Selections from the Writings of Kierkegaard
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
literal-minded 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 a crime; but
still I did not love as did Abraham, for else I would 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_[16] 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;[17] 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 swimming-belt 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, to-wit, those
of infinity; whereas faith does the opposite, to-wit, 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 marvelous 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 servant-girl: 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, gay-colored 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 parish-beadle!" 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 signaling 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 omnibuses,
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 mail-carrier. 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