, belonging neither to life
nor to death; ye, alas! to whom human society cruelly closed its
doors and for whom no grave has as yet opened itself in pity come
hither, ye also, here is rest, and here is life!

The invitation stands at the parting of the ways, where the road of
sin turns away from the inclosure of innocence ah, come hither, ye
are so close to him; but a single step in the opposite direction, and
ye are infinitely far from him. Very possibly ye do not yet stand in
need of rest, nor grasp fully what that means; but still follow the
invitation, so that he who invites may save you from a predicament
out of which it is so difficult and dangerous to be saved; and so
that, being saved, ye may stay with him who is the Savior of all,
likewise of innocence. For even if it were possible that innocence
be found somewhere, and altogether pure: why should not
innocence also need a savior to keep it safe from evil? The
invitation stands at the parting of the ways, where the road of sin
turns away, to enter more deeply into sin. Come hither all ye who
have strayed and have been lost, whatever may have been your
error and sin: whether one more pardonable in the sight of man
and nevertheless perhaps more frightful, or one more terrible in the
sight of man and yet, perchance, more pardonable; whether it be
one which became known here on earth or one which, though
hidden, yet is known in heaven and even if ye found pardon here
on earth without finding rest in your souls, or found no pardon
because ye did not seek it, or because ye sought it in vain: ah,
return and come hither, here is rest!

The invitation stands at the parting of the ways, where the road of
sin turns away for the last time and to the eye is lost in perdition.
Ah, return, return, and come hither! Do not shrink from the
difficulties of the retreat, however great; do not fear the irksome
way of conversion, however laboriously it may lead to salvation;
whereas sin with winged speed and growing pace leads forward or
downward, so easily, so indescribably easy as easily, in fact, as
when a horse, altogether freed from having to pull, cannot even
with all his might stop the vehicle which pushes him into the
abyss. Do not despair over each relapse which the God of patience
has patience enough to pardon, and which a sinner should surely
have patience enough to humble himself under. Nay, fear nothing
and despair not: he that sayeth "come hither," he is with you on the
way, from him come help and pardon on that way of conversion
which leads to him; and with him is rest.

Come hither all, all ye with him is rest; and he will raise no
difficulties, he does but one thing: he opens his arms. He will not
first ask you, you sufferer as righteous men, alas, are accustomed
to, even when willing to help "Are you not perhaps yourself the
cause of your misfortune, have you nothing with which to reproach
yourself?" It is so easy to fall into this very human error, and from
appearances to judge a man's success or failure: for instance, if a
man is a cripple, or deformed, or has an unprepossessing
appearance, to infer that therefore he is a bad man; or, when a man
is unfortunate enough to suffer reverses so as to be ruined or so as
to go down in the world, to infer that therefore he is a vicious man.
Ah, and this is such an exquisitely cruel pleasure, this being
conscious of one's own righteousness as against the sufferer
explaining his afflictions as God's punishment, so that one does not
even dare to help him; or asking him that question which
condemns him and flatters our own righteousness, before belping
him. But he will not ask you thus, will not in such cruel fashion be
your benefactor. And if you are yourself conscious of your sin he
will not ask about it, will not break still further the bent reed, but
raise you up, if you will but join him. He will not point you out by
way of contrast, and place you outside of himself, so that your sin
will stand out as still more terrible, but he will grant you a hiding
place within him; and hidden within him your sins will be hidden.
For he is the friend of sinners. Let him but behold a sinner, and he
not only stands still, opening his arms and saying "come hither,"
nay, but he stands and waits, as did the father of the prodigal son;
or he does not merely remain standing and waiting, but goes out to
search, as the shepherd went forth to search for the strayed sheep,
or as the woman went to search for the lost piece of silver. He goes
nay, he has gone, but an infinitely longer way than any shepherd or
any woman, for did he not go the infinitely long way from being
God to becoming man, which he did to seek sinners?

III

COME HITHER UNTO ME

ALL YE THAT LABOR AND ARE HEAVYLADEN,

AND I WILL GIVE YOU REST.

"C o m e h i t h e r!" For he supposes that they that labor and are
heavy laden feel their burden and their labor, and that they stand
there now, perplexed and sighing one casting about with his eyes
to discover whether there is help in sight anywhere; another with
his eyes fixed on the ground, because he can see no consolation;
and a third with his eyes staring heavenward, as though help was
bound to come from heaven but all seeking. Therefore he sayeth:
"come hither!" But he invites not him who has ceased to seek and
to sorrow.-"C o m e h i t h e r!" For he who invites knows that it is
a mark of true suffering, if one walks alone and broods in silent
disconsolateness, without courage to confide in any one, and with
even less self-confidence to dare to hope for help. Alas, not only
he whom we read about was possessed of a dumb devil. No
suffering which does not first of all render the sufferer dumb is of
much significance, no more than the love which does not render
one silent; for those sufferers who run on about their afflictions
neither labor nor are heavy laden. Behold, therefore the inviter will
not wait till they that labor and are heavy laden come to him, but
calls them lovingly; for all his willingness to help might, perhaps,
be of no avail if he did not say these words and thereby take the
first step; for in the call of these words: "come hither unto me!" he
comes himself to them. Ah, human compassion sometimes,
perhaps, it is indeed praiseworthy self-restraint, sometimes,
perhaps, even true compassion, which may cause you to refrain
from questioning him whom you suppose to be brooding over a
hidden affliction; but also, how often indeed is this compassion
but worldly wisdom which does not care to know too much! Ah,
human compassion how often was it not pure curiosity, and not
compassion, which prompted you to venture into the secret of one
afflicted; and how burdensome it was almost like a punishment of
your curiosity when he accepted your invitation and came to you!
But he who sayeth these redeeming words "Come hither!" he is not
deceiving himself in saying these words, nor will he deceive you
when you come to him in order to find rest by throwing your
burden on him. He follows the promptings of his heart in saying
these words, and his heart follows his words; if you then follow
these words, they will follow you back again to his heart. This
follows as a matter of course ah, will you not follow the
invitation? "C o m e h i t h e r!" For supposes that they that labor
and are heavy laden are so orn out and overtaxed, and so near
swooning that they have forgotten, as though in a stupor, that there
is such thing as consolation. Alas, or he knows for sure that there
is no consolation and no help unless it is sought from him; and
therefore must he call out to them "Come hither!"

"C o m e h i t h e r!" For is it not so that every society has some
symbol or token which is worn by those who belong to it? When a
young girl is adorned in a certain manner one knows that she is
going to the dance: Come hither all ye that labor and are heavy
laden come hither! You need not carry an external and visible
badge; come but with A your head anointed and your face washed,
if only you labor in your heart and are heavy laden.

"Come hither!" Ah, do not stand still and consider; nay, consider,
consider that with every moment you stand still after having heard
the invitation you will hear the call more faintly and thus withdraw
from it, even though you are standing still. "Come hither!" Ah,
however weary and faint you be from work, or from the long, long
and yet hitherto fruitless search for help and salvation, and even
though you may feel as if you could not take one more step, and
not wait one more moment, without dropping to the ground: ah,
but this one step and here is rest! "Come hither!" But if, alas, there
be one who is so wretched that he cannot come? Ah, a sigh is
sufficient; your mere sighing for him is also to come hither.

THE PAUSE

COME HITHER UNTO ME ALL YE THAT LABOR AND ARE
HEAVY LADEN, AND I SHALL GIVE YOU REST.

Pause now! But what is there to give pause? That which in the
same instant makes all undergo an absolute change so that, instead
of seeing an immense throng of them that labor and are heavy
laden following the invitation, you will in the end behold the very
opposite, that is, an immense throng of men who flee back
shudderingly, scrambling to get away, trampling all down before
them; so that, if one were to infer the sense of what had been said
from the result it produced, one would have to infer that the words
had been "procul o procul este profani", rather than "come hither"
that gives pause which is infinitely more important and infinitely
more decisive: THE PERSON OF HIM WHO INVITES. Not in the
sense that he is not the man to do what he has said, or not God, to
keep what he has promised; no, in a very different sense.

Pause is given by the fact that he who invites is, and insists on
being, the definite historic person he was 1800 years ago, and that
he as this definite person, and living under the conditions then
obtaining, spoke these words of invitation. He is not, and does not
wish to be, one about whom one may simply know something
from history (i.e. world history, history proper, as against Sacred
History) ; for from history one cannot "learn" anything about him,
the simple reason being that nothing can be "known" about him.
He does not wish to be judged in a human way, from the results of
his life; that is, he is and wishes to be, a rock of offense and the
object of faith. To judge him after the consequences of his life is a
blasphemy, for being God, his life, and the very fact that he was
then living and really did live, is infinitely more important than all
the consequences of it in history.

a.

Who spoke these words of invitation?

He that invites. Who is he? Jesus Christ. Which Jesus Christ? He
that sits in glory on the right side of his Father? No. From his seat
of glory he spoke not a single word. Therefore it is Jesus Christ in
his lowliness, and in the condition of lowliness, who spoke these
words.

Is then Jesus Christ not the same? Yes, verily, he is today, and was
yesterday, and 1800 years ago, the same who abased himself,
assuming the form of a servant the Jesus Christ who spake these
words of invitation. It is also he who hath said that he would return
again in glory. In his return in glory he is, again, the same Jesus
Christ; but this has not yet come to pass.

Is he then not in glory now? Assuredly, that the Christian b e l i e
v e s. But it was in his lowly condition that he spoke these words;
he did not speak them from his glory. And about his return in glory
nothing can be known, for this can in the strictest sense be a matter
of belief only. But a believer one cannot become except by having
gone to him in his lowly condition to him, the rock of offense and
the object of faith. In other shape he does not exist, for only thus
did he exist. That he will return in glory is indeed expected, but
can be expected and believed only by him who believes, and has
believed, in him as he was here on earth.

Jesus Christ is, then, the same; yet lived he 1800 years ago in
debasement, and is transfigured only at his return. As yet he has
not returned; therefore he is still the one in lowly guise about
whom we believe that he will return in glory. Whatever he said
and taught, every word he spoke, becomes eo ipso untrue if we
give it the appearance of having been spoken by Christ in his
glory. Nay, he is silent. It is the l o w l y Christ who speaks. The
space of time between (i.e. between his debasement and his return
in glory) which is at present about 1800 years, and will possibly
become many times 1800 this space of time, or else what this
space of time tries to make of Christ, the worldly information
about him furnished by world history or church history, as to who
Christ was, as to who it was who really spoke these words all this
does not concern us, is neither here nor there, but only serves to
corrupt our conception of him, and thereby renders untrue these
words of invitation.

It is untruthful of me to impute to a person words which he never
used. But it is likewise untruthful, and the words he used likewise
become untruthful, or it becomes untrue that he used them, if I
assign to him a nature essentially unlike the one he had when he
did use them. Essentially unlike; for an untruth concerning this or
the other trifling circumstance will not make it untrue that "he"
said them. And therefore, if it please God to walk on earth in such
strict incognito as only one all-powerful can assume, in guise
impenetrable to all men; if it please him and why he does it, for
what purpose, that he knows best himself; but whatever the reason
and the purpose, it is certain that the incognito is of essential
significance I say, if it please God to walk on earth in the guise of
a servant and, to judge from his appearance, exactly like any other
man; if it please him to teach men in this guise if, now, any one
repeats his very words, but gives the saying the appearance that it
was God that spoke these words: then it is untruthful; for it is
untrue that he said these words.

b.

Can one from history learn to know anything about Christ?

No. And why not? Because one cannot "know" anything at all
about "Christ"; for he is the paradox, the object of faith, and exists
only for faith. But all historic information is communication of
"knowledge." Therefore one cannot learn anything about Christ
from history. For whether now one learn little or much about him,
it will not represent what he was in reality. Hence one learns
something else about him than what is strictly true, and therefore
learns nothing about him, or gets to know something wrong about
him; that is, one is deceived. History makes Christ look different
from what he looked in truth, and thus one learns much from
history about Christ? No, not about Christ; because about him
nothing can be "known," he can only be believed.

c.

Can one prove from history that Christ was God?

Let me first ask another question: is any more absurd contradiction
thinkable than wishing to PROVE (no matter, for the present,
whether one wishes to do so from history, or from whatever else in
the wide world one wishes to prove it) that a certain person is
God? To maintain that a certain person is God that is, professes to
be God is indeed a stumbling block in the purest sense. But what is
the nature of a stumbling block? It is an assertion which is at
variance with all (human) reason. Now think of proving that! But
to prove something is to render it reasonable and real. Is it
possible, then, to render reasonable and real what is at variance
with all reason? Scarcely; unless one wishes to contradict one's
self. One can prove only that it is at variance with all reason. The
proofs for the divinity of Christ given in Scripture, such as the
miracles and his resurrection from the grave exist, too, only for
faith; that is, they are no "proofs," for they are not meant to prove
that all this agrees with reason but, on the contrary, are meant to
prove that it is at variance with reason and therefore a matter of
faith.

First, then, let us take up the proofs from history. "Is it not 1800
years ago now that Christ lived, is not his name proclaimed and
reverenced throughout the world, has not his teaching
(Christianity) changed the aspect of the world, having victoriously
affected all affairs: has then history not sufficiently, or more than
sufficiently, made good its claim as to who he was, and that he
was-God?" No, indeed, history has by no means sufficiently, or
more than sufficiently, made good its claim, and in fact history
cannot accomplish this in all eternity. However, as to the first part
of the statement, it is true enough that his name is proclaimed
throughout the world as to whether it is reverenced, that I do not
presume to decide. Also, it is true enough that Christianity has
transformed the aspect of the world, having victoriously affected
all affairs, so victoriously indeed, that everybody now claims to be
a Christian.

But what does this prove? It proves, at most, that Jesus Christ was
a great man, the greatest, perhaps, who ever lived. But that he was
God stop now, that conclusion shall with God's help fall to the
ground.

Now, if one intends to introduce this conclusion by assuming that
Jesus Christ was a man, and then considers the 1800 years of
history (i.e. the consequences of his life), one may indeed conclude
with a constantly rising superlative: he was great, greater, the
greatest, extraordinarily and astonishingly the greatest man who
ever lived. If one begins, on the other hand, with the assumption
(of faith) that he was God, one has by so doing stricken out and
cancelled the 1800 years as not making the slightest difference,
one way or the other, because the certainty of faith is on infinitely
higher plane. And one course or the other one must take; but we
shall arrive at sensible conclusions only if we take the latter.

If one takes the former course one will find it impossible unless by
committing the logical error of passing over into different category
one will find it impossible in the conclusion suddenly to arrive at
the new category "God"; that is, one cannot make the consequence,
or consequences, of a man's life suddenly prove at a certain point
in the argument that this man was God. If such a procedure were
correct one ought to be able to answer satisfactorily a question like
this: what must the consequence be, how great the effects, how
many centuries must elapse, in order to infer from the
consequences of a man's life for such was the assumption that he
was God; or whether it is really the case that in the year 300 Christ
had not yet been entirely proved to be God, though certainly the
most extraordinarily, astonishingly, greatest man who had ever
lived, but that a few more centuries would be necessary to prove
that he was God. In that case we would be obliged to infer that
people the fourth century did not look upon Christ as God, and still
less they who lived in the first century; whereas the certainty that
he was God would grow with every century. Also, that in our
century this certainty would be greater than it had ever been, a
certainty in comparison with which the first centuries hardly so
much as glimpsed his divinity. You may answer this question or
not, it does not matter.

In general, is it at all possible by the consideration of the gradually
unfolding consequences of something to arrive at conclusion
different in quality from what we started with? Is it not sheer
insanity (providing man is sane) to let one's judgment become so
altogether confused as to land in the wrong category? And if one
begins with such a mistake, then how will one be able, at any
subsequent point, to infer from the consequences of something,
that one has to deal with an altogether different, in fact, infinitely
different, category? A foot-print certainly is the consequence of
some creature having made it. Now I may mistake the track for
that of, let us say, a bird; whereas by nearer inspection, and by
following it for some distance, I may make sure that it was made
by some other animal. Very good; but there was no infinite
difference in quality between iny first assumption and my later
conclusion. But can I on further consideration and following the
track still further, arrive at the conclusion: therefore it was a spirit
a spirit that leaves no tracks? Precisely the same holds true of the
argument that from the consequences of a human life for that was
the assumption we may infer that therefore it was God.

Is God then so like man, is there so little difference between the
two that, while in possession of my right senses, I may begin with
the assumption that Christ was human? And, for that matter, has
not Christ himself affirmed that he was God? On the other hand, if
God and man resemble each other so closely, and are related to
each other to such a degree that is, essentially belong to the same
category of beings, then the conclusion "therefore he was God" is
nevertheless just humbug, because if that is all there is to being
God, then God does not exist at all. But if God does exist and,
therefore, belongs to a category infinitely different from man, why,
then neither I nor any one else can start with the assumption that
Christ was human and end with the conclusion that therefore he
was God. Any one with a bit of logical sense will easily recognize
that the whole question about the consequences of Christ's life on
earth is incommensurable with the decision that he is God. In fact,
this decision is to be made on an altogether different plane: man
must decide for himself whether he will believe Christ to be what
he himself affirmed he was, that is, God, or whether he will not
believe so.

What has been said mind you, providing one will take the time to
understand it is sufficient to make a logrical mind stop drawing
any inferences from the consequences of Christ's life: that
therefore he was God. But faith in its own right protests against
every attempt to approach Jesus Christ by the help of historical
information about the consequences of his life. Faith contends that
this whole attempt is b l a s p h e m o u s. Faith contends that the
only proof left unimpaired by unbelief when it did away with all
the other proofs of the truth of Christianity, the proof which
indeed, this is complicated business I say, which unbelief invented
in order to prove the truth of Christianity the proof about which so
excessively much ado has been made in Christendom, the proof of
1800 years: as to this, faith contends that it is b l a s p h e m y.

With regard to a man it is true that the consequences of his life are
more important than his life. If one, then, in order to find out who
Christ was, and in order to find out by some inference, considers
the consequences of his life: why, then one changes him into a
man by this very act a man who, like other men, is to pass his
examination in history, and history is in this case as mediocre an
examiner as any half-baked teacher in Latin.

But strange! By the help of history, that is, by considering the
consequences of his life, one wishes to arrive at the conclusion
that therefore, therefore he was God; and faith makes the exactly
opposite contention that he who even begins with this syllogism is
guilty of blasphemy. Nor does the blasphemy consist in assuming
hypothetically that Christ was a man. No, the blasphemy consists
in the thought which lies at the bottom of the whole business, the
thought without which one would never start it, and of whose
validity one is fully and firmly assured that it will hold also with
regard to Christ the thought that the consequences of his life are
more important than his life; in other words, that he is a man. The
hypothesis is: let us assume that Christ was a man; but at the
bottom of this hypothesis, which is not blasphemy as yet, there lies
the assumption that, the consequences of a man's life being more
important than his life, this will hold true also of Christ. Unless
this is assumed one must admit that one's whole argument is
absurd, must admit it before beginning so why begin at all? But
once it is assumed, and the argument is started, we have the
blasphemy. And the more one becomes absorbed in the
consequences of Christ's life, with the aim of being able to make
sure whether or no he was God, the more blasphemous is one's
conduct; and it remains blasphemous so long as this consideration
is persisted in.

Curious coincidence: one tries to make it appear that, providing
one but thoroughly considers the consequences of Christ's life, this
"therefore" will surely be arrived at and faith condemns the very
beginning of this attempt as blasphemy, and hence the continuance
in it as a worse blasphemy.

"History," says faith, "has nothing to do with Christ." With regard
to him we have only Sacred History (which is different in kind
from general history), Sacred History which tells of his life and
career when in debasement, and tells also that he affirmed himself
to be God. He is the paradox which history never will be able to
digest or convert into a general syllogism. He is in his debasement
the same as he is in his exaltation but the 1800 years, or let it be
18,000 years, have nothing whatsoever to do with this. The
brilliant consequences in the history of the world which are
sufficient, almost, to convince even a professor of history that he
was God, these brilliant consequences surely do not represent his
return in glory! Forsooth, in that case it were imagined rather
meanly! The same thing over again: Christ is thought to be a man
whose return in glory can be, and can become, nothing else than
the consequences of his life in history whereas Christ's return in
glory is something absolutely different and a matter of faith. He
abased himself and was swathed in rags he will return in glory; but
the brilliant consequences in history, especially when examined a
little more closely, are too shabby a glory at any rate a glory of an
altogether incongruous nature, of which faith therefore never
speaks, when speaking about his glory. History is a very
respectable science indeed, only it must not become so conceited
as to take upon itself what the Father will do, and clothe Christ in
his glory, dressing him up with the brilliant garments of the
consequences of his life, as if that constituted his return. That he
was God in his debasement and that he will return in glory, all this
is far beyond the comprehension of history; nor can all this be got
from history, excepting by an incomparable lack of logic, and
however incomparable one's view of history may be otherwise.

How strange, then, that one ever wished to use history in order to
prove Christ divine.

d.

Are the consequences of Christ's life more important than his life?

No, by no means, but rather the opposite; for else Christ were but a
man.

There is really nothing remarkable in a man having lived. There
have certainly lived millions upon millions of men. If the fact is
remarkable, there must have been something remarkable in a
man's life. In other words, there is nothing remarkable in his
having lived, but his life was remarkable for this or that. The
remarkable thing may, among other matters, also be what he
accomplished; that is, the consequences of his life.

But that God lived here on earth in human form, that is infinitely
remarkable. No matter if his life had had no consequences at all it
remains equally remarkable, infinitely remarkable, infinitely more
remarkable than all possible consequences. Just try to introduce
that which is remarkable as something secondary and you will
straightway see the absurdity of doing so: now, if you please,
whatever remarkable is there in God's life having had remarkable
consequences? To speak in this fashion is merely twaddling.

No, that God lived here on earth, that is what is infinitely
remarkable, that which is remarkable in itself. Assuming that
Christ's life had had no consequences whatsoever if any one then
undertook to say that therefore his life was not remarkable it
would be blasphemy. For it would be remarkable all the same; and
if a secondary remarkable characteristic had to be introduced it
would consist in the remarkable fact that his life had no
consequences. But if one should say that Christ's life was
remarkable because of its consequences, then this again were a
blasphemy; for it is his life which in itself is the remarkable thing.

There is nothing very remarkable in a man's having lived, but it is
infinitely remarkable that God has lived. God alone can lay so
much emphasis on himself that the fact of his having lived
becomes infinitely more important than all the consequences
which may flow therefrom and which then become a matter of
history.

A comparison between Christ and a man who in his life endured
the same treatment by his times as Christ endured.

Let us imagine a man, one of the exalted spirits, one who was
wronged by his times, but whom history later reinstated in his
rights by proving by the consequences of his life who he was. I do
not deny, by the way, that all this business of proving from the
consequences is a course well suited to "a world which ever wishes
to be deceived." For he who was contemporary with him and did
not understand who he was, he really only imagines that he
understands when he has got to know it by help of the
consequences of the noble one's life. Still, I do not wish to insist on
this point, for with regard to a man it certainly holds true that the
consequences of his life are more important than the fact of his
having lived.

Let us imagine one of these exalted spirits. He lives among his
contemporaries without being understood, his significance is not
recognized he is misunderstood, and then mocked, persecuted, and
finally put to death like a common evil-doer. But the consequences
of his life make it plain who he was; history which keeps a record
of these consequences re-instates him in his rightful position, and
now he is named in one century after another as the great and the
noble spirit, and the circumstances of his debasement are almost
completely forgotten. It was blindness on the part of his
contemporaries which prevented them from comprehending his
true nature, and wickedness which made them mock him and
deride him, and finally put him to death. But be no more
concerned about this; for only after his death did he really become
what he was, through the consences of his life which, after all, are
by far more important than his life.

Now is it not possible that the same holds true with regard to
Christ? It was blindness and wickedness on the part of those
timesbut be no more concerned about this, history has now
re-instated him, from history we know now who Jesus Christ was,
and thus justice is done him.

Ah, wicked thoughtlessness which thus interprets Sacred istory
like profane history, which makes Christ a man! But can one, then,
learn anything from history about Jesus? (cf. b) No, nothing. Jesus
Christ is the object of faith one either believes in him or is
offended by him; for "to know" means precisely that such
knowledge does not pertain to him. History can therefore, to be
sure, give one knowledge in abundance; but "knowledge"
annihilates Jesus Christ.

Again ah, the impious thoughtlessness! for one to presume to say
about Christ's abasement: "Let us be concerned o more about his
abasement." Surely, Christ's abasement as not something which
merely happened to him even if was the sin of that generation to
crucify him; was surely ot something that simply happened to him
and, perhaps, would not have happened to him in better times.
Christ himself w i s h e d to be abased and lowly. His abasement
(that is, his walking on earth in humble guise, though being God)
is therefore a condition of his own making, something he wished
to be knotted together, a dialectic knot no one shall presume to
untie, and which no one will for that matter, until he himself shall
untie it when returning in his glory.

His case is, therefore, not the same as that of a man who, through
the injustice inflicted on him by his times, was not allowed to be
himself or to be valued at his worth, while history revealed who he
was; for Christ himself wished to be abased it is precisely this
condition which he desired. Therefore, let history not trouble itself
to do him justice, and let us not in impious thoughtlessness
presumptuously imagine that we as a matter of course know who
he was. For that no one knows; and he who believes it must
become contemporaneous with him in his abasement. When God
chooses to let himself be born in lowliness, when he who holds all
possibilities in his hand assumes the form of a humble servant,
when he fares about defenseless, letting people do with him what
they list: he surely knows what he does and why he does it; for it is
at all events he who has power over men, and not men who have
power over him so let not history be so impertinent as to wish to
reveal, who he was.

Lastly ah the blasphemy! if one should presume to say that the
persecution which Christ suffered expresses something accidental!
If a man is persecuted by his generation it does not follow that he
has the right to say that this would happen to him in every age.
Insofar there is reason in what posterity says about letting bygones
be bygones. But it is different with Christ! It is not he who by
letting himself be born, and by appearing in Palestine, is being
examined by history; but it is he who examines, his life is the
examination, not only of that generation, but of m a n k i n d.
Woe unto the generation that would presumptuously dare to say:
"let bygones be bygones, and forget what he suffered, for history
has now revealed who he was and has done justice by him."

If one assumes that history is really able to do this, then the
abasement of Christ bears an accidental relation to him; that is to
say, he thereby is made a man, an extraordinary man to whom this
happened through the wickedness of that generation a fate which
he was far from wishing to suffer, for he would gladly (as is
human) have become a great man; whereas Christ voluntarily
chose to be the lowly one and, although it was his purpose to save
the world, wished also to give expression to what the "truth"
suffered then, and must suffer in every generation. But if this is his
strongest desire, and if he will show himself in his glory only at his
return, and if he has not returned as yet; and if no generation may
be without repentance, but on the contrary every generation must
consider itself a partner in the guilt of that generation: then woe to
him who presumes to deprive him of his lowliness, or to cause
what he suffered to be forgotten, and to clothe him in the fabled
human glory of the historic consequences of his life, which is
neither here nor there.

f.

The Misfortune of Christendom

But precisely this is the misfortune, and has been the misfortune,
in Christendom that Christ is neither the one nor the other neither
the one he was when living on earth, nor he who will return in
glory, but rather one about whom we have learned to know
something in an inadmissible way from history that he was
somebody or other of great account. In an inadmissible and
unlawful way we have learned to k n o w him; whereas to believe
in him is the only permissible mode of approach. Men have
mutually confirmed one another in the opinion that the sum total
of information about him is available if they but consider the result
of his life and the following 1800 years, i.e. the consequences.
Gradually, as this became accepted as the truth, all pith and
strength was distilled out of Christianity; the paradox was relaxed,
one became a Christian without noticing it, without noticing in the
least the possibility of being offended by him. One took over
Christ's teachings, turned them inside out and smoothed them
down he himself guaranteeing them, of course, the man whose life
had had such immense consequences in history! All became plain
as day very naturally, since Christianity in this fashion became
heathendom.

There is in Christendom an incessant twaddling on Sundays about
the glorious and invaluable truths of Christianity, its mild
consolation. But it is indeed evident that Christ lived 1800 years
ago; for the rock of offense and object of faith has become a most
charming fairy-story character, a kind of divine good old man.
People have not the remotest idea of what it means to be offended
by him, and still less, what it means to worship. The qualities for
which Christ is magnified are precisely those which would have
most enraged one, if one had been contemporaneous with him;
whereas now one feels altogether secure, placing implicit
confidence in the result and, relying altogether on the verdict of
history that he was the great man, concludes therefore that it is
correct to do so. That is to say, it is the correct, and the noble, and
the exalted, and the true, thing if it is he who does it; which is to
say, again, that one does not in any deeper sense take the pains to
understand what it is he does, and that one tries even less, to the
best of one's ability and with the help of God, to be like him in
acting rightly and nobly, and in an exalted manner, and truthfully.
For, not really fathoming it in any deeper sense, one may, in the
exigency of a contemporaneous situation, judge him in exactly the
opposite way. One is satisfied with admiring and extolling and is,
perhaps, as was said of a translator who rendered his original word
for word and therefore without making sense, "too conscientious,"
one is, perhaps, also too cowardly and too weak to wish to
understand his real meaning.

Christendom has done away with Christianity, without being
aware of it. Therefore, if anything is to be done about it, the
attempt must be made to re-introduce Christianity.

II

He who invites is, then, Jesus Christ in his abasement, it is he who
spoke these words of invitation. It is not from his glory that they
are spoken. If that were the case, then Christianity were
heathendom and the name of Christ taken in vain, and for this
reason it cannot be so. But if it were the case that he who is
enthroned in glory had said these words: Come hither as though it
were so altogether easy a matter to be clasped in the arms of glory
well, what wonder, then, if crowds of men ran to him! But they
who thus throng to him merely go on a wild goose chase,
imagining they k n o w who Christ is. But that no one k n o w s;
and in order to believe in him one has to begin with his abasement.

He who invites and speaks these words, that is, he whose words
they are whereas the same words if spoken by some one else are,
as we have seen, an historic falsification he is the same lowly
Jesus Christ, the humble man, born of a despised maiden, whose
father is a carpenter, related to other simple folk of the very lowest
class, the lowly man who at the same time (which, to be sure, is
like oil poured on the fire) affirms himself to be God.

It is the lowly Jesus Christ who spoke these words. And no word of
Christ, not a single one, have you permission to appropriate to
yourself, you have not the least share in him, are not in any way of
his company, if you have not become his contemporary in
lowliness in such fashion that you have become aware, precisely
like his contemporaries, of his warning: "Blessed is he whosoever
shall not be offended in me." You have no right to accept Christ's
words, and then lie him away; you have no right to accept Christ's
words, and then in a fantastic manner, and with the aid of history,
utterly change the nature of Christ; for the chatter of history about
him is literally not worth a fig.

It is Jesus Christ in his lowliness who is the speaker. It is
historically true that he said these words; but so soon as one makes
a change in his historic status, it is false to say that these words
were spoken by him.

This poor and lowly man, then, with twelve poor fellows as his
disciples, all from the lowest class of society, for some time an
object of curiosity, but later on in company only with sinners,
publicans, lepers, and madmen; for one risked honor, life, and
property, or at any rate (and that we know for sure) exclusion from
the synagogue, by even letting one's self be helped by him come
hither n o w, all ye that labor and are heavy laden! Ah, my friend,
even if you were deaf and blind and lame and leprous, if you,
which has never been seen or heard before, united all human
miseries in your misery and if he wished to help you by a miracle:
it is possible that (as is human) you would fear more than all your
sufferings the punishment which was set on accepting aid from
him, the punishment of being cast out from the society of other
men, of being ridiculed and mocked, day after day, and perhaps of
losing your life. It is human (and it is characteristic of being
human) were you to think as follows: "no, thank you, in that case I
prefer to remain deaf and blind and lame and leprous, rather than
accept aid under such conditions."

"Come hither, come hither, all, ye that labor and are heavy laden,
ah, come hither," lo! he invites you and opens his arms. Ah, when
a gentlemanly man clad in a silken gown says this in a pleasant,
harmonious voice so that the words pleasantly resound in the
handsome vaulted church, a man in silk who radiates honor and
respect on all who listen to him; ah, when a king in purple and
velvet says this, with the Christmas tree in the background on
which are hanging all the splendid gifts he intends to distribute,
why, then of course there is some meaning in these words! But
whatever meaning you may attach to them, so much is sure that it
is not Christianity, but the exact opposite, something as
diametrically opposed to Christianity as may well be; for
remember who it is that invites!

And now judge for yourself for that you have a right to do;
whereas men really do not have a right to do what is so often done,
viz. to deceive themselves. That a man of such appearance, a man
whose company every one shuns who has the least bit of sense in
his head, or the least bit to lose in the world, that he well, this is
the absurdest and maddest thing of all, one hardly knows whether
to laugh or to weep about it that he indeed, that is the very last
word one would expect to issue from his mouth, for if he had said:
"Come hither and help me," or: "Leave me alone," or: "Spare me,"
or proudly: "I despise you all," we could understand that perfectly
but that such a man says: "Come hither to me!" why, I declare, that
looks inviting indeed! And still further: "All ye that labor and are
heavy laden" as though such folk were not burdened enough with
troubles, as though they now, to cap all, should be exposed to the
consequences of associating with him. And then, finally: "I shall
give you rest." What's that? h e help them? Ah, I am sure even the
most good-natured joker who was contemporary with him would
have to say: "Surely, that was the thing he should have undertaken
last of all to wish to help others, being in that condition himself !
Why, it is about the same as if a beggar were to inform the police
that he had been robbed. For it is a contradiction that one who has
nothing, and has had nothing, informs us that he has been robbed;
and likewise, to wish to help others when one's self needs help
most." Indeed it is, humanly speaking, the most harebrained
contradiction, that he who literally "hath not where to lay his
head," that he about whom it was spoken truly, in a human sense,
"Behold the man!" that he should say: "Come hither unto me all ye
that suffer I shall help!"

Now examine yourself for that you have a right to do, You have a
right to examine yourself, but you really do not have a right to let
yourself without self-examination be deluded by "the others" into
the belief, or to delude yourself into the belief, that you are a
Christian therefore examine yourself: supposing you were
contemporary with him! True enough he alas! he affirmed himself
to be God! But many another madman has made that claim and his
times gave it as their opinion that he uttered blasphemy. Why, was
not that precisely the reason why a punishment was threatened for
allowing one's self to be aided by him? It was the godly care for
their souls entertained by the existing order and by public opinion,
lest any one should be led astray: it was this godly care that led
them to persecute him in this fashion. Therefore, before any one
resolves to be helped by him, let him consider that he must not
only expect the antagonism of men, but consider it well! even if
you could bear the consequences of that step but consider well,
that the punishment meted out by men is supposed to be God's
punishment of him, "the blasphemer" of him who invites!

Come hither n o w all ye that labor and are heavy laden!

How now? Surely this is nothing to run after some little pause is
given, which is most fittingly used to go around about by way of
another street. And even if you should not thus sneak out in some
way always providing you feel yourself to be contemporary with
him or sneak into being some kind of Christian by belonging to
Christendom: yet there will be a tremendous pause given, the
pause which is the very condition that faith may arise: you are
given pause by the possibility of being offended in him.

But in order to make it entirely clear, and bring it home to our
minds, that the pause is given by him who invites, that it is he who
gives us pause and renders it by no means an easy, but a peculiarly
difficult, matter to follow his invitation, because one has no right
to accept it without accepting also him who invites in order to
make this entirely clear I shall briefly review his life under two
aspects which, to be sure, show some difference though both e s s
e n t i a l l y pertain to his abasement. For it is always an
abasement for God to become man, even if he were to be an
emperor of emperors; and therefore he is not e s s e n t i a l l y
more abased because he is a poor, lowly man, mocked, and as
Scripture adds, spat upon.

THE FIRST PHASE OF HIS LIFE

And now let us speak about him in a homely fashion, just as his
contemporaries spoke about him, and as one speaks about some
contemporary let him be a man of the same kind as we are, whom
one meets on the street in passing, of whom one knows where he
lives and in what story, what his business is, who his parents are,
his family, how he looks and how he dresses, with whom he
associates, "and there is nothing extraordinary about him, he looks
as men generally look"; in short, let us speak of him as one speaks
of some contemporary about whom one does not make a great ado;
for in living life together with these thousands upon thousands of r
e a l people there is no room for a fine distinction like this:
"Possibly, this man will be remembered in centuries to come," and
"at the same time he is r e a l l y only a clerk in some shop who is
no whit better than his fellows." Therefore, let us speak about him
as contemporaries speak about some contemporary. I know very
well what I am doing; and I want you to believe that the canting
and indolent world-historic habit we have of always reverently
speaking about Christ (since one has learned all about it from
history, and has heard so much about his having been something
very extraordinary, indeed, or something of that kind) that reverent
habit, I assure you, is not worth row of pins but is, rather, sheer
thoughtlessness, hypocrisy, and as such blasphemy; for it is
blasphemy to reverence thoughtlessly him whom one is either to
believe in or to be offended in.

It is the lowly Jesus Christ, a humble man, born of a maiden of low
degree, whose father is a carpenter. To be sure, his appearance is
made under conditions which are bound to attract attention to him.
The small nation among whom he appears, God's Chosen People
as they call themselves, live in anticipation of a Messiah who is to
bring a golden period to land and people. You must grant that one
form in which he appears is as different as possible from what
most people would have expected. On the other hand, his
appearance corresponds more to the ancient prophecies with which
the people are thought to have been familiar. Thus he presents
himself. A predecessor has called attention to him, and he himself
fastens attention very decidedly on himself by signs and wonders
which are noised abroad in all the land and he is the hero of the
hour, surrounded by unnumbered multitudes of people
wheresoever he fares. The sensation aroused by him is enormous,
every one's eyes are fastened on him, every one who can go about,
aye even those who can only crawl, must see the wonder and every
one must have some opinion about him, so that the purveyors of
ready-made opinions are put to it because the demand is so furious
and the contradictions so confusing. And yet he, the worker of
miracles, ever remains the humble man who literally hath not
where to lay his head.

And let us not forget: signs and wonders as contemporary events
have a markedly greater elasticity in repelling or attracting than the
tame stories generally re-hashed by the priests, or the still tamer
stories about signs and wonders that happened 1800 years ago!
Signs and wonders as contemporary events are something plaguy
and importunate, something which in a highly embarrassing
manner almost compels one to have an opinion, something which,
if one does not happen to be disposed to believe, may exasperate
one excessively by thus forcing one to be contemporaneous with it.
Indeed, it renders existence too complicated, and the more so, the
more thoughtful, developed, and cultured one is. It is a peculiarly
ticklish matter, this having to assume that a man who is
contemporaneous with one really performs signs and wonders; but
when he is at some distance from one, when the consequences of
his life stimulate the imagination a bit, then it is not so hard to
imagine, in a fashion, that one believes it.

As I said, then, the people are carried away with him; they follow
him jubilantly, and see signs and wonders, both those which he
performs and those which he does not perform, and they are glad
in their hope that the golden age will begin, once he is king. But
the crowd rarely have a clear reason for their opinions, they think
one thing today and another tomorrow. Therefore the wise and the
critical will not at once participate. Let us see now what the wise
and the critical must think, so soon as the first impression of
astonishment and surprise has subsided.

The shrewd and critical man would probably say: "Even assuming
that this person is what he claims to be, that is, something
extraordinary for as to his affirming himself to be God I can, of
course, not consider that as anything but an exaggeration for which
I willingly make allowances, and pardon him, if I really considered
him to be something extraordinary; for I am not a pedant assuming
then, which I hesitate to do, for it is a matter on which I shall at
any rate suspend my judgment assuming then that he is really
performing miracles: is it not an inexplicable mystery that this
person can be so foolish, so weak-minded, so altogether devoid of
worldly wisdom, so feeble, or so good-naturedly vain, or whatever
else you please to call it that he behaves in this fashion and almost
forces his benefactions on men? Instead of proudly and
commandingly keeping people away from himself at a distance
marked by their profoundest submission, whenever he does allow
himself to be seen, at rare occasions: instead of doing so, think of
his being accessible to every one, or rather himself going to every
one, of having intercourse with everybody, almost as if being the
extraordinary person consisted in his being everybody's servant, as
if the extraordinary person he claims to be were marked by his
being concerned only lest men should fail to be benefited by him
in short as if being an extraordinary person consisted in being the
most solicitous of all persons. The whole business is inexplicable
to me what he wants, what his purpose is, what end he has in
mind, what he expects to accomplish; in a word, what the meaning
of it all is. He who by so many a wise saying reveals so profound
an insight into the human heart, he must certainly know what I,
using but half of my wits, can predict for him, viz. that in such
fashion one gets nowhere in the world unless, indeed, despising
prudence, one consistently aims to make a fool of one's self or,
perchance, goes so far in sincerity as to prefer being put to death;
but anyone desiring that must certainly be crazy. Having such
profound knowledge of the human heart he certainly ought to
know that the thing to do is to deceive people and then to give
one's deception the appearance of being a benefaction conferred on
the whole race. By doing so one reaps all advantages, even the one
whose enjoyment is the sweetest of all, which is, to be called by
one's contemporaries a benefactor of the human race for, once in
your grave, you may snap your fingers at what posterity may have
to say about you. But to surrender one's self altogether, as he does,
and not to think the least of one's self in fact, almost to beg people
to accept these benefactions: no, I would not dream of joining his
company. And, of course, neither does he invite me; for, indeed,
he invites only them that labor and are heavy laden."

Or he would reason as follows: "His life is simply a fantastic
dream. In fact, that is the mildest expression one can use about it;
for, when judging him in this fashion, one is good-natured enough
to forget altogether the evidence of sheer madness in his claim to
be God. This is wildly fantastical. One may possibly live a few
years of one's youth in such fashion. But he is now past thirty
years. And he is literally nothing. Still further, in a very short time
he will necessarily lose all the respect and reputation he has gained
among the people, the only thing, you may say, he has gained for
himself. One who wishes to keep in the good graces of the people
the riskiest chance imaginable, I will admit he must act differently.
Not many months will pass before the crowd will grow tired of one
who is so altogether at their service. He will be regarded as a
ruined person, a kind of outcast, who ought to be glad to end his
days in a corner, the world forgetting, by the world forgot;
providing he does not, by continuing his previous behavior, prefer
to maintain his present attitude and be fantastic enough to wish to
be put to death, which is the unavoidable consequence of
persevering in that course. What has he done for his future?
Nothing. Has he any assured position? No. What expectations has
he? None. Even this trifling matter: what will he do to pass the
time when he grows older, the long winter nights, what will he do
to make them pass why, he cannot even play cards! He is now
enjoying a bit of popular favor in truth, of all movable property the
most movable which in a trice may turn into an enormous popular
hatred of him. Join his company? No, thank you, I am still, thank
God, in my right mind.

Or he may reason as follows: "That there is something
exrtaordinary about this person even if one reserves the right, both
one's own and that of common sense, to refrain from venturing any
opinion as to his claim of being God about that there is really little
doubt. Rather, one might be indignant at Providence's having
entrusted such a person with these powers a person who does the
very opposite what he himself bids us do: that we shall not cast our
pearls before the swine; for which reason he will, as he himself
predicts, come to grief by their turning about and trampling him
under their feet. One may always expect this of swine; but, on the
other hand, one would not expect that he who had himself called
attention to this likelihood, himself would do precisely what he
knows one should not do. If only there were some means of
cleverly stealing his wisdom for I shall gladly leave him in
indisputed possession of that very peculiar thought of his that he is
God if one could but rob his wisdom without, at the same time,
becoming his disciple! If one could only steal up to him at night
and lure it from him; for I am more than equal to editing and
publishing it, and better than he, if you please. I undertake to
astonish the whole world by getting something altogether different
out of it; for I clearly see there is something wondrously profound
in what he says, and the misfortune is only that he is the man he is.
But perhaps, who knows, perhaps it is feasible, anyway, to fool
him out of it. Perhaps in that respect too he is good natured and
simple enough to communicate it quite freely to me. It is not
impossible; for it seems to me that the wisdom he unquestionably
possesses, evidently has been entrusted to a fool, seeing there is so
much contradiction in his life. But as to joining his company and
becoming his disciple no indeed, that would be the same as
becoming a fool oneself."

Or he might reason as follows: "If this person does indeed mean to
further what is good and true (I do not venture to decide this), he is
helpful at least, in this respect, to Youths and inexperienced
people. For they will be benefited, in this serious life of ours, by
learning, the sooner the better, and very thoroughly he opens the
eyes even of the blindest to this that all this pretense of wishing to
live only for goodness and truth contains a considerable admixture
of the ridiculous. He proves how right the poets of our times are
when they let truth and goodness be represented by some
half-witted fellow, one who is so stupid that you can knock down a
wall with him. The idea of exerting one's self, as this man does, of
renouncing everything but pains and trouble, to be at beck and call
all day long, more eager than the busiest family physician and pray
why? Because he makes a living by it? No, not in the very least; it
has never occurred to him, as far as I can see, to want somethg in
in return. Does he earn any money by it? No, not a red cent he has
not a red cent to his name, and if he did he would forthwith give it
away. Does he, then, aspire to a position of honor and dignity in
the state? On the contrary, he loathes all worldly honor. And he
who, as I said, condemns all worldly honor, and practices the art of
living on nothing; he who, if any one, seems best fitted to pass his
life in a most comfortable dolce far niente which is not such a bad
thing : he lives under a greater strain than any government official
who is rewarded by honor and dignity, lives under a greater strain
than any business man who earns money like sand. Why does he
exert himself thus, or (why this question about a matter not open to
question ?) why should any one exert himself thus in order to
attain to the happiness of being ridiculed, mocked, and so forth?
To be sure, a peculiar kind of pleasure! That one should push one's
way through a crowd to reach the spot where money, honor, and
glory are distributed why, that is perfectly understandable; but to
push forward to be whipped: how exalted, how Christian, how
stupid!"

Or he will reason as follows: "One hears so many rash opinions
about this person from people who understand nothing and
worship him; and so many severe condemnations of him by those
who, perhaps, misunderstand him after all. As for me, I am not
going to allow myself to be accused of venturing a hasty opinion. I
shall keep entirely cool and calm; in fact, which counts for still
more, I am conscious of being as reasonable and moderate with
him as is possible. Grant now which, to be sure, I do only to a
certain extent grant even that one's reason is impressed by this
person. What, then, is my opinion about him? My opinion is, that
for the present, I can form no opinion about him. I do not mean
about his claim of being God; for about that I can never in all
eternity have an opinion. No, I mean about him as a man. Only by
the consequences of his life shall we be able to decide whether he
was an extraordinary person or whether, deceived by his
imagination, he applied too high a standard, not only to himself,
but also to humanity in general. More I cannot do for him, try as I
may if he were my only friend, my own child, I could not judge
him more leniently, nor differently, either. It follows from this, to
be sure, that in all probability, and for good reasons, I shall not
ever be able to have any opinion about him. For in order to be able
to form an opinion I must first see the consequences of his life,
including his very last moments; that is, he must be dead then, and
perhaps not even then, may I form an opinion of him. And, even
granting this, it is not really an opinion about him, for he is then no
more. No more is needed to say why it is impossible for me to join
him while he is living. The a u t h o r i t y he is said to show in his
teaching can have no decisive influence in my case; for it is surely
easy to see that his thought moves in a circle. He quotes as
authority that which he is to prove, which in its turn can be proved
only by the consequences of his life; provided, of course, it is not
connected with that fixed idea of his about being God, because if it
is t h e r e f o r e he has this authority (because he is God) the
answer must be: yes if! So much, however, I may admit, that if I
could imagine myself living in some later age, and if the
consequences of his life as shown in history had made it plain that
he was the extraordinary person he in a former age claimed to be,
then it might very well be in fact, I might come very near,
becoming his disciple."

An ecclesiastic would reason as follows: "For an impostor and
demagogue he has, to say the truth, a remarkable air of honesty
about him; for which reason he cannot be so absolutely dangerous,
either, even though the situation looks dangerous enough while the
squall is at its height, and ever, though the situation looks
dangerous enough with his enormous popularity until the squall
has passed over and the people yes, precisely the people overthrow
him again. The honest thing about him is his claim to be the
Messiah when he resembles him so little as he does. That is
honest, just as if some one in preparing bogus paper-money made
the bills so poorly that every one who knows the least about it
cannot fail to detect the fraud. True enough, we all look forward to
a Messiah, but surely no one with any sense expects God himself
to come, and every religious person shudders at the blasphemous
attitude of this person. We look forward to a Messiah, we are all
agreed on that. But the governance of the world does not go
forward tumultuously, by leaps and bounds; the development of
the world, as is indicated by the very fact that it is a development,
proceeds by evolution, not by revolution. The true Messiah will
therefore look quite different, and will arrive as the most glorious
flower, and the highest development, of that which already exists.
Thus will the true Messiah come, and he will proceed in an
entirely different fashion: he will recognize the existing order as
the basis of things, he will summon all the clergy to council and
present to them the results accomplished by him, as well as his
credentials and then, if he obtain the majority of the votes when
the ballot is cast, he will be received and saluted as the
extraordinary person, as the one he is: the Messiah.

"However, there is a duplicity in this man's behavior; he assumes
too much the r“le of judge. It seems as if he wished to be, at one
and the same time, both the judge who passes sentence on the
existing order of things, and the Messiah. If he does not wish to
play the r“le of the judge, then why his absolute isolation, his
keeping at a distance from all which has to do with the existing
order of things? And if he does not wish to be the judge, then why
his fantastic flight from reality to join the ignorant crowd, then
why with the haughtiness of a revolutionary does he despise all the
intelligence and efficiency to be found in the existing order of
things? And why does he begin afresh altogether, and absolutely
from the bottom up, by the help of fishermen and artisans? May
not the fact that he is an illegitimate child fitly characterize his
entire relation to the existing order of things? On the other hand, if
he wishes to be only the Messiah, why then his warning about
putting a piece of new cloth unto an old garment. For these words
are precisely the watchwords of every revolution since they are
expressive of a person's discontent with the existing order and of
his wish to destroy it. That is, these words reveal his desire to
remove existing conditions, rather than to build on them and better
them, if one is a reformer, or to develop them to their highest
possibility, if one is indeed the Messiah. This is duplicity. In fact,
it is not feasible to be both judge and Messiah. Such duplicity will
surely result in his downfall. The climax in the life of a judge is his
death by violence, and so the poet pictures it correctly; but the
climax in the life of the Messiah cannot possibly be his death. Or
else, by that very fact, he would not be the Messiah, that is, he
whom the existing order expects in order to deify him. This
duplicity has not as yet been recognized by the people, who see in
him their Messiah; but the existing order of things cannot by any
manner of means recognize him as such. The people, the idle and
loafing crowd, can do so only because they represent nothing less
than the existing order of things. But as soon as the duplicity
becomes evident to them, his doom is sealed. Why, in this respect
his predecessor was a far more definitely marked personality, for
he was but one thing, the judge. But what confusion and
thoughtlessness, to wish to be both, and what still worse confusion,
to acknowledge his predecessor as the judge that is, in other words,
precisely to make the existing order of things receptive and ripe
for the Messiah who is to come after the judge, and yet not wish to
associate himself with the existing order of things!"

And the philosopher would reason as follows: "Such dreadful or,
rather, insane vanity, that a single individual claims to be God, is a
thing hitherto unheard of. Never before have we been witness to
such an excess of pure subjectivity and sheer negation. He has no
doctrines, no system of philosophy, he knows really nothing, he
simply keeps on repeating, and making variations on, some
unconnected aphoristic sentences, some few maxims, and a couple
of parables by which he dazzles the crowd for whom he also
performs signs and wonders; so that they, instead of learning
something, or being improved, come to believe in one who in a
most brazen way constantly forces his subjective views on us.
There is nothing objective or positive whatever in him and in what
he says. Indeed, from a philosophical point of view, he does not
need to fear destruction for he has perished already, since it is
inherent in the nature of subjectivity to perish. One may in all
fairness admit that his subjectivity is remarkable and that, be it as
it may with the other miracles, he constantly repeats his miracle
with the five small loaves, viz., by means of a few lyric utterances
and some aphorisms he rouses the whole country. But even if one
were inclined to overlook his insane notion of affirming himself to
be God, it is an incomprehensible mistake, which, to be sure,
demonstrates a lack of philosophic training, to believe that God
could reveal himself in the form of an individual. The race, the
universal, the total, is God; but the race surely is not an individual!
Generally speaking, that is the impudent assumption of
subjectivity, which claims that the individual is something
extraordinary. But sheer insanity is shown in the claim of an
individual to be God. Because if the insane thing were possible,
viz. that an individual might be God, why, then this individual
would have to be worshipped, and a more beastly philosophic
stupidity is not conceivable."

The astute statesman would reason as follows: "That at present this
person wields great power is undeniable entirely disregarding, of
course, this notion of his that he is God. Foibles like these, being
idiosyncrasies, do not count against a man and concern no one,
least of all a statesman. A statesman is concerned only with what
power a man wields; and that he does wield great power cannot, as
I have remarked, be denied. But what he intends to do, what his
aim is, I cannot make out at all. If this be calculation it must be of
an entirely new and peculiar order, not so altogether unlike what is
otherwise called madness. He possesses points of considerable
strength; but he seems to defeat, rather than to use, it; he expends
it without h i m s e l f getting any returns. I consider him a
phenomenon with which as ought to be one's rule with all
phenomena a wise man should not have anything to do, since it is
impossible to calculate him or the catastrophe threatening his life.
It is possible that he will be made king. It is possible, I say; but it is
not impossible, or rather, it is just as possible, that he may end on
the gallows. He lacks earnestness in all his endeavors. With all his
enormous stretch of wings he only hovers and gets nowhere. He
does not seem to have any definite plan of procedure, but just
hovers. Is it for his nationality he is fighting, or does he aim at a
communistic revolution? Does he wish to establish a republic or a
kingdom? With which party does he affiliate himself to combat
which party, or does he wish to fight all parties ?

"I have anything to do with him? No, that would be the very last
thing to enter my mind. In fact, I take all possible precautions to
avoid him. I keep quiet, undertake nothing, act as if I did not exist;
for one cannot even calculate how he might interfere with one's
undertakings, be they ever so unimportant, or at any rate, how one
might become involved in the vortex of his activities. Dangerous,
in a certain sense enormously dangerous, is this man. But I
calculate that I may ensnare him precisely by doing nothing. For
overthrown he must be. And this is done most safely by letting him
do it himself, by letting him stumble over himself. I have, at least
at this moment, not sufficient power to bring about his fall; in fact,
I know no one who has. To undertake the least thing against him
now, means to be crushed one's self. No, my plan is constantly to
exert only negative resistance to him, that is, to do nothing, and he
will probably involve himself in the enormous consequences he
draws after him, till in the end he will tread on his own train, as it
were, and thus fall."

And the steady citizen would reason as follows (which would then
become the opinion of his family) : "Now, let us be human,
everything is good when done in moderation, too little and too
much spoil everything, and as a French saying has it which I once
heard a traveling salesman use: every power which exceeds itself
comes to a fall and as to this person, his fall is certainly sure
enough. I have earnestly spoken to my son and warned and
admonished him not to drift into evil ways and join that person.
And why? Because all people are running after him. That is to say,
what sort of people? Idlers and loafers, street-walkers and tramps,
who run after everything. But mightly few of the men who have
house and property, and nobody who is wise and respected, none
after whom I set my clock, neither councillor Johnson, nor senator
Anderson, nor the wealthy broker Nelson oh no! they know what's
what. And as to the ministry who ought to know most about such
matters ah, they will have none of him. What was it pastor Green
said in the club the other evening? 'That man will yet come to a
terrible end,' he said. And Green, he can do more than preach, you
oughtn't to hear him Sundays in church so much as Mondays in the
club I just wished I had half his knowledge of affairs! He said quite
correctly, and as if spoken out of my own heart: 'Only idlers and
loafers are running after that man.' And why do they run after him?
Because he performs some miracles. But who is sure they are
miracles, or that he can confer the same power on his disciples?
And, in any case, a miracle is somethng mightly uncertain,
whereas the certain is the certain. Every serious father who has
grown-up children must be truly alarmed lest his sons be seduced
and join that man together with the desperate characters who
follow him desperate characters who have nothing to lose. And
even these, how does he help them? Why, one must be mad to
wish to be helped in this fashion. Even the poorest beggar is
brought to a worse estate than his former one, is brought to a pass
he could have escaped by remaining what he was, that is, a beggar
and no more."

And the mocker, not the one hated on account of his malice, but
the one who is admired for his wit and liked for his good nature,
he would reason as follows: "It is, after all, a rich idea which is
going to prove useful to all of us, that an individual who is in no
wise different from us claims to be God. If that is not being a
benefactor of the race then I don't know what charity and
beneficence are. If we assume that the characteristic of being God
well, who in all the world would have hit on that idea? How true
that such an idea could not have entered into the heart of man but
if we assume that it consists in looking in no wise different from
the rest of us, and in nothing else: why, then we are all gods. Q. E.
D. Three cheers for him, the inventor of a discovery so
extraordinarily important for mankind! Tomorrow I, the
undersigned, shall proclaim that I am God, and the discoverer at
least will not be able to contradict me without contradicting
himself. At night all cats are gray; and if to be God consists in
looking like the rest of us, absolutely and altogether like the rest of
mankind: why, then it is night and we all are . . ., or what is it I
wanted to say: we all are God, every one of us, and no one has a
right to say he isn't as well off as his neighbor. This is the most
ridiculous situation imaginable, the contradiction here being the
greatest, imaginable, and a contradiction always making for a
comical effect. But this is in no wise my discovery, but solely that
of the discoverer: this idea that a man of exactly the same
appearance as the rest of us, only not half so well dressed as the
average man, that is, a poorly dressed person who, rather than
being God, seems to invite the attention of the society for the relief
of the poor that he is God! I am only sorry for the director of the
charitable society that he will not get a raise from this general
advancement of the human race but that he will, rather, lose his
job on account of this, etc."

Ah, my friend, I know well what I am doing, I know my
responsibility, and my soul is altogether assured of the correctness
of my procedure. Now then, imagine yourself a contemporary of
him who invites. Imagine yourself to be a sufferer, but consider
well to what you expose yourself in becoming his disciple and
following him. You expose yourself to losing practically
everything in the eyes of all wise and sensible and respected men.
He who invites demands of you that you surrender all, give up
everything; but the common sense of your own times and of your
contemporaries will not give you up, but will judge that to join
him is madness. And mockery will descend cruelly upon you; for
while it will almost spare him, out of compassion, you will be
thought madder than a march-hare for becoming his disciple.
People will say: "That h e is a wrong-headed enthusiast, that can't
be helped. Well and good; but to become in all seriousness his
disciple, that is the greatest piece of madness imaginable. There
surely is but one possibility of being madder than a madman,
which is the higher madness of joining a madman in all
seriousness and regarding him as a sage."

Do not say that the whole presentation above is exaggerated. Ah,
you know (but, possibly, have not fully realized it) that among all
the respectable men, among all the enlightened and sensible men,
there was but one though it is easily possible that one or the other
of them, impelled by curiosity, entered into conversation with him
that there was but one among them who sought him in all
seriousness. And he came to him in the night! And as you know, in
the night one walks on forbidden paths, one chooses the night to
go to places of which one does not like to be known as a
frequenter. Consider the opinion of the inviter implid in this it was
a disgrace to visit him, something no man of honor could afford to
do, as little as to pay a nightly visit to but no, I do not care to say in
so many words what would follow this "as little as."

Come hither to me now all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I
will give you rest.

THE SECOND PHASE OF HIS LIFE

His end was what all the wise and the sensible, the statesmen and
the citizens and the mockers, etc., predicted it would be. And as
was later spoken to him, in a moment when, it would seem, the
most hardened ought to have been moved to sympathy, and the
very stones to tears: "He saved others; let him save himself," and
as it has been repeated thousands upon thousands of times, by
thousands upon thousands: "What was it he spoke of before, saying
his hour was not yet come is it come now, perchance?" It has been
repeated, alas, the while the single individual, the believer,
shudders whenever considering while yet unable to refrain from
gazing into the depth of what to men is a meaningless absurdity
shudders when considering that God in human guise, that his
divine teaching, that these signs and wonders which might have
made a very Sodom and Gomorrha reform its ways, in reality
produced the exact opposite, and caused the teacher to be shunned,
hated, despised.

Who he is, one can recognize more easily now when the powerful
ones and the respected ones, and all the precautionary measures of
those upholding the existing order, have corrected any wrong
conception one might have entertained about him at first now
when the people have lost their patience to wait for a Messiah,
seeing that his life, instead of rising in dignity, lapsed into ever
greater degradation. Who, pray, does not recognize that a man is
judged according to the society in which he moves and now, think
of his society! Indeed, his society one might well designate as
equivalent to being expelled from "human society"; for his society
are the lowest classes of the people, with sinners and publicans
among them, people whom everybody with the slightest
self-respect shuns for the sake of his good name and reputation and
a good name and reputation surely are about the least one can wish
to preserve. In his company there are, furthermore, lepers whom
every one flees, madmen who can only inspire terror, invalids and
wretches squalor and misery. Who, then, is this person that, though
followed by such a company, still is the object of the persecution
of the mighty ones? He is one despised as a seducer of men, an
impostor, a blasphemer! And if any one enjoying a good reputation
refrains from expressing contempt of him, it is really only a kind
of compassion; for to fear him is, to be sure, something different.

Such, then, is his appearance; for take care not to be influenced by
anything that you may have learned after the event as, how his
exalted spirit, with an almost divine majesty, never was so
markedly manifest as just them. Ah, my friend, if you were the
contemporary of one who is not only himself "excluded from the
synagogue" but, as you will remember, whose very help meant
being "excluded from the synagogue" I say, if you were the
contemporary of an outcast, who in every respect answers to that
term, (for everything has two sides) : then you will scarcely be the
man to explain all this in terms directly contrary to appearances;
or, which is the same thing, you will not be the "single individual"
which, as you well know, no one wants to be, and to be which is
regarded as a ridiculous oddity, perhaps even as a crime.

And now for they are his society chiefly as to his apostles! What
absurdity; though not what new absurdity, for it is quite in keeping
with the rest his apostles are some fishermen, ignorant people who
but the other day followed their trade. And tomorrow, to pile one
absurdity on the other, they are to go out into the wide world and
transform its aspect. And it is he who claims to be God, and these
are his duly appointed apostles! Now, is he to make his apostles
respected, or are perhaps the apostles to make him respected? Is
he, the inviter, is he an absurd dreamer? Indeed, his procession
would make it seem so; no poet could have hit on a better idea. A
teacher, a sage, or whatever you please to call him, a kind of
stranded genius, who affirms himself to be God surrounded by a
jubilant mob, himself accompanied by some publicans, criminals,
and lepers; nearest to him a chosen few, his apostles. And these
judges so excellently competent as to what truth is, these
fishermen, tailors, and shoe-makers, they do not only admire him,
their teacher and master, whose every word is wisdom and truth;
they do not only see what no one else can see, his exaltedness and
holiness, nay, but they see God in him and worship him. Certainly,
no poet could invent a better situation, and it is doubtful if the poet
would not forget the additional item that this same person is feared
by the mighty ones and that they are scheming to destroy him. His
death alone can reassure and satisfy them. They have set an
ignominious punishment on joining his company, on merely
accepting aid from him; and yet they do not feel secure, and
cannot feel altogether reassured that the whole thing is mere
wrongheaded enthusiasm and absurdity. Thus the mighty ones.
The populace who had idolized him, the populace have pretty
nearly given him up, only in moments does their old conception of
him blaze forth again. In all his existence there is not a shred the
most envious of the envious might envy him to have. Nor do the
mighty ones envy his life. They demand his death for safety's sake,
so that they may have peace again, when all has returned to the
accustomed ways, peace having been made still more secure by the
warning example of his death.

These are the two phases of his life. It began with the people's
idolizing him, whereas all who were identified with the existing
order of things, all who had power and influence, vengefully, but
in a cowardly and hidden manner, laid their snares for him in
which he was caught, then? Yes, but he perceived it well. Finally
the people discover that they had been deceived in him, that the
fulfilment he would bring them answered least of all to their
expectations of wonders and mountains of gold. So the people
deserted him and the mighty ones drew the snare about him in
which he was caught, then? Yes, but he perceived it well. The
mighty ones drew the snare together about him and thereupon the
people, who then saw themselves completely deceived, turned
against him in hatred and rage.

And to include that too compassion would say; or, among the
compassionate one for compassion is sociable, and likes to
assemble together, and you will find spitefulness and envy keeping
company with whining soft-headedness: since, as a heathen
philosopher observed long ago, no one is so ready to sympathize as
an envious person among the compassionate ones the verdict
would be: it is really too bad that this good-hearted fellow is to
come to such an end. For he was really a good sort of fellow.
Granting it was an exaggeration to claim to be God, he really was
good to the poor and the needy, even if in an odd manner, by
becoming one of them and going about in the company of beggars.
But there is something touching in it all, and one can't help but feel
sorry for the poor fellow who is to suffer such a miserable death.
For you may say what you will, and condemn him as strongly as
you will, I cannot help feeling pity for him. I am not so
heard-hearted as not to feel compassion."

We have arrived at the last phase, not of Sacred History, as handed
down by the apostles and disciples who believed in Christ, but of
profane history, its counterpart.

Come hither now, all ye that labor and are heavy laden: that is, if
you feel the need, even if vou are of all sufferers the most
miserable if you feel the need of being helped in this fashion, that
is, to fall into still greater suffering, then come hither, he will help
you.

III

THE INVITATION AND THE INVITER

Let us forget for a little while what, in the strictest sense,
constitutes the "offense"; which is, that the inviter claims to be
God. Let us assume that he did not claim to be more than a man,
and let us then consider the inviter and his invitation.

The invitation is surely inviting enough. How, then, shall one
explain the bad relation which did exist, this terribly wrong
relation, that no one, or practically no one, accepted the invitation;
that, on the contrary, all, or practically all alas! and was it not
precisely all who were invited? that practically all were at one in
offering resistance to the inviter, in wishing to put him to death,
and in setting a punishment on accepting aid from him? Should
one not expect that after an invitation such as he issued all, all who
suffered, would come crowding to him, and that all they who were
not suffering would crowd to him, touched by the thought of such
compassion and mercy, and that thus the whole race would be at
one in admiring and extolling the inviter? How is the opposite to
be explained? For that this was the outcome is certain enough; and
the fact that it all happened in those remote times is surely no
proof that the generation then living was worse than other
generations! How could any one be so thoughtless as to believe
that? For whoever gives any thought to the matter will easily see
that it happened in that generation only because they chanced to be
contemporaneous with him. How then explain that it happened
that all came to that terribly wrong end, so opposite to what ought
to have been expected?

Well, in the first place, if the inviter had looked the figure which
purely human compassion would have him be; and, in the second
place, if he had entertained the purely human conception of what
constitutes man's misery why, then it would probably not have
happened.

I n t h e f i r s t p l a c e: According to this human conception of
him he should have been a most generous and sympathetic person,
and at the same time possessed of all qualifications requisite for
being able to help in all troubles of this world, ennobling the help
thus extended by a profound and heartfelt human compassion.
Withal (so they would imagine him) he should also have been a
man of some distinction and not without a certain amount of
human self-assertion the consequence of which would be,
however, that he would neither have been able, in his compassion,
to reach down to all sufferers, nor yet to have comprehended, fully
what constitutes the misery of man and of mankind.

But divine compassion, the infinite u n c o n c e r n which takes
thought only of those that suffer, and not in the least of one's self,
and which with absolute unconcern takes thought of all that suffer:
that will always seem to men only a kind of madness, and they will
ever be puzzled whether to laugh or to weep about it. Even if
nothing else had militated against the inviter, this alone would
have beer sufficient to make his lot hard in the world.

Let a man but try a little while to practice divine compassion, that
is, to be somewhat unconcerned in his compassion., and you will
at once perceive what the opinion of mankind would be. For
example: let one who could occupy some higher rank in society,
let him not (preserving all the while the distinction of his position)
lavishly give to the poor, and philanthropically (i.e. in a superior
fashion) visit the poor and the sick and the wretched no, let him
give up altogether the distinction of his position and in all earnest
choose the company of the poor and the lowly, let him live
altogether with the people, with workmen, hodmen, mortarmixers,
and the like! Ah, in a quiet moment, when not actually b e h o l d i
n g him, most of us will be moved to tears by the mere thought of
it; but no sooner would they s e e him in this company him who
might have attained to honor and dignity in the world see him
walking along in such goodly company, with a bricklayer's
apprentice on his right side and a cobbler's boy on his left, but
well, what then? First they would devise a thousand explanations
to explain that it is because of queer notions, or obstinacy, or
pride, or vanity that he chooses this mode of life. And even if they
would refrain from attributing to him these evil motives they will
never be reconciled with the sight of him in this company. The
noblest person in the world will be tempted to laugh, the moment
he sees it.

And if all the clergymen in the world, whether in velvet or in silk
or in broadcloth or in satin, contradicted me I would say: "You lie,
you only deceive people with your Sunday sermons. Because it
will always be possible for a contemporary to say about one so
compassionate (who, it is to be kept in mind, is our contemporary):
"I believe he is actuated by vanity, and that is why I laugh and
mock at him; but if he were truly compassionate, or had I been
contemporary with him, the noble one why then!" And now, as to
those exalted ones "who were not understood by men" to speak in
the fashion of the usual run of sermons why, sure enough, they are
dead. In this fashion these people succeed in playing hide and
seek. You simply assume that every contemporary who ventures
out so far is actuated only by vanity; and as to the departed, you
assume that they are dead and that they, therefore, were among the
glorious ones.

It must be remembered, to be sure, that every person, wishes to
maintain his own level in life, and this fixed point, this steady
endeavor, is one of the causes which limit h u m a n compassion
to a certain sphere. The cheesemonger will think that to live like
the inmate of a poorhouse is going too far in expressing one's
sympathy; for the sympathy of the cheese-monger is biased in one
regard which is, his regard of the opinion of other cheese-mongers
and of the saloon-keepers. His compassion is therefore not without
its limitations. And thus with every class and the journalists, living
as they do on the pennies of the poor, under the pretense of
asserting and defending their rights, they would be the first to heap
ridicule on this unlimited compassion.

To identify one's self wholly and literally with him who is most
miserable (and this, only this, is d i v i n e compassion), that is to
men the "too much" by which one is moved to tears, in a quiet
Sunday hour, and about which one unconsciously bursts into
laughter when one sees it in r e a l i t y. The fact is, it is too
exalted a sight for daily use; one must have it at some distance to
be able to support it. Men are not so familiar with exalted virtue to
believe it at once. The contradiction seen here is, therefore, that
this exalted virtue manifests itself in reality, in daily life, quite
literally the daily life. When the poet or the orator illustrates this
exalted virtue, that is, pictures it in a poetical distance from real
life, men are moved; but to see this exalted virtue in reality, the
reality of daily life, here in Copenhagen, on the Market Square, in
the midst of busy every-day life ! And when the poet or the orator
does touch people it is only for a short time, and just so long are
men able to believe, almost, in this exalted virtue. But to see it in
real life every day ! To be sure, there is an enormous contradiction
in the statement that the most exalted of all has become the most
every-day occurrence!

Insofar, then, it was certain in advance what would be the inviter's
fate, even if nothing else had contributed to his doom. The
absolute, or all which makes for an absolute standard, becomes by
that very fact the victim. For men are willing enough to practice
sympathy and self-denial, are willing enough to strive for wisdom,
etc.; but they wish themselves to determine the standard and to
have that read: "to a certain degree." They do not wish to do away
with all these splendid virtues. On the contrary, they want at a
bargain and in all comfort to have the appearance and the name of
practicing them. Truly divine compassion is therefore necessarily
the victim so soon as it shows itself in this world. It descends on
earth out of compassion for mankind, and yet it is mankind who
trample upon it. And whilst it is wandering about among them,
scarcely even the sufferer dares to flee to it, for fear of mankind.
The fact is, it is most important for the world to keep up the
appearance of being compassionate; but this it made out by divine
compassion to be a falsehood and therefore: away with divine
compassion!

But now the inviter represented precisely this divine compassion
and therefore he was sacrificed, and therefore even those that
suffered fled from him; for they comprehended (and, humanly
speaking, very exactly), what is true of most human infirmities,
that one is better off to remain what one is than to be helped by
him.

In the second place: the inviter likewise had an other, and
altogether different, conception than the purely human one as to
what constitutes man's misery. And in this sense only he was intent
on helping; for he had with him neither money, nor medicine, nor
anything else of this kind.

Indeed, the inviter's appearance is so altogether different from
what human compassion would imagine it that he is a downright
offense to men. In a purely human sense there is something
positively cruel something outrageous, something so exasperating
as to make one wish to kill that person in the fact of his inviting to
him the poor and the 'sick and the suffering, and then not being
able to do anything for them, except to promise them remission of
their sins. "Let us be human, man is no spirit. And when a person
is about to die of starvation and you say to him: I promise you the
gracious remission of your sins that is revolting cruelty. In fact it is
ridiculous, though too serious a matter to laugh about."

Well (for in quoting these sentiments I wish merely to let offended
man discover the contradiction and exaggerate it it is not I who
wish to exaggerate), well then, the real intention of the inviter was
to point out that sin is the destruction of mankind. Behold now,
that makes room, as the invitation also made room, almost as if he
had said procul, o procul este profani, or as if, even though he had
not said it, a voice had been heard which thus interpreted the
"come hither" of the invitation. There surely are not many sufferers
who will follow the invitation. And ever, if there were one who,
although aware that from this inviter no actual worldly help was to
be expected, nevertheless had sought refuge with him, touched by
his compassion: now even he will flee from him. For is it not
almost a bit of sharp practice to profess to be here out of
compassion, and then to speak about sin?

Indeed, it is a piece of cunning, unless you are altogether certain
that you are a sinner. If it is tooth-ache which bothers you, or if
your house is burned to the ground, but if it has escaped you that
you are a sinner why, then it was cunning on his part. It is a bit of
sharp practice of him to assert: "I heal all manner of disease," in
order to say, when one approaches him: "the fact is, I recognize
only one disease, which is sin of that I shall cure all them 'that
labor and are heavy laden,' all them that labor to work themselves
free of the power of sin, that labor to resist the evil, and to
vanquish their weakness, but succeed only in being laden." Of this
malady he cures "all" persons; even if there were but a single one
who turned to him because of this malady: he heals all persons.
But to come to him on account of any other disease, and only
because of that, is about as useful as to look up an eye-doctor
when you have fractured your leg.

CHRISTIANITY AS THE ABSOLUTE;
CONTEMPORANEOUSNESS WITH CHRIST

With its invitation to all "that labor and are heavy laden"
Christianity has entered the world, not as the clergy whimperingly
and falsely introduce it as a shining paragon of mild grounds of
consolation; but as the absolute. God wills it so because of His
love, but it is God who wills it, and He wills it as He wills it. He
does not choose to have His nature changed by man and become a
nice, that is to say, humane, God; but He chooses to change the
nature of man because of His love for them. Neither does He care
to hear any human impertinence concerning the why and
wherefore of Christianity, and why it entered the world: it is, and is
to be, the absolute. Therefore all the relative explanations which
may have been ventured as to its why and wherefore are entirely
beside the point. Possibly, these explanations were suggested by a
kind of human compassion which believes it necessary to haggle a
bit God very likely does not know the nature of man very well, His
demands are a bit exorbitant, and therefore the clergymen just
haggle and beat Him down a bit. Maybe the clergy hit upon that
idea in order to stand well with men and reap some advantage
from preaching the gospel; for if its demands are reduced to the
purely human, to the demands which arise in man's heart, why,
then men will of course think well of it, and of course also of the
amiable preacher who knows how to make Christianity so mild if
the Apostles had been able to do that the world would have
esteemed them highly also in their time. However, all this is the
absolute. But what is it good for, then is it not a downright
torment? Why, yes, you may say so: from the standpoint of the
relative, the absolute is the greatest torment. In his dull, lanquid,
sluggish moments, when man is dominated by his sensual nature,
Christianity is an absurdity to him since it is not commensurable
with any definite "wherefore?" But of what use is it, then? Answer:
peace! it is the absolute. And thus it must be represented; that is, in
a fashion which makes it appear as an absurdity to the sensual
nature of man. And therefore is it, ah, so true and, in still another
sense, so true when the worldly-wise man who is contemporaneous
with Christ condemns him with the words: "he is literally nothing"
quite true, for he is the absolute. And, being absolute, Christianity
has come in the world, not as a consolation in the human sense; in
fact, quite on the contrary, it is ever reminding one how the
Christian must suffer in order to become, or to remain, a Christian
sufferings which he may, if you please, escape by not electing to
be a Christian.

There is, indeed, an unbridgeable gulf fixed between God and
man. It therefore became plain to those contemporary with Christ
that the process of becoming a Christian (that is, being changed
into the likeness of God) is, in a human sense, a greater torment
and wretchedness and pain than the greatest conceivable human
suffering, and moreover a crime in the eyes of one's
contemporaries. And thus will it always be; that is, if becoming a
Christian in reality means becoming contemporaneous with Christ.
And if becoming a Christian does not have that meaning, then all
your chatter about becoming a Christian is a vanity, a delusion and
a snare, and likewise a blasphemy and a sin against the Holy
Ghost.

For with regard to the absolute there is but one time, viz. the
present. He who is not contemporaneous with the absolute, for him
it does not exist at all. And since Christ is the absolute, it is
evident that in respect of him there is but one situation:
contemporaneousness. The three, or seven, or fifteen, or
seventeen, or eighteen hundred years which have elapsed since his
death do not make the least difference, one way or the other. They
neither change hin, nor reveal, either, who he was; for his real
nature is revealed only to faith.

Christ, let me say so with the utmost seriousness, is not an actor;
neither is he a merely historical personage since, being the
paradox, he is an extremely unhistorical personage. But precisely
this is the difference between poetry and reality:
contemporaneousness. The difference between poetry and history
is no doubt this, that history is what has really happened, and
poetry, what is possible, the action which is supposed to have
taken place, the life which has taken form in the poet's
imagination. But that which really happened (the past) is not
necessarily reality, except in a certain sense, viz., in contrast with
poetry. There is still lacking in it the criterion of truth (as
inwardness) and of all religion, there is still lacking the criterion:
the truth FOR YOU. That which is past is not a reality for me, but
only my time is. That which you are contemporaneous with, that is
reality for you. Thus every person has the choice to be
contemporaneous with the age in which he is living and also with
one other period, with that of Christ's life here on earth; for
Christ's life on earth, or Sacred History, stands by itself, outside of
history.

History you may read and hear about as a matter of the past.
Within its realm you can, if you so care, judge actions by their
results. But in Christ's life here on earth there is nothing past. It did
not wait for the assistance of any subsequent results in its own
time, 1800 years ago; neither does it now. Historic Christianity is
sheer moonshine and un-Christian muddle-headedness. For those
true Christians who in every generation live a life
contemporaneous with that of Christ have nothing whatsoever to
do with Christians of the preceding generation, but all the more
with their contemporary, Christ. His life here on earth attends
every generation, and every generation severally, as Sacred
History; his life on earth is eternal contemporaneousness. For this
reason all learned lecturing about Christianity, which has its haunt
and hiding-place in the assumption that Christianity is something
which belongs to the past and to the 1800 years of history, this
lecturing is the most unChristian of heresies, as every one would
readily recognize if he but tried to imagine the generation
contemporeanous with Christ as lecturing! No, we must ever keep
in mind that every generation (of the faithful) is contemporaneous
with him.

If you cannot master yourself so as to make yourself
contemporaneous with him and thus become a Christian; or if he
cannot, as your contemporary, draw you to himself, then you will
never be a Christian. You may, if you please honor, praise, thank,
and with all worldly goods reward him who deludes you into
thinking that you are a Christian; nevertheless he deceives you.
You may count yourself happy that you were not contemporaneous
with one who dared to assert this; or you may be exasperated to
madness by the torment, like that of the gadfly, of being
contemporaneous with one who says this to your face: in the first
case you are deceived, whereas in the second you have least had a
chance to hear the truth.

If you cannot bear this contemporaneousness, and not bear to see
this sight in reality if you cannot prevail upon yourself to go out
into the street and behold! it is God in that loathsome procession;
and if you cannot bear to think that this will be your condition also
if you kneel and worship him: then you are not essentially a
Christian. In that case, what you will have to do is to admit the fact
unconditionally to yourself, so that you may, above all, preserve
humility, and fear and trembling, when contemplating what it
means really to be a Christian. For that way you must proceed, in
order to learn and to practice how to flee to grace, so that you will
not seek it in vain; but do not, for God's sake, go to any one to be
"consoled." For to be sure it is written: "blessed are the eyes which
see the things that ye see," which word the priests have on the tips
of their tongues curiously enough; at times, perhaps, even to
defend a worldly finery which, if conterrporary with Christ, would
be rather incongruous as if these words had not been said solely
about those contemporaries of his who believed. If his exaltation
had been evident to the eyes so that every one without any trouble
could have beheld it, why then it would be incorrect to say that
Christ abased himself and assumed the guise of a servant, and it
would be superflous to warn against being offended in him; for
why in the world should one take offense in an exalted one arrayed
in glory? And how in the world will you explain it that Christ fared
so ill and that everybody failed to rush up admiringly to behold
what was so plain? Ah no, "he hath no form nor comeliness; and
when we shall see him, there is no beauty that we should desire
him" (Isaiah 53, 2*) [*Kierkegaard's own note.] ; and there was t o
all appearances nothing remarkable about him who in lowly guise,
and by performing signs and wonders, constantly presented the
possibility of offense, who claimed to be God in lowly guise;
which therefore expresses: in the first place, what God means by
compassion, and by one's self needing to be humble and poor if
one wishes to be compassionate; and in the second place, what
God means by the misery of mankind. Which, again, in both
instances is extremely different from what men mean by these
things and which every generation, to the end of time, has to learn
over again from the beginning, and beginning in every respect at
the same point where those who were contemporary with Christ
had to start; that is, to practice these things as contemporaries of
Christ. Human impatience and unruliness is, of course, of no avail
whatsoever. No man will be able to tell you in how far you may
succeed in becoming essentially a Christian. But neither will
anxiety and fear and despair help one. Sincerity toward God is the
first and the last condition, sincerity in confessing to one's self just
where one stands, sincerity before God in ever aiming at one's task.
However slowly one may proceed, and if it be but crawling one is,
at any rate, in the right position and is not misled and deceived by
the trick of changing the nature of Christ who, instead of being
God, is thereby made to represent that sentimental compassion
which is man's own invention; by which men, instead of being
lifted up to heaven by Christianity, are delayed on their way and
remain human and no more.

THE MORAL

"And what, then, does all this signify?" It signifies that every one,
in silent inwardness before God, is to feel humility before what it
means to be in the strictest sense a Christian; is to confess
sincerely before God what his position is, so that he may worthily
partake of the grace which is offered to every one who is not
perfect, that is, to every one. And it means no more than that. For
the rest let him attend to his work and find joy in it, let him love
his wife, rejoicing in her, let him raise his children to be a joy to
him, and let him love his fellow-men and enjoy life. God will
surely let him know if more is demanded of him, and will also help
him to accomplish it; for in the terrifying language of the law this
sounds so terrible because it would seem as if man by his own
strength were to hold fast to Christ, whereas in the language of
love it is Christ that holds fast to him. As was said, then, God will
surely let him know if more is demanded of him. But what is
demanded of every one is that he humble himself in the presence
of God under the demands of ideality. And therefore these
demands should be heard, and heard again and again in all their
absoluteness. To be a Christian has become a matter of no
importance whatever a mummery, something one is anyway, or
something one acquires more readily than a trick. In very truth, it
is high time that the demands of ideality were heard.

"But if being a Christian is something so terrifying and awesome,
how in all the world can a man get it into his head to wish to
accept Christianity?" Very simply and, if you so wish, quite
according to Luther: only the consciousness of sin, if I may express
myself so, can force one from the other side, grace exerts the
attraction can force one into this terror. And in the same instant the
Christian ideal is transformed, and is sheer mildness, grace, love,
and pity. Looking at it any other way, however, Christianity is, and
shall ever be, the greatest absurdity, or else the greatest terror.
Approach is had only through the consciousness of sin, and to
desire to enter by any other way amounts to a crime of
lŠse-majest‚ against Christianity.

But sin, or the fact that you and I, individually, are sinners, has at
present either been done away with, or else the demands have been
lowered in an unjustifiable manner. both in life the domestic, the
civic, as well as the ecclesiastic and in science which has invented
the new doctrine of sin in general. As an equivalant, one has hit
upon the device of helping men into Christianity, and keeping
them in it, by the aid of a knowledge of world-historic events, of
that mild teaching, the exalted and profound spirit of it, about
Christ as a friend, etc., etc. all of which Luther would have called
stuff and nonsense and which is really blasphemy, aiming as it
does at fraternizing impudently with God and with Christ.

Only the consciousness of being a sinner can inspire one with
absolute respect for Christianity. And just because Christianity
demands absolute respect it must and shall, to any other way of
looking at it, seem absurdity or terror; just because only thereby
can the qualitative and absolute emphasis fall on the fact that it is
only the consciousness of being a sinner which will procure
entrance into it, and at the same time give the vision which, being
absolute respect, enables one to see the mildness and love and
compassion of Christianity.

The poor in spirit who acknowledge themselves to be sinners, they
do not need to know the least thing about the difficulties which
appear when one is neither simple nor humble-minded. But when
this humble consciousness of one's self, i. e., the individual's, being
a sinner is lacking aye, even though one possessed all human
ingenuity and wisdom, and had all accomplishments Possible to
man: it will profit him little. Christianity will in the same degree
rise terrifying before him and transform itself into absurdity or
terror; until he learns, either to renounce it, or else, by the help of
what is nothing less than scientific prop‘deutics, apologetics, etc.,
that is, through the torments of a contrite heart, to enter into
Christianity by the narrow path, through the consciousness of sin.

SELECTIONS FROM THE PRESENT MOMENT
BY WAY OF INTRODUCTION
(No. I, 1)

Plato says somewhere in his "Republic" that things will go well
only when those men shall govern the state who do not desire to
govern. The idea is probably that, assuming the necessary
capability, a man's reluctance to govern affords a good guarantee
that he will govern well and efficiently; whereas a man desirous of
governing may very easily either abuse his power and become a
tyrant, or by his desire to govern be brought into an unforeseen
situation of dependence on the people he is to rule, so that his
government really becomes an illusion.

This observation applies also to other relations where much
depends on taking things seriously: assuming there is ability in a
man, it is best that he show reluctance to meddle with them. To be
sure, as the proverb has it: "where there is a will there is a way";
but true seriousness appears only when a man fully equal to his
task is forced, against his will, to undertake it against his will, but
fully equal to the task.

In this sense I may say of myself that I bear a correct relation to the
task in hand: to work in the present moment; for God knows that
nothing is more distasteful to me.

Authorship well, I confess that I find it pleasant; and I may as well
admit that I have dearly loved to write in the manner, to be sure,
which suits me. And what I have loved to do is precisely the
opposite of working in the present moment. What I have loved is
precisely remoteness from the present moment that remoteness in
which, like a lover, I may dwell on my thoughts and, like an artist
in love with his instrument, entertain myself with language and
lure from it the expressions demanded by my thoughts ah blissful
entertainment! In an eternity I should not weary of this occupation.
To contend with men well, I do like it in a certain sense; for I have
by nature a temperament so polemic that I feel in my element only
when surrounded by men's mediocrity and meanness. But only on
one condition, viz., that I be permitted to scorn them in silence and
to satisfy the master passion of my soul: scorn opportunity for
which my career as an author has often enough given me.

I am therefore a man of whom it may be said truthfully that he is
not in the least desirous to work in the present moment very
probably I have been called to do so for that very reason.
Now that I am to work in the present moment I must, alas! say
farewell to thee, beloved remoteness, where there was no necessity
to hurry, but always plenty of time, where I could wait for hours
and days and weeks for the proper expression to occur to me;
whereas now I must break with all such regards of tender love .
And now that I am to work in the present moment I find that there
will be not a few persons whom I must oblige by paying my
respects to all the insignificant things which mediocrity with great
self-importance will lecture about; to all the nonsense which
mediocre people, by interpreting into my words their own
mediocrity, will find in all I shall write; and to all the lies and
calumnies to which a man is exposed against whom those two
great powers in society: envy and stupidity, must of necessity
conspire.

Why, then, do I wish to work in the present moment? Because I
should forever repent of not having done so, and forever repent of
having been discouraged by the consideration that the generation
now living would find a representation of the essential truths of
Christianity interesting and curious reading, at most; having
accomplished which they will calmly remain where they are; that
is, in the illusion that they are Christians and that the clergy's
toying with Christianity really is Christianity.

A PANEGYRIC ON THE HUMAN RACE OR PROOF THAT
THE NEW TESTAMENT IS NO LONGER TRUE (No. 11, 5)

In the New Testament the Savior of the World, our Lord Jesus
Christ, represents the matter in this way: "Strait is the gate, and
narrow is the way, which leadeth unto life, and few there be that
find it." now, however, just to confine ourselves to Denmark, the
way is as broad as a road can possibly be; in fact, the broadest in
Denmark, for it is the road we all travel. At the same time it is in
all respects a comfortable way, and the gate as wide as it is
possible for a gate to be; for certainly a gate cannot be wider than
to let all men pass through en masse:

therefore, the New Testament is no longer true '.

All credit is due to the human race! For thou, oh Savior of the
World, thou didst entertain too low an estimate of the human race,
so that thou didst not foresee the exalted plan which, in its
perfectibility, it may reach by steadily continued endeavor!

To such an extent, then, is the New Testament no longer true: the
way is the broadest possible, the gate the widest possible, and we
are all Christians. In fact, I may venture still further I am
enthusiastic about it, for you see I am writing a panegyric on the
human race I venture to assert that the average Jew living among
us is, to a certain degree, a Christian just as well as we others: to
such an extent are we all Christians, and to such an extent is the
New Testament no longer true.

And, since the point is to find out all which may be adduced to
extol the human race, one ought while having a care not to
mention anything which is not true one ought to watch that
nothing, nothing escape one which in this connection may serve as
a proof or even as a suggestion. So I venture still further without
wishing to be too positive, as I lack definite information on this
subject and would like, therefore, to refer the matter to specialists
in this line to decide : whether there are not present among our
domestic animals, or at any rate the nobler ones, such as the horse,
the dog, and the cow, indications of a Christian spirit. It is not
improbable. Consider what it means to live in a Christian state,
among a Christian people, where everything is Christian and
everybody is a Christian and where one, turn where one may, sees
nothing but Christians and Christianity, truth and martyrs for the
truth it is not at all unlikely that this exerts an influence on the
nobler domestic animals and thereby again which is ever of the
utmost importance, according to the opinion both of veterinarians
and of clergymen an influence on their progeny. We have all read
of Jacob's ruse, how in order to obtain spotted lambs he put
party-colored twigs into the watering troughs, so that the ewes saw
nothing but mottled things and then brought forth spotted lambs.
Hence it is not improbable although I do not wish to be positive,
since I do not belong to the profession, but would rather have this
passed on by a committee composed of both clergymen and
veterinarians I say, it is not improbable that the result will finally
be that the domestic animals living in a Christian nation will
produce a Christian progeny. The thought almost takes away my
breath. To be sure, in that case the New Testament will to the
greatest possible extent have ceased to be true.

Ah, Thou Savior of the World, when Thou saidst with great
concern: "When the Son of man cometh, shall He find Faith on the
earth? and when Thou didst bow Thy head in death, then didst
Thou least of all think that Thy expectations were to be exceeded
to such a degree, and that the human race would in such a pretty
and touching way render the New Testament no longer true, and
Thy significance almost doubtful; for such nice creatures certainly
also needed a Savior!

IF WE ARE REALLY CHRISTIANS THEN WHAT IS GOD?
(No. 11, 8)

If it is not so that all we mean by being "Christians" is a delusion
that all this machinery, with a State Church and thousands of
spiritual-worldly councillors of chancery, etc., is a stupendous
delusion which will not be of the least help to us in the life
everlasting but, on the contrary, will be turned into an accusation
against us if this is not so; for if it is, then let us, for the sake of life
everlasting, get rid of it, the sooner the better if it is not so, and if
what we understand by being a Christian really is to be a Christian:
then what is God in Heaven?

He is the most ridiculous being that ever existed, His Word is the
most ridiculous book which has ever appeared; for to move heaven
and earth, as He does in his Word, and to threaten with hell and
everlasting damnation in order to obtain as His result what we
understand by being Christians (and our assumption was that we
are true Christians) well, now, has anything so ridiculous ever been
seen before? Imagine that a fellow with a loaded pistol in his hand
held up a person and said to him, "I shall shoot you"; or imagine,
what is still more terrible, that he said, "I shall seize you and
torture you to death in the most horrible manner, if" now watch,
here's the point "if you do not render your life here on earth as
profitable and as enjoyable as you can": would not that be utterly
ridiculous? For to obtain that effect it certainly is not necessary to
threaten one with a loaded pistol and the most painful torture; in
fact, it is possible that neither the loaded pistol nor the most
painful torture would be able to deter him from making his life as
comfortable as he can. And the same is true when, by fear of
eternal punishment (terrible threat!), and by hope of eternal
salvation, He wishes to bring about-well, to make us what we a r e
(for what we call Christian is, as we have seen, really being
Christian), to make us well, to make us what we are; that is, make
men live as they please; for to abstain from committing crimes is
nothing but common prudence!

The most terrible blasphemy is the one of which "Christianity" is
guilty, which is, to transform the God of the Spirit into a ridiculous
piece of nonsense. And the stupidest kind of worship, more stupid
than any idolatry ever was among the heathen, and more stupid
than to worship as a god some stone, or an ox, or an insect more
stupid than anything, is to adore as god a fool!

DIAGNOSIS
(No. IV, 1)

1.

Every physician will admit that by the correct diagnosis of a
malady more than half the fight against it is won; also, that if a
correct diagnosis has not been made, all skill and all care and
attention will be of little avail.

The same is true with regard to religion.

We are agreed to let stand the claim that in "Christendom" we are
Christians, every one of us; and then we have laid and, perhaps,
will lay, emphasis now on this, now on that, side of the teachings
of the Scriptures.

But the truth is: we are not only not Christians no, we are not even
the heathen to whom Christianity may be taught without
misgivings, and what is worse, we are prevented through a
delusion, an enormous delusion (viz. "Christendom," the Christian
state, a Christian country, a Christian world) from becoming
Christians.

And then the suggestion is made to one to continue untouched and
unchanged this delusion and, rather, to furnish a new presentation
of the teachings of Christ.

This has been suggested; and, in a certain sense, it is altogether
fitting. Just because one lives in a delusion (not to speak even of
being interested in keeping up the delusion), one is bound to desire
that which will feed the malady a common enough observation this
the sick man desiring precisely those things which feed his
malady.

2.

Imagine a hospital. The patients are dying off like so many flies.
The methods are changed, now this way, now that: of no avail!
What may be the cause? The cause lies in the building the whole
building is tainted. The patients are put down as having died, the
one of this, the other of that, disease, but strictly speaking this is
not true; for they all died from the taint which is in the building.

The same is true in religion. That religious conditions are
wretched, and that people in respect of their religion are in a
wretched condition, nothing is more certain. So one ventures the
opinion that if we could but have a new hymn-book; and another,
if we could but have a new service-book; and a third, if we could
but have a musical service, etc., etc. that then matters would mend.

In vain; for the fault lies in the edifice. The whole ramshackle pile
of a State Church which has not been aired, spiritually speaking, in
times out of mind the air in it has developed a taint. And therefore
religious life has become diseased or has died out; alas, for
precisely that which the worldly mind regards as health is, in a
Christian sense, disease just as, vice versa, that which is healthy in
a Christian sense, is regarded as diseased from a worldly point of
view.

Then let the ramshackle pile collapse, get it out of the way, close
all these shops and booths which are the only ones which are
excepted from the strict Sunday regulations, forbid this official
double-dealing, put them out of commission, and provide for them,
for all these quacks: even though it is true that the royally attested
physician is the acceptable one, and he who is not so attested is a
quack: in Christianity it is just the reverse; that is, the royally
attested teacher is the quack, is a quack by the very fact that he is
royally attested and let us worship God again in simplicity, instead
of making a fool of him in splendid edifices; let us be in earnest
again and stop playing; for a Christianity preached by royal
officials who are payed and insured by the state and who use the
police against the others, such a Christianity bears about the same
relation to the Christianity of the New Testament as swimming
with the help of a cork-belt or a bladder does to swimming alone-it
is mere play.

Yes, let that come about. What Christianity needs is not the stifling
protection of the state ah no, it needs fresh air, it needs persecution
and the protection of God. The state does only mischief in averting
persecution and surely is not the medium through which God's
protection can be conducted. Whatever you do, save Christianity
from the state, for with its protection it overlies Christianity like a
fat woman overlying her child with her carcass, beside teaching
Christianity the most abominable bad habits as, e.g., to use the
police force and to call that Christianity.

3.

A person is growing thinner every day and is wasting away. What
may the trouble be? For surely he is not suffering want! "No, sure
enough," says the doctor, "that is not the trouble. The trouble is
precisely with his eating, with his eating in season and out of
season, with his eating without being hungry, with his using
stimulants to produce an appetite, and in this manner ruining his
digestion, so that he is wasting away as if he suffered want." The
same is true in religion. The worst of all is to satisfy a craving
which has not as yet made its appearance, to anticipate it, or worse
still by the help of stimulants to produce something which looks
like a craving, which then is promptly satisfied. Ah, the shame of
it! And yet this is exactly what is being done in religion where
people are in very truth fooled out of the real meaning of life and
helped to waste their lives. That is in very truth, the effect of this
whole machinery of a state church and a thousand royal officials
who, under the pretense of being spiritual guides for the people,
trick them out of the highest thing in life, which is, the solicitude
about one's self, and the need which would surely of itself find a
teacher or minister after its own mind; whereas now the need and
it is just the growth of this sense of a need which gives life its
highest significance whereas now this need does not arise at all,
but on the contrary is forestalled by being satisfied long before it
can arise. And this is the way, they claim, this is the way to
continue the work which the Savior of Mankind did begin stunting
the human race as they do. And why is this so? Because there
happen to be a thousand and one royal officials who have to
support their families by furnishing what is called spiritual
guidance for men's souls!

THE CHRISTIANITY OF THE NEW TESTAMENT;
THE CHRISTANITY OF "CHRISTENDOM"
(No. V, 4)

The intention of Christianity was: to change everything.

The result, the Christianity of "Christendom" is: everything,
literally everything, remained as it had been, with just the
difference that to everything was affixed the attribute "Christian"
and for the rest (strike up, fiddlers!) we live in Heathendom so
merrily, so merrily the dance goes around; or, rather, we live in a
Heathendom made more refined by the help of Life Everlasting
and by help of the thought that, after all, it is all Christian!
Try it, point to what you will, and you shall see that I am right in
my assertion.

If what Christianity demanded was chastity, then away with
brothels! But the change is that the brothels have remained just as
they did in Heathendom, and the proportion of prostitutes
remained the same, too; to be sure, they became "Christian"
brothels! A brothel-keeper is a "Christian" brothel-keeper, he is a
Christian as well as we others. Exclude him from church
membership? "Why, for goodness sake," the clergyman will say,
"what would things come to if we excluded a single paying
member?" The brothel-keeper dies and gets a funeral oration with
a panegyric in proportion to the amount he pays. And after having
earned his money in a manner which, from a Christian point of
view, is as filthy and base as can be (for, from a Christian point of
view it would be more honorable if he had stolen it) the clergyman
returns home. He is in a hurry, for he is to go to church in order to
deliver an oration or, as Bishop Martensen would say, "bear
witness."

But if Christianity demanded honesty and uprightness, and doing
away with this swindle, the change which really came about was
this: the swindling has remained just as in Heathendom, "every one
(every Christian) is a thief in his own line"; only, the swindling has
taken on the predicate "Christian." So we now have "Christian"
swindling and the "clergyman" bestows his blessing on this
Christian community, this Christian state, in which one cheats just
as one did in Heathendom, at the same time that one pays the
"clergyman," that is, the biggest swindler of hem all, and thus
cheats one's self into Christianity.

And if Christianity demanded seriousness in life and doing away
with the praise and approbation of vanity why, everything has
remained as before, with just this diference that it has assumed the
predicate "Christian." Thus the trumpery business with
decorations, titles, and rank, etc. has become Christian and the
clergyman (that most decent of all indecencies, that most
ridiculous of all ridiclous hodge-podges), he is as pleased as Punch
to be decorated himself with the "cross." The cross? Why,
certainly; for in the Christianity of "Christendom" has not the cross
become something like a child's hobby-horse and tin-trumpet?

And so with everything. There is implanted in man no stronger
instinct, after that of self-preservation, than the instinct of
reproduction; for which reason Christianity seeks to reduce its
strength, teaching that it is better not to marry; "but if they cannot
contain, let them marry; for it better to marry than to burn." But in
Christendom the propogation of the race has become the serious
business of life and of Christianity; and the clergyman that
quintessence of nonsense done up in long clothes the clergyman,
the teacher of Christianity, of the Christianity of the New
Testament, has his income adjusted to the fact that the human race
is active in propagating the race, and gets a little something for
each child!

As I said, look about you and you will find that everything is as I
told you: the change from Heathendom consists in everything
remaining unchanged but having assumed the predicate
"Christian."

MODERN RELIGIOUS GUARANTEES
(No. V, 8)

In times long, long past people looked at matters in this fashion: it
was demanded of him who would be a teacher of Christianity that
his life should be a guarantee for the teachings he proclaimed.

This idea was abandoned long ago, the world having become wiser
and more serious. It has learned to set little store by these illiberal
and sickly notions of personal responsibility, having learned to
look for purely objective ends. The demand is made now of the
teacher that his life should guarantee that what he has to say is
entertaining and dramatic stuff, amusing, and purely objective.
Some examples. Suppose you wanted to speak about Christianity,
that is, the Christianity of the New Testament which expresses
preference for the single state and suppose you yourself are
unmarried: why, my dear man! you ought not to speak on this
subject, because your congregation might think that you meant
what you said and become disquieted, or it might feel insulted that
you thus, very improperly, mixed in your own affairs. No, dear sir,
it will take a little longer before you are entitled to speak seriously
on this matter so as really to satisfy the congregation. Wait till you
have buried your first wife and are well along with your second
wife: then it will be time for you to stand before your congregation
to preach and "bear witness" that Christianity prefers the single
state then you will satisfy them altogether; for your life will
furnish the guarantee that it is all tomfoolery and great fun, or that
what you say is interesting. Indeed, how interesting! For just as, to
make it interesting, the husband must be unfaithful to his wife and
the wife to her husband, likewise truth becomes interesting,
intensely interesting, only when one lets one's self be carried away
by one's feelings, be fascinated by them but of course does the
precise opposite and thus in an underhand manner is re-assured in
persisting in one's ways.

Do you wish to speak about Christianity's teaching contempt for
titles and decorations and all the follies of fame and should you
happen to be neither a person of rank nor anything of the kind:
Why, my dear sir! You ought not to undertake to speak on this
subject. Why, your congregation might think you were in earnest,
or feel insulted by such a lack of tact in forcing your personality on
their notice. No, indeed, you ought to wait till you have a lot of
decorations, the more the merrier; you ought to wait till you drag
along with a rigmarole of titles, so many that you hardly know
yourself what you are called: then is your time come to stand
before your congregation to preach and "bear witness" and you
will undoubtedly satisfy them; for your life will then furnish the
guarantee that it is but a dramatic divertisement, an interesting
forenoon entertainment.

Is it your intention to preach Christianity in poverty, and insist that
only thus it is taught in truth and you happen to be very literally a
poor devil: Why, my dear sir! You ought not to venture to speak on
this subject. Why, your congregation might think you were in
earnest, they might become afraid and lose their good humor, and
they might be very unpleasantly affected by thus having poverty
thrust in on them. No indeed, first get yourself some fat living, and
when you have had it so long that your promotion to one still fatter
is to be expected: then is your time come to stand before your
congregation and to preach and "bear witness" and you will satisfy
them; for your life then furnishes the guarantee that it is just a
joke, such as serious men like to indulge in, now and then, in
theatre or in church, as a sort of recreation to gather new strength
for making money.

And that is the way they honor God in the churches! And then
these silk and velvet orators weep, they sob, their voice is drowned
in tears! Ah, if it be true (and it is, since God Himself has said so),
if it be true that He counts the tears of the afflicted and puts them
into His bottle, then woe to these orators, if God has counted also
their Sunday tears and put them into His bottle! And woe to us all
if God really heeds these Sunday tears especially those of the
speakers, but also those of the listeners! For a Sunday preacher
would indeed be right if he said and, oratorically, this would have
a splendid effect, especially if accompanied by his own tears and
suppressed sobs he would be right if he said to his audience: I shall
count all the futile tears you have shed in church, and with them I
shall step accusingly before you on the Day of Judgment indeed,
he is right; only please not to forget that, after all, the speaker's
own dramatic tears are by far more dreadful than the thoughtless
tears of his listeners.

WHAT SAYS THE FIRE-MARSHAL
(No. VI, 5)

That a man who in some fashion or other has what one calls a
"cause," something he seriously purposes to accomplish and there
are other persons who make it their business to counteract, and
antagonize, and hurt him that he must take measures against these
his enemies, this will be evident to every one. But that there is a
well-intentioned kindness by far more dangerous, perhaps, and one
that seems calculated to prevent the serious accomplishment of his
mission, this will not at once be clear to every one.

When a person suddenly falls ill, kindly-intentioned folk will
straightway rush to his help, and one will suggest this, another that
and if all those about him had a chance to have their way it would
certainly result in the sick man's death; seeing that even one
person's well-meaning advice may be dangerous enough. And even
if nothing is done, and the advice of neither the assembled and
well-meaning crowd nor of any one person is taken, yet their busy
and flurried presence may be harmful, nevertheless, inasmuch as
they are in the way of the physician.

Likewise at a fire. Scarcely has the alarm of fire been sounded but
a great crowd of people will rush to the spot, good and kindly and
sympathetic, helpful people, the one with a bucket, the other with
a basin, still another with a hand-squirt all of them goodly, kindly,
sympathetic, helpful persons who want to do all they can to
extinguish the fire.

But what says the fire-marshal? The fire-marshal, he says well, at
other times the fire-marshal is a very pleasnt and refined man; but
at a fire he does use coarse lanuage he says or, rather, he roars out:
"Oh, go to hell with your buckets and hand-squirts!" And then,
when these well-meaning people feel insulted, perhaps, and think
it highly improper to be treated in this fashion, and would like at
least to be treated respectfully what says the fire-marshal then?
Well, at other times the fire-marshal is a very pleasant and refined
gentleman who will show every one the respect due him; but at a
fire he is somewhat different he says: "Where the devil is the
police?" And when the policemen arrive he says to them: "Rid me
of these damn people with their buckets and hand-squirts; and if
they won't clear out, then club them on their heads, so that we get
rid of them and can get at the fire!"

That is to say, in the case of a fire the whole way of looking at
things is a very different one from that of quiet every-day life. The
qualities which in quiet every-day life render one well-liked, viz.,
good-nature and kindly well meaning, all this is repaid, in the case
of a fire, with abusive language and finally with a crack on the
head.

And this is just as it should be. For a conflagration is a serious
business; and wherever we have to deal with a serious business
this well-intentioned kindness won't do at all. Indeed, any serious
business enforces a very different mode of behavior which is:
either-or. Either you are able really to do something, and really
have something to do here; or else, if that be not the case, then the
serious business demands precisely that you take yourself away.
And if you will not comprehend that, the fire-marshal proposes to
have the police hammer it into your head; which may do you a
great deal of good, as it may help to render you a little serious, as
is befitting so serious a business as a fire.

But what is true in the case of a fire holds true also in matters of
the spirit. Wherever a cause is to be promoted, or an enterprise to
be seen through, or an idea to be served -you may be sure that
when he who really is the man to do it, the right man, he who, in a
higher sense has and ought to have command, he who is in earnest
and can make the matter the serious business it really is you may
be sure that when he arrives at the spot, so to say, he will find there
a nice company of easy-going, addle-pated twaddlers who,
pretending to be engaged in serious business, dabble in wishing to
serve this cause, to further that enterprise, to promote that idea a
company of addle-pated fools who will of course consider one's
unwillingness to make common cause with them (which
unwillingness precisely proves one's seriousness) will of course
consider that a sure proof of the man's lack of seriousness. I say,
when the right man arrives he will find this; but I might also look
at it in this fashion: the very question as to whether he is the right
man is most properly decided by his attitude to that crowd of fools.
If he thinks they may help him, and that he will add to his strength
by joining them, then he is eo ipso not the right man. The right
man will understand at once, as did the fire-marshal, that the
crowd must be got out of the way; in fact, that their presence and
puttering around is the most dangerous ally the fire could have.
Only, that in matters of the spirit it is not as in the case of the
conflagration, where the fire-marshal needs but to say to the
police: rid me of these people!

Thus in matters of the spirit, and likewise in matters of religion.
History has frequently been compared to what the chemists call a
"process." The figure is quite suggestive, providing it is correctly
understood. For instance, in the "process of filtration" water is run
through a filter and by this process loses its impurities. In a totally
different sense history is a process. The idea is given utterance and
then enters into the process of history. But unfortunately this
process (how ridiculous a supposition!) consists not in purifying
the idea, which never is purer than at its inception; oh no, it
consists in gradually and increasingly botching, bungling, and
making a mess of, the idea, in using up the idea, in indeed, is not
this the opposite of filtering? adding the impurer elements which it
originally lacked: until at last, by the enthusiastic and mutually
appreciative efforts of successive generations, the idea has
absolutely disappeared and the very opposite of the original idea is
now called the idea, which is then asserted to have arisen through
a historic process by which the idea is purified and elevated.

When finally the right man arrives, he who in the highest sense is
called to the task for all we know, chosen early and slowly
educated for this business which is, to throw light on the matter, to
set fire to this jungle which is a refuge for all kinds of foolish talk
and delusions and rascally tricks when he comes he will always
find a nice company of addle-pated fools and twaddlers who,
surely enough, do think that, perhaps, things are wrong and that
"something must be done about it"; or who have taken the position,
and talk a good deal about it, that it is preposterous to be
self-important and talk about it. Now if he, the right man, is
deceived but a single instant and thinks that it is this company who
are to aid him, then it is clear he is not the right man. If he is
deceived and has dealings with that company, then providence will
at once take its hand off him, as not fit. But the right man will see
at a glance, as the fire-marshal does, that the crowd who in the
kindness of their hearts mean to help in extinguishing a
conflagration by buckets and hand-squirts the right man will see
that the same crowd who here, when there is a question, not of
extinguishing a fire, but rather of setting something on fire, will in
the kindness of their hearts wish to help with a sulphur match sans
fire or a wet spill he will see that this crowd must be got rid of,
that he must not have the least thing in common with this crowd,
that he will be obliged to use the coarsest possible language
against them he who perhaps at other times is anything but coarse.
But the thing of supreme importance is to be rid of the crowd; for
the effect of the crowd is to hamstring the whole cause by robbing
it of its seriousness while heartfelt sympathy is pretended. Of
course the crowd will then rage against him, against his incredible
arrogance and so forth. This ought not to count with him, whether
for or against, In all truly serious business the law of : either or,
prevails. Either, I am the man whose serious business this is, I am
called to it, and am willing to take a decisive risk; or, if this be not
the case, then the seriousness of the business demands that I do not
meddle with it at all. Nothing is more detestable and mean, and
nothing discloses and effects a deeper demoralization, than this
lackadaisical wishing to enter "somewhat" into matters which
demand an aut aut, aut Caesar aut nihil, this taking just a little part
in something, to be so wretchedly lukewarm, to twaddle about the
business, and then by twaddling to usurp through a lie the attitude
of being better than they who wish not to have anything whatever
to do with the whole business to usurp through a lie the attitude of
being better, and thus to render doubly difficult the task of him
whose business it really is.

CONFIRMATION AND WEDDING CEREMONY;
CHRISTIAN COMEDY OR WORSE STILL
(No. VII, 6)

Pricks of conscience (insofar as they may be assumed in this
connection) pricks of conscience seem to have convinced
"Christendom" that it was, after all, going too far, and that it would
not do this beastly farce of becoming a Christian by the simple
method of letting a royal official give the infant a sprinkle of water
over his head, which is the occasion for a family gathering with a
banquet to celebrate the day.

This won't do, was the opinion of "Christendom," for the
opportunity ought to be given the baptized individual to indorse
personally his baptismal vows.

For this purpose the rite of confirmation was devised a splendid
invention, providing we take two things for granted: in the first
place, that the idea of divine worship is to make God ridiculous;
and in the second place, that its purpose is to give occasion for
family celebrations, parties, a jolly evening, a banquet which is
different from other banquets in that it ah, exquisite in that it, "at
the same time" has a religious significance.

"The tender child," thus Christendom, "can of course not assume
the baptismal vow personally, for this requires a real personality."
Consequently there was chosen is this a stroke of genius or just
ingenious? there was chosen the age of 14 or 15 years, the
schoolboy age. This real personality that is all right, if you please
he is equal to the task of personally assuming responsibility for the
baptismal vow taken in behalf of the infant.

A boy of fifteen! Now, if it were a matter of 10 dollars, his father
would probably say: "No, my boy, I can't let you have all that
money, you are still too green for that." But for a matter touching
his eternal salvation where the point is to assume, with all the
seriousness one's personality is capable of, and as a personality,
responsibility for what certainly could not in any profounder sense
be called serious when a child is bound by a vow: for that the age
of fifteen is excellently fitting.

Excellently fitting. Oh yes if, as was remarked above, divine
worship serves a double purpose, viz., to render God ridiculous in
a very adroit manner if you may call it so and to furnish the
occasion for graceful family celebrations. In that case it is indeed
excellently fitting, as everything is on that occasion; as is,
likewise, the customary bibllical lesson for the day which, you will
remember, begins: "Then the same day at evening, when the doors
were shut" and this text is particularly suitable to a Confirmation
Sunday. One is truly edified when hearing a clergyrnan read it on a
Confirmation Sunday.

As is easily perceived, then, the confirmation ceremony is still
worse nonsense than the baptism of infants, just because
confirmation pretends to supply what was lacking at the baptism,
viz., a real personality capable of making a vow in a matter
touching one's eternal salvation. In another sense this nonsense is,
to be sure, ingenious enough, as serving the self-interest of the
clergy who understand full well that if the decision concerning a
man's religion were reserved until he had reached maturity (which
were the only Christian, as well as the only sensible, way), many
might possess character enough to refuse to become Christians by
an act of hypocrisy. For this reason "the clergyman" seeks to gain
control of men in their infancy and their youth, so that they would
find it diffictilt, upon reaching a more mature age, to break a
"sacred" vow dating, to he sure, from one's boyhood, but which
would, perhaps, still be a serious enough matter to many a one.
Hence the clergy take hold of the infants, the youths, and receive
sacred promises and the like from them. And what that man of
God, "the clergyman," does, why, that is, of course, a God-fearing
action. Else, analogy might, perhaps, demand that to the ordinance
forbidding the sale of spirituous liquors to minors there should be
added one forbidding the taking of solemn vows concerning one's
eternal salvation from boys; which ordinance would look toward
preventing the clergy, who themselves are perjurors, from working
in order to salve their own consciences from working toward the
greatest conceivable shipwreck which is, to make all society
become perjured; for letting boys of fifteen bind themselves in a
matter touching their eternal salvation is a measure which is
precisely calculated to have that effect.

The ceremony of confirmation is, then, in itself a worse piece of
nonsense than the baptism of infants. But in order to miss nothing
which might, in any conceivable manner, contribute to render
confirmation the exact opposite of what it purports to be, this
ceremony has been connected with all manner of worldly and civil
affairs, so that the significance of confirmation lies chiefly in the
certificate of character which the minister makes out; without
which certificate no boy or girl will be able to get on at all in life.

The whole thing is a comedy; and perhaps something might be
done to add greater dramatic illusion to the solemnity; as e.g.,
passing an ordinance forbidding any one to be confirmed in a
jacket, as not becoming a real personality; likewise, a regulation
ordering male candidates for confirmation to wear a beard during
the ceremony, which beard might, of course, be taken off for the
family celebration in the evening, or be used in fun and
merrymaking.

I am not now attacking the community they are led astray; they
cannot be blamed for liking this kind of divine worship, seeing that
they are left to their own devices and deceived by their clergyman
who has sworn an oath on the New Testament. But woe to these
clergymen, woe to them, these sworn liars! I know there have been
mockers at religion, and I know how much they would have given
to be able to do what I do; but they were not able to, because God
was not with them. It is different with me. Originally as well
disposed to the clergy as few have been, and very ready to help
them, I have undergone a change of heart in the opposite direction,
owing to their attitude. And the Almighty is with me, and He
knows how the whip is to be handled so that the blows take effect,
and that laughter must be that whip, handled with fear and
trembling therefor am I used.

THE WEDDING CEREMONY

True worship of God consists, very simply, in doing God's will.
But that kind of divine service has never suited man's wishes. That
which occupies man's mind at all times, that which gives rise to
science and makes science spread into many, many sciences, and
into interminable detail; that of which, and for which, thousands of
clergymen and professors live, that which forms the contents of the
history of Christendom, by the study of which the clergyman or the
professor to be is trained is to get a different kind of worship
arranged, the main point of which would be: to do what one
pleases, but in such fashion that the name of God and the
invocation of God be brought into connection therewith; by which
arrangement man imagines himself safeguarded against
ungodliness whereas, alas! just this procedure is the most
unqualified ungodliness.

For example: a man has the intention to make his living by killing
people. To be sure, he knows from the Word of God that this is not
permissible, that God's will is: thou shalt not kill! "All right,"
thinks he, "but this way of serving God will not serve my purposes
at the same time I don't care to be among the ungodly ones, either."
So what does he do but get hold of some priest who in God's name
blesses his dagger. Ah, c'est bien autre chose!

In the Scriptures the single state is recommended. "But," says man,
"that kind of worship really does not serve my purposes and surely,
you can't say that I am an ungodly person; and such an important
step as marriage (which nota bene God counsels against, His
opinion being, in fact, that the important thing is not to take "this
important step") should I take such an important step without
making sure of God's blessing?" Bravo! "That is what we have the
priest for, that man of God, he will bestow the blessing on this
important step (nota bene concerning which the most important
thing was not to take it at all) and so it will be acceptable to God"
and so I have my own way; and my own way becomes the way of
worshipping God; and the priest has his own way and gets his ten
dollars, which are not earned in such a simple way as, for example,
by brushing people's clothes, or by serving out beer and brandy oh
no! Was he not active on behalf of God? To earn ten dollars in this
fashion is: serving God. Bravissimo!

What depth of nonsense and abomination! If something is not
pleasing to God, does it perhaps become pleasing to Him by
having why, that is aggravating the mischief! by having a
clergyman along who why, that is aggravating the mischief still
more! who gets ten dollars for declaring it pleasant to God?

Let us consider the marriage ceremony still further! In His word
God recommends the single state. Now suppose two young people
want to be married. To be sure, they ought certainly to know,
themselves, what Christianity is, seeing that they call themselves
Christians; but never mind that now. The lovers then apply to the
clergyman; and the clergyman is, we remember, pledged by his
oath on the New Testament (which nota bene recommends the
single state). Now, if he is not a liar and a perjuror who makes his
money in the very shabbiest fashion, he would be bound to take
the following course: at most he could, with human compassion
for this human condition of being in love, say to them: "Dear
children, I am the one to whom you should turn last of all; to turn
to me on this occasion is, indeed, as strange as if one should turn
to the chief of police and ask him how best to steal. My duty is to
employ all means to restrain you. At most, I can say, with the
words of the Apostle (for they are not the words of Our Lord), I
can say to you: well, if it must be, and you cannot contain, why,
then find some way of getting together; for 'it is better to marry
than to burn.' I know very well that you will be likely to shudder
when I speak in this manner about what you think is the most
beautiful thing in life; but I must do my duty. And it is therefore I
said to you that to me you should have applied last of all."

It is different in "Christendom." The priest oh dear me! if there are
but two to clap together, why certainly! Indeed, if the persons
concerned turned to a midwife they would perhaps not be as sure
to be confirmed in their conviction that their intention is pleasing
to God.

And so they are married; i.e. man has his own way, and this having
his own way strategically serves at the same time as divine
worship, God's name being connected with it. They are married by
the priest! Ah, for having the clergyman along is just what
reassures one the man who, to be sure, is pledged by his oath to
preach the New Testament, but who for a consideration of ten
dollars is the pleasantest company one could desire that man he
guarantees that this act is true worship of God.

In a Christian sense one ought to say: precisely the fact that a priest
is in it, precisely that is the worst thing about the whole business.
If you want to be married you ought, rather, be married by a smith;
for then if it were admissible to speak in this fashion then it might
possibly escape God's attention; whereas, if there is a priest along
it can certainly not escape His attention. Precisely the fact of the
clergyman's being there makes it as criminal an affair as possible
call to mind what was said to a man who in a storm at sea invoked
the gods: "By all means do not let the gods notice that you are
aboard!" Thus one might say here also: By all means try to avoid
calling in a priest. The others, the smith and the lovers, have not
pledged themselves by an oath on the New Testament, so matters
are not as bad if it be admissible to speak in this fashion as when
the priest assists with his holy presence.

AN ETERNITY TO REPENT IN!
(No. VIII, 3)

Let me relate a story. I did not read it in a book of devotion but in
what is generally called light reading. Yet I do not hesitate to make
use of it, and indicate its source only lest any one be disturbed if he
should happen to be acquainted with it, or find out at some later
time where it is from lest he be disturbed that I had been silent
about this.

Once upon a time there lived somewhere in the East a poor old
couple. Utterly poor they were, and anxiety about the future
naturally grew when they thought of old age approaching. They did
not, indeed, constantly assail heaven with their prayers, they were
too God-fearing to do that; but still they were ever praying to God
for help.

Then one morning it happened that the old woman found an
exceeding large jewel on the hearth-stone, which she forthwith
showed to her husband, who recognized its value and easily
perceived that now their poverty was at an end.

What a bright future for these old people, and what gladness! But
frugal and pious as they were they decided not to sell the jewel just
yet, since they had enough wherewithal to live still one more day.
But on the morrow they would sell it, and then a new life was to
begin for them.

In the following night the woman dreamed that she was
transported to Paradise. An angel showed her about the splendors
which only an Oriental imagination can devise. He showed her a
hall in which there stood long rows of arm-chairs gemmed all over
with precious stones and pearls. These, so the angel explained,
were the seats of the pious. And last of all he pointed out to her the
one destined for herself. When regarding it more closely she
discovered that a very large jewel was lacking in the back of the
chair, and she asked the angel how that might be. He ah, watch
now, for here is the point! The angel answered: "That was the
jewel which you found on your hearth-stone. It was given you
ahead of time, and it cannot be put in again."

In the morning the woman told her husband this dream. And she
was of the opinion that it was better, perhaps, to endure in poverty
the few years still left to them to live, rather than to be without that
jewel in all eternity. And her pious husband was of the same
opinion.

So in the evening they laid the jewel on the hearth-stone and
prayed to God to take it away again. And next morning it had
disappeared, for certain; and what had become of it the old folks
well knew: it was in its right place again.

This man was in truth happily married, and his wife a sensible
woman. But even if it were true, as is maintained so often, that it is
men's wives who cause them to lose sight of eternal values: even if
all men remained unmarried, there would still be in every one of
us an impulse, more ingenious and more pressing and more
unremitting than a woman, which will cause him to use a wrong
measure and to think a couple of years, or ten years, or forty years,
so enormous a length of time that even eternity were quite brief in
comparison; instead of these years being asnothing when
compared with the infinite duration of eternity.

Therefore, heed this well! You may by worldly wisdom escape
perhaps what it has pleased God to unite with the condition of
one's being a Christian, that is, sufferings and tribulations; you
may, and to your own destruction, by cleverly avoiding the
difficulties, perhaps, gain what God has forever made
incompatible with being a Christian, that is, the enjoyment of
pleasures and all earthly goods; you may, fooled by your own
worldly wisdom, perhaps, finally perish altogether, in the illusion
that you are on the right way because you have gained happiness in
this world: and then you will have an eternity to repent in! An
eternity to repent in; to repent that you did not employ your time in
doing what might be remembered in all eternity; that is, in truth to
love God, with the consequence that you suffer the persecution of
men in this life.

Therefore, do not deceive yourself, and of all deceivers fear most
yourself! Even if it were possible for one, with regard to eternity,
to take something ahead of time, you would still deceive yourself
just by having something ahead of time and then an eternity to
repent in!

A DOSE OF DISGUST WITH LIFE
(No. IX, 3)

Just as man as is natural desires that which tends to nourish and
revive his love of life, likewise he who wishes to live with eternity
in mind needs a constant dose of disgust with life lest he become
foolishly enamored of this world and, still more, in order that he
may learn thoroughly to be disgusted and bored and sickened with
the folly and lies of this wretched world. Here is a dose of it:

God Incarnate is betrayed, mocked, deserted by absolutely all men;
not a single one, literally not a single one, remains faithful to him
and then, afterwards, afterwards, oh yes, afterwards, there were
millions of men who on their knees made pilgrimage to the places
where many hundred years ago His feet, perhaps, trod the ground;
afterwards, afterwards oh yes, afterwards, millions worshipped a
splinter of the cross on which He was crucified!

And so it was always when men were contemporary with the great;
but afterwards, afterwards oh yes, afterwards!

Must one then not loathe being human?

And again, must one not loathe being human? For these millions
who on their knees made pilgrimage to His grave, this throng of
people which no power on earth was able to overcome: but one
thing were necessary, Christ's return and all these millions would
quickly regain their feet to run their way, so that the whole throng
were as if blown away; or would, in a mass, and erect enough, rush
upon Christ in order to kill him.

That which Christ and the Apostles and every martyr desires, and
desires as the only thing: that we should follow in His footsteps,
just that is the thing which mankind does not like or does not find
pleasure in.


No, take away the danger so that it is but play, and then the
batallions of the human race will (ah, disgusting!) will perform
astonishing feats in aping Him; and then instead of an imitation of
Christ we get (ah, disgusting!), we get that sacred buffoonery
under guidance and command (ah, disgusting!) of sworn
clergymen who do service as sergeants, lieutenants, etc. ordained
men who therefore have the Holy Spirit's special assistance in this
serious business.