Selections
from Soren Kierkegaard, Fear and Trembling
(Translated by Walter Lowrie.)
Chapter 1: A Panegyric Upon Abraham
If there were no eternal consciousness in a man, if at the foundation of all
there lay only a wildly seething power which writhing with obscure passions
produced everything that is great and everything that is insignificant, if a
bottomless void never satiated lay hidden beneath all -- what then would life
be but despair? If such were the case, if there were no sacred bond which
united mankind, if one generation arose after another like the leafage in the
forest, if the one generation replaced the other like the song of birds in the
forest, if the human race passed through the world as the ship goes through the
sea, like the wind through the desert, a thoughtless and fruitless activity, if
an eternal oblivion were always lurking hungrily for its prey and there was no
power strong enough to wrest it from its maw -- how empty then and comfortless
life would be! But therefore it is not thus, but as God created man and woman,
so too He fashioned the hero and the poet or orator. The poet cannot do what
that other does, he can only admire, love and rejoice in the hero. Yet he too
is happy, and not less so, for the hero is as it were his better nature, with
which he is in love, rejoicing in the fact that this after all is not himself,
that his love can be admiration. He is the genius of recollection, can do
nothing except call to mind what has been done, do nothing but admire what has
been done; he contributes nothing of his own, but is jealous of the intrusted treasure. lie follows
the option of his heart, but when he has found what he sought, he wanders
before every man’s door with his song and with his oration, that all may admire
the hero as he does, 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 he thus remains true to his love, he strives day and
night against the cunning of oblivion which would trick him out of his hero,
then he has completed his work, then he is gathered to the hero, who has loved
him just as faithfully, for the poet is as it were the hero’s better nature,
powerless it may be as a memory is, but also transfigured as a memory is. Hence
no one shall be forgotten who was great, and though time tarries long, though a
cloud’s of misunderstanding takes the hero away, his lover comes nevertheless,
and the longer the time that has passed, the more faithfully will he cling to
him.
No, not one shall be forgotten who was great in the world. But each was great
in his own way, and each in proportion to the greatness of that which he loved.
For he who loved himself became great by himself,
and he who loved other men became great by his selfless devotion, but he who
loved God became greater than all. Everyone shall be remembered, but each
became great in proportion to his expectation. One became great by
expecting the possible, another by expecting the eternal, but he who expected
the impossible became greater than all. Everyone shall be remembered, but each
was great in proportion to the greatness of that with which he strove. For
he who strove with the world became great by overcoming the world, and he who
strove with himself became great by overcoming himself, but he who strove with
God became greater than all. So there was strife in the world, man against man,
one against a thousand, but he who strove with God was greater than all. So
there was strife upon earth: there was one who overcame all by his power, and
there was one who overcame God by his impotence. There was one who relied upon
himself and gained all, there was one who secure in his strength sacrificed
all, but he who believed God was greater than all. There was one who was great
by reason of his power, and one who was great by reason of his wisdom, and one
who was great by reason of his hope, and one who was great by reason of his
love; but Abraham was greater than all, great by reason of his power whose
strength is impotence, great by reason of his wisdom whose secret is
foolishness, great by reason of his hope whose form is madness, great by reason
of the love which is hatred of oneself.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Venerable Father Abraham! In marching home from
Chapter 2: Preliminary Expectoration
But really is everyone in my generation capable of making the movements of faith,
I wonder? Unless I am very much mistaken, this generation is rather inclined to
be proud of making what they do not even believe I am capable of making, viz.
incomplete movements. It is repugnant to me to do as so often is done, namely,
to speak inhumanly about a great deed, as though some thousands of years were
an immense distance; I would rather speak humanly about it, as though it had
occurred yesterday, letting only the greatness be the distance, which either
exalts or condemns. So if (in the quality of a tragic hero, for I can
get no higher) I had been summoned to undertake such a royal progress to
But what did Abraham do? He arrived neither too soon nor too late. He
mounted the ass, he rode slowly along the way. All
that time he believed -- he believed that God would not require Isaac of him,
whereas he was willing nevertheless to sacrifice him if it was required. He
believed by virtue of the absurd; for there could be no question of human calculation,
and it was indeed the absurd that God who required it of him should the next
instant recall the requirement. He climbed the mountain,
even at the instant when the knife glittered he believed . . . that God would
not require Isaac. He was indeed astonished at the outcome, but by a
double-movement he had reached his first position, and therefore he received
Isaac more gladly than the first time. Let us go further. We let Isaac be
really sacrificed. Abraham believed. He did not believe that some day he would
be blessed in the beyond, but that he would be happy here in the world. God
could give him a new Isaac, could recall to life him who had been sacrificed.
He believed by virtue of the absurd; for all human reckoning had long since
ceased to function. That sorrow can derange a man’s mind, that we see, and it
is sad enough. That there is such a thing as strength of will which is able to
haul up so exceedingly close to the wind that it saves a man’s
reason, even though he remains a little queer, that too one sees. I have no
intention of disparaging this; but to be able to lose one’s reason, and
therefore the whole of finiteness of which reason is the broker, and then by
virtue of the absurd to gain precisely the same finiteness -- that appalls my
soul, but I do not for this cause say that it is something lowly, since on the
contrary it is the only prodigy. Generally people are of the opinion that what
faith produces is not a work of art, that it is coarse
and common work, only for the more clumsy natures; but in fact this is far from
the truth. The dialectic of faith is the finest and most remarkable of all; it
possesses an elevation, of which indeed I can form a conception, but nothing
more. I am able to make from the springboard the great leap whereby I pass into
infinity, my back is like that of a tight-rope dancer, having been twisted in
my childhood, hence I find this easy; with a one-two-three! I can walk about
existence on my head; but the next thing I cannot do, for I cannot perform the
miraculous, but can only be astonished by it. Yes, if Abraham the
instant he swung his leg over the ass’s back had said to himself, "Now,
since Isaac is lost, I might just as well sacrifice him here at home, rather
than ride the long way to Moriah" -- then I
should have no need of Abraham, whereas now I bow seven times before his name
and seventy times before his deed. For this indeed he did not do, as I can
prove by the fact that he was glad at receiving Isaac, heartily glad, that he
needed no preparation, no time to concentrate upon the finite and its joy. If
this had not been the case with Abraham, then perhaps he might have loved God
but not believed; for he who loves God without faith reflects upon himself he
who loves God believingly reflects upon God.
Upon this pinnacle stands Abraham. The last stage he loses sight of is the
infinite resignation. He really goes further, and reaches faith; for all these
caricatures of faith, the miserable lukewarm indolence which thinks,
"There surely is no instant need, it is not worth while sorrowing before
the time," the pitiful hope which says, "One cannot know what is
going to happen . . . it might possibly be after all" -- these caricatures
of faith are part and parcel of life’s wretchedness, and the infinite
resignation has already consigned them to infinite contempt.
Abraham I cannot understand, in a certain sense there is nothing
I can learn from him but astonishment. If people fancy that by considering the outcome
of this story they might let themselves be moved to believe, they deceive
themselves and want to swindle God out of the first movement of faith, the
infinite resignation. They would suck worldly wisdom out of the paradox.
Perhaps one or another may succeed in that, for our age is not willing to stop
with faith, with its miracle of turning water into wine, it goes further, it
turns wine into water.
Would it not be better to stop with faith, and is it not revolting that
everybody wants to go further? When in our age (as indeed is proclaimed in
various ways) they will not stop with love, where then are they going? To earthly wisdom, to petty calculation, to paltriness and
wretchedness, to everything which can make man’s divine origin doubtful.
Would it not be better that they should stand still at faith, and that
he who stands should take heed lest he fall? For the movements of faith must
constantly be made by virtue of the absurd, yet in such a way, be it observed,
that one does not lose the finite but gains it every inch. For my part I can
well describe the movements of faith, but I cannot make them. When one would
learn to make the motions of swimming one can let oneself be hung by a
swimming-belt from the ceiling and go through the motions (describe them, so to
speak, as we speak of describing a circle), but one is not swimming. In that
way I can describe the movements of faith, but when I am thrown into the water,
I swim, it is true (for I don’t belong to the beach-waders), but I make other
movements, I make the movements of infinity, whereas faith does the opposite:
after having made the movements of infinity, it makes those of finiteness. Hail
to him who can make those movements, he performs the marvelous, and I shall
never grow tired of admiring him, whether he be Abraham or a slave in Abraham’s
house whether he be a professor of philosophy or a servant-girl, I look only at
the movements. But at them I do look, and do not let myself be fooled, either
by myself or by any other man. The knights of the infinite resignation are
easily recognized: their gait is gliding and assured. Those on the other hand
who carry the jewel of faith are likely to be delusive, because their outward
appearance bears a striking resemblance to that which both the infinite resignation
and faith profoundly despise . . . to Philistinism.
I candidly admit that in my practice I have not found any reliable example
of the knight of faith, though I would not therefore deny that every second man
may be such an example. I have been trying, however, for several years to get
on the track of this, and all in vain. People commonly travel around the world
to see rivers and mountains, new stars, birds of rare plumage, queerly deformed
fishes, ridiculous breeds of men -- they abandon
themselves to the bestial stupor which gapes at existence, and they think they
have seen something. This does not interest me. But if I knew where there was
such a knight of faith, I would make a pilgrimage to him on foot, for this
prodigy interests me absolutely. I would not let go of him for an instant,
every moment I would watch to see how he managed to make the movements, I would
regard myself as secured for life, and would divide my time between looking at
him and practicing the exercises myself, and thus would spend all my time
admiring him. As was said, I have not found any such person, but I can well
think him. Here he is. Acquaintance made, I am introduced to him. The moment I
set eyes on him I instantly push him from me, I myself leap backwards, I clasp
my hands and say half aloud, "Good Lord, is this the man? Is it really
he? Why, he looks like a tax-collector!" However, it is the man after all.
I draw closer to him, watching his least movements to see whether there might
not be visible a little heterogeneous fractional telegraphic message from the
infinite, a glance, a look, a gesture, a note of sadness, a smile, which
betrayed the infinite in its heterogeneity with the finite. No! I examine his
figure from tip to toe to see if there might not be a cranny through which the
infinite was peeping. No! He is solid through and through. His tread? It is
vigorous, belonging entirely to finiteness; no smartly dressed townsman who
walks out to Fresberg on a Sunday afternoon treads
the ground more firmly, he belongs entirely to the world, no Philistine more
so. One can discover nothing of that aloof and superior nature whereby one
recognizes the knight of the infinite. He takes delight in everything, and
whenever one sees him taking part in a particular pleasure, he does it with the
persistence which is the mark of the earthly man whose soul is absorbed in such
things. He tends to his work. So when one looks at him one might suppose that
he was a clerk who had lost his soul in an intricate system of book-keeping, so
precise is he. He takes a holiday on Sunday. He goes to church. No heavenly
glance or any other token of the incommensurable betrays him; if one did not
know him, it would be impossible to distinguish him from the rest of the
congregation, for his healthy and vigorous hymn-singing proves at the most that
he has a good chest. In the afternoon he walks to the forest. He takes delight
in everything he sees, in the human swarm, in the new omnibuses, in
the water of the Sound; when one meets him on the Beach Road one might suppose
he was a shopkeeper taking his fling, that’s just the way he disports himself,
for he is not a poet, and I have sought in vain to detect in him the poetic
incommensurability. Toward evening he walks home, his gait is as indefatigable
as that of the postman. On his way he reflects that his wife has surely a
special little warm dish prepared for him, e.g. a calf’s head roasted,
garnished with vegetables. If he were to meet a man like-minded, he could
continue as far as East Gate to discourse with him about that dish, with a
passion befitting a hotel chef. As it happens, he hasn’t four pence to his
name, and yet he fully and firmly believes that his wife has that dainty dish
for him. If she had it, it would then be an invidious sight for superior people
and an inspiring one for the plain man, to see him eat; for his appetite is
greater than Esau’s. His wife hasn’t it -- strangely enough, it is quite the
same to him. On the way he runs across another man. They talk together for a
moment. In the twinkling of an eye he erects a new building,
he has at his disposition all the powers necessary for it. The stranger leaves
him with the thought that he certainly was a capitalist, while my admired
knight thinks, "Yes, if the money were needed, I dare say I could get
it." He lounges at an open window and looks out on the square on which he
lives; he is interested in everything that goes on, in a rat which slips under
the curb, in the children’s play, and this with the nonchalance of a girl of
sixteen. And yet he is no genius, for in vain I have sought in him the
incommensurability of genius. In the evening he smokes his pipe; to look at him
one would swear that it was the grocer over the way vegetating in the twilight.
He lives as carefree as a ne’er-do-well and yet he buys up the acceptable time
at the dearest price, for he does not do the least thing except by virtue of
the absurd. And yet, and yet I could become furious over it -- for envy, if for
no other reason -- because the man has made and every instant is making the
movements of infinity. With infinite resignation he has drained the cup of
life’s profound sadness, he knows the bliss of the infinite, he senses the pain
of renouncing everything, the dearest things he possesses in the world, and yet
finiteness tastes to him just as good as to one who never knew anything higher,
for his continuance in the finite did not bear a trace of the cowed and fearful
spirit produced by the process of training; and yet he has this sense of
security in enjoying it, as though the finite life were the surest thing of
all. And yet, and yet the whole earthly form he exhibits is a new creation by
virtue of the absurd. He resigned everything infinitely, and then he grasped everything
again by virtue of the absurd. He constantly makes the movements of infinity,
but he does this with such correctness and assurance that he constantly gets
the finite out of it, and there is not a second when one has a notion of
anything else. It is supposed to be the most difficult task for a dancer to
leap into a definite posture in such a way that there is not a second when he
is grasping after the posture, but by the leap itself he stands fixed in that
posture. Perhaps no dancer can do it -- that is what this knight does. Most
people live dejectedly in worldly sorrow and joy; they are the ones who sit
along the wall and do not join in the dance. The knights of infinity are
dancers and possess elevation. They make the movements upward, and fall down
again; and this too is no mean pastime, nor ungraceful to behold. But whenever
they fall down they are not able at once to assume the posture, they vacillate
an instant, and this vacillation shows that after all they are strangers in the
world. This is more or less strikingly evident in proportion to the art they
possess, but even the most artistic knights cannot altogether conceal this
vacillation. One need not look at them when they are up in the air, but only
the instant they touch or have touched the ground -- then one recognizes them.
But to be able to fall down in such a way that the same second it looks as if
one were standing and walking, to transform the leap of life into a walk,
absolutely to express the sublime and the pedestrian -- that only these knights
can do -- and this is the one and only prodigy.
But since the prodigy is so likely to be delusive, I will describe the
movements in a definite instance which will serve to illustrate their relation
to reality, for upon this everything turns. A young swain falls in love with a
princess, and the whole content of his life consists in this love,
and yet the situation is such that it is impossible for it to be
realized, impossible for it to be translated from ideality into reality. (Of
course any other instance whatsoever in which the individual finds that for him
the whole reality of actual existence is concentrated, may, when it is seen to
be unrealizable, be an occasion for the movement of resignation.
However, I have chosen a love experience to make the movement visible, because
this interest is doubtless easier to understand, and so relieves me from the
necessity of making preliminary observations which in a deeper sense could be
of interest only to a few.) The slaves of paltriness, the frogs in life’s
swamp, will naturally cry out, "Such a love is foolishness. The rich
brewer’s widow is a match fully as good and respectable." Let them croak
in the swamp undisturbed. It is not so with the knight of infinite resignation,
he does not give up his love, not for all the glory of the world. He is no
fool. First he makes sure that this really is the content of his life, and his
soul is too healthy and too proud to squander the least thing upon an inebriation. He is not cowardly, he is not afraid of
letting love creep into his most secret, his most hidden thoughts, to let it
twine in innumerable coils about every ligament of his consciousness -- if the
love becomes an unhappy love, he will never be able to tear himself loose from
it. He feels a blissful rapture in letting love tingle through every nerve, and
yet his soul is as solemn as that of the man who has drained the poisoned
goblet and feels how the juice permeates every drop of blood -- for this
instant is life and death. So when he has thus sucked into himself
the whole of love and absorbed himself in it. he does
not lack courage to make trial of everything and to venture everything. He
surveys the situation of his life, he convokes the swift thoughts, which like
tame doves obey his every bidding, he waves his wand over them, and they dart
off in all directions. But when they all return, all as messengers of sorrow,
and declare to him that it is an impossibility, then
he becomes quiet, he dismisses them, he remains alone, and then he performs the
movements. If what I am saying is to have any significance, it is requisite
that the movement come about normally. (To this end
passion is necessary. Every movement of infinity comes about by passion, and no
reflection can bring a movement about. This is the continual leap in existence
which explains the movement, whereas it is a chimera which according to Hegel
is supposed to explain everything, and at the same time this is the only thing
he has never tried to explain. Even to make the well-known Somatic distinction
between what one understands and what one does not understand, passion is
required, and of course even more to make the characteristic Socratic movement,
the movement, namely, of ignorance. What our age lacks, however, is not reflection
but passion. Hence in a sense our age is too tenacious of life to die, for
dying is one of the most remarkable leaps, and a little verse of a poet has
always attracted me much, because, after having expressed prettily and simply
in five or six preceding lines his wish for good things in life, he
concludes thus: Ein selige
Sprung in die Ewigkeit.) So for the first thing, the
knight will have power to concentrate the whole content of life and the whole
significance of reality in one single wish. If a man lacks this concentration,
this intensity, if his soul from the beginning is dispersed in the
multifarious, he never comes to the point of making the movement,
he will deal shrewdly in life like the capitalists who invest their money in
all sorts of securities. so as to gain on the one what
they lose on the other -- in short, he is not a knight. In the next place the
knight will have the power to concentrate the whole result of the operations of
thought in one act of consciousness. If he lacks this intensity, if his soul from
the beginning is dispersed in the multifarious, he will never get time to make
the movements, he will be constantly running errands in life, never enter into
eternity, for even at the instant when he is closest to it he will suddenly
discover that he has forgotten something for which he must go back. He will
think that to enter eternity is possible the next instant,
and that also is perfectly true, but by such considerations one never reaches
the point of making the movements, but by their aid one sinks deeper and deeper
into the mire.
So the knight makes the movement -- but what movement? Will he forget the
whole thing? (For in this too there is indeed a kind of concentration.) No! For
the knight does not contradict himself, and it is a contradiction to forget the
whole content of one’s life and yet remain the same man. To become another man
he feels no inclination, nor does he by any means regard this as greatness.
Only the lower natures forget themselves and become something new. Thus the
butterfly has entirely forgotten that it was a caterpillar, perhaps it may in
turn so entirely forget it was a butterfly that it becomes a fish. The deeper
natures never forget themselves and never become anything else than what they
were. So the knight remembers everything, but precisely this remembrance is
pain, and yet by the infinite resignation he is reconciled with existence. Love
for that princess became for him the expression for an eternal love, assumed a
religious character, was transfigured into a love for the Eternal Being, which
did to be sure deny him the fulfillment of his love, yet reconciled him again
by the eternal consciousness of its validity in the form of eternity, which no
reality can take from him. Fools and young men prate about everything being possible
for a man. That, however, is a great error. Spiritually speaking, everything is
possible, but in the world of the finite there is much which is not possible.
This impossible, however, the knight makes possible by expressing it
spiritually, but he expresses it spiritually by waiving his claim to it. The
wish which would carry him out into reality, but was wrecked upon the
impossibility, is now bent inward, but it is not therefore lost, neither is it
forgotten. At one moment it is the obscure emotion of the wish within him which
awakens recollections, at another moment he awakens them himself; for he is too
proud to be willing that what was the whole content of his life should be the
thing of a fleeting moment. He keeps this love young, and along with him it
increases in years and in beauty. On the other hand, he has no need of the
intervention of the finite for the further growth of his love. From the instant
he made the movement the princess is lost to him. He has no need of those
erotic tinglings in the nerves at the sight of the
beloved etc., nor does he need to be constantly taking leave of her in a finite
sense, because he recollects her in an eternal sense, and he knows
very well that the lovers who are so bent upon seeing "her" yet once
again, to say farewell for the last time, are right in being bent upon it, are
right in thinking that it is the last time, for they forget one another the
soonest. He has comprehended the deep secret that also in loving another person
one must be sufficient unto oneself. He no longer takes a finite interest in
what the princess is doing, and precisely this is proof that he has made the
movement infinitely. Here one may have an opportunity to see whether the
movement on the part of a particular person is true or fictitious. There was
one who also believed that he had made the movement; but lo, time passed, the
princess did something else, she married -- a prince, let us say -- then his
soul lost the elasticity of resignation. Thereby he knew that he had not made
the movement rightly; for he who has made the act of resignation infinitely is
sufficient unto himself. The knight does not annul his resignation, he
preserves his love just as young as it was in its first moment, he never lets it go from him, precisely because he makes the
movements infinitely. What the princess does, cannot disturb him,
it is only the lower natures which find in other people the law for their
actions, which find the premises for their actions outside themselves. If on
the other hand the princess is like-minded, the beautiful consequence will be
apparent. She will introduce herself into that order of knighthood into which
one is not received by balloting, but of which everyone is a member who has
courage to introduce himself, that order of knighthood which proves its
immortality by the fact that it makes no distinction between man and woman. The
two will preserve their love young and sound, she also will have triumphed over
her pains, even though she does not, as it is said in the ballad, "lie
every night beside her lord." These two will to all eternity remain in
agreement with one another, with a well-timed harmonia
praestabilita, so that if ever the
moment were to come, the moment which does not, however, concern them finitely
(for then they would be growing older), if ever the moment were to come which
offered to give love its expression in time, then they will be capable of
beginning precisely at the point where they would have begun if originally they
had been united. He who understands this, be he man or woman, can never be
deceived, for it is only the lower natures which imagine they were deceived. No
girl who is not so proud really knows how to love; but if she is so proud, then
the cunning and shrewdness of all the world cannot
deceive her.
In the infinite resignation there is peace and rest; every man who will, who
has not abased himself by scorning himself (which is still more dreadful than
being proud), can train himself to make these movements. The infinite
resignation is that shirt we read about in the old fable." The thread is
spun under tears, the cloth bleached with tears, the shirt sewn with tears; but
then too it is a better protection than iron and steel. The imperfection in the
fable is that a third party can manufacture this shirt. The secret in life is
that everyone must sew it for himself, and the astonishing thing is that a man
can sew it fully as well as a woman. In the infinite resignation there is peace
and rest and comfort in sorrow -- that is, if the movement is made normally. It
would not be difficult for me, however, to write a
whole book, were I to examine the various misunderstandings, the preposterous
attitudes, the deceptive movements, which I have encountered in my brief
practice. People believe very little in spirit, and yet making these movements
depends upon spirit, it depends upon whether this is not a one-sided result of
a dira necessitas,
and if this is present, the more dubious it always is whether the movement
is normal. If one means by this that the cold, unfruitful necessity must
necessarily be present, one thereby affirms that no one can experience death
before he actually dies, and that appears to me a crass materialism. However,
in our time people concern themselves rather little about making pure movements.
In case one who was about to learn to dance were to say, "For centuries
now one generation after another has been learning positions, it is high time I
drew some advantage out of this and began straightway with the French
dances" -- then people would laugh at him; but in the world of spirit they
find this exceedingly plausible. What is education? I should suppose that
education was the curriculum one had to run through in order to catch up with
oneself, and he who will not pass through this curriculum is helped very little
by the fact that he was born in the most enlightened age.
The infinite resignation is the last stage prior to faith, so that one who
has not made this movement has not faith; for only in the infinite resignation
do I become clear to myself with respect to my eternal validity, and only then
can there be any question of grasping existence by virtue of faith.
Now we will let the knight of faith appear in the rôle
just described. He makes exactly the same movements as the other knight, infinitely
renounces claim to the love which is the content of his life, he is reconciled
in pain; but then occurs the prodigy, he makes still another movement more
wonderful than all, for he says, "I believe nevertheless that I shall get
her, in virtue, that is, of the absurd, in virtue of the fact that with God all
things are possible." The absurd is not one of the factors
which can be discriminated within the proper compass of the understanding: it
is not identical with the improbable, the unexpected, the
unforeseen. At the moment when the knight made the act of resignation, he
was convinced, humanly speaking, of the impossibility. This was the result
reached by the understanding, and he had sufficient energy to think it. On the
other hand, in an infinite sense it was possible, namely, by renouncing it; but
this sort of possessing is at the same time a relinquishing, and yet there is
no absurdity in this for the understanding, for the understanding continued to
be in the right in affirming that in the world of the finite where it holds
sway this was and remained an impossibility. This is quite as clear to the
knight of faith, so the only thing that can save him is the absurd, and this he
grasps by faith. So he recognizes the impossibility, and that very instant he
believes the absurd; for, if without recognizing the impossibility with all the
passion of his soul and with all his heart, he should wish to imagine that he
has faith, he deceives himself and his testimony has no bearing, since he has
not even reached the infinite resignation.
Faith therefore is not an aesthetic emotion but something far higher,
precisely because it has resignation as its presupposition; it is not an
immediate instinct of the heart, but is the paradox of life and existence. So
when in spite of all difficulties a young girl still remains convinced that her
wish will surely be fulfilled, this conviction is not the assurance of faith,
even if she was brought up by Christian parents, and for a whole year perhaps
has been catechized by the parson. She is convinced in all her childish naïveté
and innocence, this conviction also ennobles her nature and imparts to her a
preternatural greatness, so that like a thaumaturge
she is able to conjure the finite powers of existence and make the very stones
weep, while on the other hand in her flurry she may just as well run to Herod
as to Pilate and move the whole world by her tears. Her conviction is very
lovable, and one can learn much from her, but one thing is not to be learned
from her, one does not learn the movements, for her conviction does not dare in
the pain of resignation to face the impossibility.
So I can perceive that it requires strength and energy and freedom of spirit
to make the infinite movements of resignation, I can also perceive that it is
feasible. But the next thing astonishes me, it makes my head swim, for after
having made the movement of resignation, then by virtue of the absurd to get
everything, to get the wish whole and uncurtailed --
that is beyond human power, it is a prodigy. But this I can perceive, that the
young girl’s conviction is mere levity in comparison with the firmness faith
displays notwithstanding it has perceived the impossibility. Whenever I essay
to make this movement, I turn giddy, the very instant I am admiring it
absolutely a prodigious dread grips my soul -- for what is it to tempt God? And
yet this movement is the movement of faith and remains such, even though
philosophy, in order to confuse the concepts, would make us believe that it has
faith, and even though theology would sell out faith at a bargain price.
For the act of resignation faith is not required, for what I gain by
resignation is my eternal consciousness, and this is a purely philosophical
movement which I dare say I am able to make if it is required, and which I can
train myself to make, for whenever any finiteness would get the mastery over
me, I starve myself until I can make the movement, for my eternal consciousness
is my love to God, and for me this is higher than everything. For the act of
resignation faith is not required, but it is needed when it is the case of
acquiring the very least thing more than my eternal consciousness, for this is
the paradoxical. The movements are frequently confounded, for it is said that
one needs faith to renounce the claim to everything, yea, a stranger thing than
this may be heard, when a man laments the loss of his faith, and when one looks
at the scale to see where he is, one sees, strangely enough, that he has only
reached the point where he should make the infinite movement of resignation. In
resignation I make renunciation of everything, this movement I make by myself,
and if I do not make it, it is because I am cowardly and effeminate and without
enthusiasm and do not feel the significance of the lofty dignity which is
assigned to every man, that of being his own censor, which is a far prouder
title than that of Censor General to the whole Roman Republic. This movement I
make by myself, and what I gain is myself in my eternal consciousness, in
blissful agreement with my love for the Eternal Being. By faith I make
renunciation of nothing, on the contrary, by faith I acquire everything,
precisely in the sense in which it is said that he who has faith like a grain
of mustard can remove mountains. A purely human courage is required to renounce
the whole of the temporal to gain the eternal; but this I gain, and to all
eternity I cannot renounce it, that is a self-contradiction; but a paradox
enters in and a humble courage is required to grasp the whole of the temporal
by virtue of the absurd, and this is the courage of faith. By faith Abraham did
not renounce his claim upon Isaac, but by faith he got Isaac. By virtue of
resignation that rich young man should have given away everything, but then
when he had done that, the knight of faith should have said to him, "By
virtue of the absurd thou shalt get every penny back
again. Canst thou believe that?" And this speech ought by no means to have
been indifferent to the aforesaid rich young man, for in case he gave away his
goods because he was tired of them, his resignation was not much to boast of.
It is about the temporal, the finite, everything turns in this case. I am
able by my own strength to renounce everything, and then to find peace and
repose in pain. I can stand everything -- even though that horrible demon, more
dreadful than death, the king of terrors, even though madness were to hold up
before my eyes the motley of the fool, and I understood by its look that it was
I who must put it on, I still am able to save my soul, if only it is more to me
than my earthly happiness that my love to God should triumph in me. A man may
still be able at the last instant to concentrate his whole soul in a single
glance toward that heaven from which cometh every good gift, and his glance
will be intelligible to himself and also to Him whom it seeks as a sign that he
nevertheless remained true to his love. Then he will calmly put on the motley
garb. He whose soul has not this romantic enthusiasm has sold his soul, whether
he got a kingdom for it or a paltry piece of silver. But by my own strength I
am not able to get the least of the things which belong to finiteness, for I am
constantly using my strength to renounce everything. By my own strength I am
able to give up the princess, and I shall not become a grumbler, but shall find
joy and repose in my pain; but by my own strength I am not able to get her
again, for I am employing all my strength to be resigned. But by faith, says
that marvelous knight, by faith I shall get her in virtue of the absurd.
So this movement I am unable to make. As soon as I would begin to make it
everything turns around dizzily, and I flee back to the pain of resignation. I
can swim in existence, but for this mystical soaring I am too heavy. To exist
in such a way that my opposition to existence is expressed as the most
beautiful and assured harmony, is something I cannot do. And yet it must be
glorious to get the princess, that is what I say every instant,
and the knight of resignation who does not say it is a deceiver, he has not had
one only wish, and he has not kept the wish young by his pain. Perhaps there
was one who thought it fitting enough that the wish was no longer vivid, that
the barb of pain was dulled, but such a man is no knight. A free-born soul who
caught himself entertaining such thoughts would
despise himself and begin over again, above all he would not permit his soul to
be deceived by itself. And yet it must be glorious to get the princess, and yet
the knight of faith is the only happy one, the heir apparent to the finite,
whereas the knight of resignation is a stranger and a foreigner. Thus to get
the princess, to live with her joyfully and happily day in and day out (for it
is also conceivable that the knight of resignation might get the princess, but
that his soul had discerned the impossibility of their future happiness), thus
to live joyfully and happily every instant by virtue of the absurd, every
instant to see the sword hanging over the head of the beloved, and yet to find
repose in the pain of resignation, but joy by virtue of the absurd -- this is
marvelous. He who does it is great, the only great man. The thought of it stirs
my soul, which never was niggardly in the admiration of greatness.