Søren Kierkegaard was clever, arrogant, verbose, observant, cynical, ironic, prolific, religious, gifted. His writing is dense, polemical, lyrical, remarkable.
His magnum opus, Either-Or, is an exceptional work. I struggled my way through it, much as I imagine I would struggle to climb Mount Everest – through nebulous passages, up windy roads that sometimes narrowed, sometimes digressed into unexpected territory, always challenged my footing and my stamina. But on nearly every page there was a striking view to take in. I underlined sentence after sentence that made me stop, wonder, marvel; things that made me frustrated, impressed, enlightened, confused. It was tiring to read at times, perhaps even tiresome, because Kierkegaard would drone on and on, alighting on every possible angle to every topic. And yet it was these meanderings, these endless labyrinthine discussions that would produce golden nuggets of wisdom in the midst of beautiful, often archaic (in terms of today’s Danish) words.
The first part – Either – is an ostensible defense of the aesthetic perspective on life, consisting of a number of texts, different in genres and themes, which celebrate constant change and sensory experiences. In one of these texts, Kierkegaard discusses this aesthetic view of life (a narrower definition of the term compared to today’s understanding) through a lengthy appreciation of Mozart’s opera, Don Giovanni, written by Victor Emeritus, aesthete, one of Kierkegaard’s many aliases. This part also includes one of his more famous pieces, The Seducer’s Diary. In the second part - Or, he criticizes this a superficial take on life and argues for the ethical perspective: the nourishment of the soul and not just of the senses.
(Because of their cerebral compatibility, I wonder what Kierkegaard would have made of Oscar Wilde, and vice versa. When I say cerebral compatibility, I mean their extreme genius, their willingness to hold two opposing viewpoints at the same time, their ability to reference other works of literature ad infinitum, their linguistic superiority and wordsmithery. Despite these similarities they lived lives that were at the opposite ends of the aesthetic/ethical spectrum, which, paradoxically, made them both embrace an either-or stance. Personally, I opt for a both-and one (an expression which we have in Danish)).
At 835 pages – a monstrous literary tour de force which cemented Kierkegaard’s status as one of the foremost thinkers of the age - this was a slow, slow read. I tried to read a minimum of ten pages at a time, but it turned out to be a maximum. I often went back to reread a sentence (which often began three lines above) to glean the exact meaning. Part of the problem is that the Danish language has evolved so much more since Kierkegaard’s days than the English language has, and many words have either disappeared from usage or have changed their usage to mean something different today. Also the inflections of verbs were different, and his punctuation – run-on clauses with only commas to separate them – would make me breathless. The Germanic capitalization of nouns was a detail in the bigger picture. I’ve been told he’s much easier to read in English, and so despite his (and my) original language being Danish, I might try him in English next time.
There was much I marvelled at, much I admired but also quite a bit I disagreed with. His view of women, for instance; he seems stuck in the 19th century (women are not born to work but are flighty, imaginative creatures, etc.), though it is sometimes difficult to know whether he speaks with his own voice or under a pseudonym and is thus being ironic or downright insincere to provoke a reaction (this is the case in the Seducer’s Diary, for instance, in which the narrator is neither aesthete nor ethically responsible but rather a cynic). Moreover, his reliance on God is a far cry from the rather a-religious Denmark of today and sometimes seemed at odds with his sharp, intellectual observations. Though he is often considered the father of existentialism, his particular branch was more religious than the later existentialists of the 20th century.
He ponders and discusses an abundance of life’s mysteries and challenges. Anxiety, for instance, is produced by our reflecting on things and as such, he claims, thus different from sorrow. It is always connected to time in the sense that you cannot be anxious about the present but only about what is past or what is in the future. Sorrow, on the other hand is bound to the present. This was something I pondered at length and which, like many of his other points and arguments, raised questions rather than gave any clear answers. Another point he made, which I immediately took to heart, is that we must not be (too) busy. If we’re too busy, we’re not taking our lives seriously. Throughout, he references Goethe’s Faust, Mozart’s Don Giovanni, Shakespeare and many Greeks – in Greek; those quotes were Greek to me.
A selection of his more comprehensible quotes (which I’ve translated):
I say about my sorrow what the Englishman says about his home: my sorrow is my castle. Many people see having sorrows as one of life’s comforts.
Nobody returns from the dead, nobody has entered the world without crying; no one asks you when you want in, no one asks you when you want out.
An individual who hopes for eternal life is in a sense an unhappy individual insofar as he relinquishes the present, but is not in a stricter sense unhappy because he is present within this hope.
Can you long for what you already possess? Yes, when you imagine that in the next moment you may no longer possess it.
One of Denmark's three literary triumvirs, if you ask me, the other two being Hans Christian Andersen and Karen Blixen. Recommended for the patient and philosophically-minded reader.