My host, who was not unaware of these frequent peregrinations with the mahogany case, ventured the remark that I was perhaps practising at shooting with my pistols.
For this remark I was much obliged to him and left him undisturbed in his belief. One of them was written on a kind of letter-vellum in quarto, with a fairly wide margin.
The handwriting was legible, sometimes even a little elegant, just once in a while careless. The other was written on full sheets of foolscap divided into columns, in the way that legal documents and the like are written. The handwriting was clear, rather extended, uniform, and even; it looked as though it belonged to a businessman. The contents, too, proved straightaway to be dissimilar. The one part contained a number of aesthetic essays of varying length, the other consisted of two long inquiries and one shorter, all ethical in content, as it seemed, and in the form of letters.
On closer examination this difference proved fully corroborated, for the latter compilation consisted of letters written to the author of the first. But I must find some briefer way of designating the two authors. To that end I have scrutinized the papers very carefully but have found nothing, or as good as nothing.
Regarding the first author, the aestheticist, there is no information at all. As for the other, the letter-writer, one learns that he was called Vilhelm, had been a judge, but of what court is not specified.
If I were to go strictly by the historical facts and call him Vilhelm I would lack a corresponding appellation for the first author and have to give him some arbitrary name. I have therefore preferred to call the first author A, the second B. In addition to the longer essays there were, among the papers, some slips on which were written aphorisms, lyrical effusions, reflections. The handwriting alone indicated that they belonged to A. The contents confirmed this.
The papers themselves I then tried to arrange as best I could. One of the letters presupposes the other. The third letter presupposes the two previous ones. I have therefore let chance determine the order, that is to say, I have left them in the order in which I found them, of course without being able to decide whether this order has any chronological value or notional significance. The scraps of paper lay loose in the hiding-place; these I have had to assign a place.
I have let them come first because I thought they could best be regarded as preliminary glimpses of what the longer essays develop more connectedly. Also a little French verse, which appeared above one of the aphorisms, I have had printed on the reverse of the title page, in a way A himself has frequently done. In the arrangement of the individual aphorisms I have let chance prevail.
That the individual expressions often contradict one another I found quite in order, for it belongs essentially to the mood. I did not find it worth the trouble adopting an arrangement that made these contradictions less conspicuous. They were all ready for printing. And so far as they contain difficulties I must let these speak for themselves.
Here there are new difficulties, since A does not acknowledge himself as its author, but only as editor. It is really as if A himself had become afraid of his work which, like a restless dream, still continued to frighten him while it was being told.
I find no trace of such a joy in the preface but rather, as noted, a trembling, a certain horror, which is no doubt due to his poetical relation to this idea. Nor does it surprise me that it has affected A in this way; for I, too, who have nothing at all to do with this tale and am indeed twice removed from the original author, even I have at times felt quite uncomfortable while busying myself with these papers in the still of the night.
That is in any case indefensible of you; you will cause anxiety in the little dears. But then, of course, you think in return to make me and my sort harmless. There you are wrong.
I shall simply change my method and then I am even better placed. Give me half a year and I shall provide a story more interesting than everything I have experienced up to now. I imagine a young, vigorous girl with a sharp turn of mind getting the remarkable idea of avenging her sex on me. She thinks she can coerce me, give me a taste of the pangs of unrequited love. What more I have to add about this story I can only do in my capacity as editor.
For I believe I can find in it some clue to the time of its action. Here and there in the diary is a date; what is missing is the year. That makes it look as though I should get no further.
However, by examining the individual dates more closely I think I have found a clue. So I calculated accordingly and discovered that this combination fits the year In the case of this story, then, I have a definite date. But all attempts I have made until now with its help to determine the times of the other essays have been unsuccessful. I could just as well have placed this story third, but, as I said above, I have preferred to let chance prevail and everything remains in the order in which I found it.
In their case, however, I have made an alteration inasmuch as I have allowed myself to furnish them with titles, seeing the letter-form has prevented the author himself from giving these inquiries a title.
Should the reader, therefore, having become acquainted with the contents, find that the titles were not happily chosen, I am always willing to reconcile myself to the pain attached to doing badly what one wanted to do well. I might perhaps have removed the occasional carelessness, which is understandable enough when one considers that he is only a letter-writer.
I had arranged the papers in their present order, had made up my mind to publish them, but then thought it best after all to wait a while. I considered five years to be an appropriate space of time.
Those five years have now elapsed and I am beginning where I left off. Presumably it is unnecessary to reassure the reader that I have left no stone unturned in my efforts to trace the authors.
The dealer kept no books. As everyone knows, the practice is rare among second-hand dealers. He did not know from whom he had bought that piece; he seemed to recall that it had been purchased at a general auction.
I shall not venture to narrate to the reader the many fruitless attempts that have consumed so much of my time, the less so seeing their recollection is so unpleasant to myself. I can at least in all brevity let the reader in on the result, for the result was absolutely nil. As I was about to carry out my resolve to publish the papers, a single misgiving awoke in me. The reader will perhaps permit me to speak quite frankly. It struck me that I might be guilty of an indiscretion towards the unknown authors.
However, the more familiar I became with the papers, the more that misgiving diminished. The papers were of such a nature that, for all my painstaking investigations, they yielded no information.
So much less likely in that case that a reader should find any, since I dare measure myself with any reader, not indeed in taste and sympathy and insight, but in industry and tirelessness.
Assuming therefore that the unknown authors still existed, that they lived here in town, that they came to make this unexpected acquaintance with their works, then, if they themselves remained silent nothing would come of their publication, for it is true in the strictest sense of these papers what one usually says anyway of all printed matter — they hold their peace. One other misgiving I had was in itself of less importance, fairly easy to dispel, and has indeed been overcome even more easily than I had thought.
It occurred to me that these papers might become a financial proposition. As the honest Scottish farmers in The White Lady8 decide to buy the estate, cultivate it, and then make a present of it to the Counts of Avenel should they ever return, I decided to place the entire fee at interest, so that if the authors should ever turn up I would be able to give them the whole thing with compound interest.
If my complete ineptitude has not already convinced the reader that I am no author or scholar who makes publishing his profession, then the naivety of this reasoning should put the matter beyond all doubt.
There remained merely to give these papers a title. But none of these titles satisfied me. In deciding on a title I have therefore allowed myself a liberty, a deception, which I shall endeavour to answer for. During my constant occupation with these papers it dawned upon me that they could yield a new aspect if regarded as the work of one man.
However, I have still been unable to give up the idea. Then it would have been someone who had lived through both kinds of experience, or had deliberated on both. As I let this thought influence my soul, it became clear to me that I might let this guide me into determining the title.
This is just what the title I have chosen expresses. If there be any loss in this to the reader, it cannot be much, for he can just as well forget the title while reading the book. Once he has read it he may perhaps then think of the tide. For in this respect these papers are without an ending. I, for my part, consider it a piece of good fortune. One occasionally comes across novelettes where opposite life-views are expressed through particular persons.
I consider it a piece of good fortune that these papers provide no information in that regard. Nor do they contain any clues as to how things have gone with B, whether he had the strength to stick to his view or not. Once the book has been read, A and B are forgotten; only the views confront each other and await no final decision in particular persons.
I have no further comment to make except that it has occurred to me that the honourable authors, if they were aware of my project, might possibly wish to accompany their papers with a word to the reader. He would let me feel that he himself had no part in it, that he could wash his hands of it. WHAT is a poet?
An unhappy man who hides deep anguish in his heart, but whose lips are so formed that when the sigh and cry pass through them, it sounds like lovely music. So I tell you, I would rather be a swineherd at Amagerbro and be understood by the swine than a poet and misunderstood by people.
As everyone knows, there are insects which die in the moment of fertilization. This is the main defect with everything human, that it is only through opposition that the object of desire is possessed.
Besides my other numerous circle of acquaintances I have one more intimate confidant — my melancholy. In the midst of my joy, in the midst of my work, he waves to me, calls me to one side, even though physically I stay put. My melancholy is the most faithful mistress I have known; what wonder, then, that I love her in return.
Old age realizes the dreams of youth; look at Swift: in his youth he built an asylum, in his old age he himself entered it. It should worry one to see with what hypochondriac profundity a former generation of Englishmen have discovered the ambiguity at the bottom of laughter. There are times when one can be so infinitely pained on seeing someone all alone in the world.
Thus the other day I saw a poor girl walking all alone to church to be confirmed. I say of my sorrow what the Englishman says of his home: my sorrow is my castle.
I feel as a chessman must when the opponent says of it: that piece cannot be moved. The tremendous poetic power of folk literature finds expression in, among other ways, its having the strength to desire. That other desire knows very well that the neighbour no more than itself has what it seeks. And when its desire is sinful it is on such a titanic scale as to make man tremble. Don Juan still strides over the stage with his 1, mistresses. Out of deference to the tradition no one dares smile.
If a writer ventured the like in our own time he would be ridiculed. Alas, the door of fortune does not open inwards so that one can force it by charging at it; it opens outwards and so there is nothing one can do. I think I have the courage to doubt everything; I think I have the courage to fight everything.
But I do not have the courage to know anything, nor to possess, to own anything. What I complain of is that life is not like a novel where there are hard-hearted fathers, and goblins and trolls to fight with, enchanted princesses to free. What are all such enemies taken together compared to the pallid, bloodless, glutinous nocturnal shapes with which I fight and to which I myself give life and being.
How barren is my soul and thought, and yet incessantly tormented by vacuous, rapturous and agonizing birth pangs! Is my spirit to be forever tongue-tied? That is what I need to get air, to give expression to what is on my mind, to stir the bowels of my wrath and of my sympathy. What is to come? What does the future hold? When from a fixed point a spider plunges down as is its nature, it sees always before it an empty space in which it cannot find a footing however much it flounders.
That is how it is with me: always an empty space before me, what drives me on is a result that lies behind me. This life is back-to-front and terrible, unendurable. My reflection on life altogether lacks meaning. I take it some evil spirit has put a pair of spectacles on my nose, one glass of which magnifies to an enormous degree, while the other reduces to the same degree.
Of all ridiculous things in the world what strikes me as the most ridiculous of all is being busy in the world, to be a man quick to his meals and quick to his work. And who could help laughing? For what do they achieve, these busy botchers? Are they not like the housewife who, in confusion at the fire in her house, saved the fire-tongs? What else do they salvage from the great fire of life? I lack altogether patience to live. People say the good Lord fills the stomach before the eyes.
A young girl is excused for not being able to give reasons, they say she lives in her feelings. It is different with me. Generally, I have so many and usually mutually contradictory reasons that, for that reason, it is impossible for me to give reasons. At one time huge and powerful causes give rise to tiny and unimpressive little effects, occasionally to none at all; at another a brisk little cause gives birth to a colossal effect. Life has become a bitter drink to me, and yet it must be taken in drops, counted one by one.
No one comes back from the dead, no one has entered the world without crying; no one is asked when he wishes to enter life, nor when he wishes to leave. Time passes, life is a stream, people say, and so on. Time stands still and I with it. All the plans I form fly straight back at me, when I want to spit in my own face. When I get up in the morning I go straight back to bed again. I feel best in the evening, the moment I dowse the candle, pull the eiderdown over my head.
What am I good for? For nothing or everything. That is an unusual capability. I wonder if the world will appreciate it? God knows if the girls get jobs who look for positions as maids-of-all-work or, failing that, as anything at all. One should be an enigma not just to others but to oneself too. I study myself. The sorcerer Virgil had himself chopped in pieces and placed in a cauldron to be cooked for eight days, thus to become rejuvenated.
The watchman was unable, however, to resist the temptation. It was too soon. Virgil disappeared with a cry, like a little child. I, too, have probably looked too early into the cauldron, into the cauldron of life and its historical development, and no doubt will never manage to be more than a child.
Let others complain that our age is evil; my complaint is that it is paltry. For it is without passion.
The thoughts in their hearts are too paltry to be sinful. For a worm it might be considered a sin to harbour such thoughts, but not for the human being shaped in the image of God. Their desires are stodgy and sluggish, their passions sleepy. They do their duty, these hucksters, but like the Jews, they let themselves clip the coin just a little; they think that however well the good Lord keeps His books, they can still get away with cheating Him a little.
Fie upon them! There people hate, people love, people murder their enemy and curse his descendants through all generations, there people sin. I divide my time thus: half the time I sleep, the other half I dream.
When I sleep I never dream; that would be a pity, for sleeping is the height of genius. Being a perfect human being is after all the highest goal. The best proof adduced of the wretchedness of life is that derived from contemplating its glory. Most people are in such a rush to enjoy themselves that they hurry right past it. They are like the dwarf who kept guard over an abducted princess in his castle. One day he took an after-dinner nap. When he woke up an hour later she was gone.
Quickly he pulled on his seven-league boots and with one step he had far outstripped her. My soul is so heavy that no longer can any thought sustain it, no wingbeat lift it up into the ether. If it moves, it only sweeps along the ground like the low flight of birds when a thunderstorm is brewing. How empty life is and without meaning. But how long is threescore years and ten? Why not finish it at once? Why not stay out there and step down into the grave with him, and draw lots for who should have the misfortune to be the last alive to throw the last three spades of earth on the last of the dead?
Wretched fate! Come, sleep and death, you promise nothing, you keep everything. A fire broke out backstage in a theatre. The clown came out to warn the public; they thought it was a joke and applauded. He repeated it; the acclaim was even greater. Whatever can be the meaning of this life? If we divide mankind into two large classes, we can say that one works for a living, the other has no need to. Usually the lives of the other class have no meaning either, beyond that of consuming the said conditions.
To say that the meaning of life is to die seems again to be a contradiction. The real pleasure consists not in what one takes pleasure in but in the mind. Well then, even if I cannot spin, I can at least cut the thread in two. I seem destined to suffer every possible mood, to gain experience in all directions. I lie every moment like a child learning how to swim, out in the middle of the sea. I scream which I have learned from the Greeks, from whom one can learn what is purely human ; for although I have a harness around my waist, I cannot see the pole that is to hold me up.
It is a fearful way to gain experience. If I think of that unhappy bookkeeper who lost his mind in despair at ruining a merchant house through saying that seven and six make fourteen; if I think of him repeating seven and six are fourteen to himself, day in and day out, unmindful of all else, I have an image of eternity.
What the philosophers say about reality is often as deceptive as when you see a sign in a second-hand store that reads: Pressing Done Here. If you went in with your clothes to have them pressed you would be fooled; the sign is for sale. For me nothing is more dangerous than recollection. Once I have recalled some life-situation it ceases to exist.
People say that separation helps to revive love. That is quite true, but it revives it in a purely poetic way. A life in recollection is the most perfect imaginable; memory gives you your fill more abundantly than all of reality and has a security which no reality possesses. After a while it often happens that I completely forget what reasons motivated me to do this or that, not just in bagatelles, but also in taking the most decisive steps.
Should the reason then occur to me, sometimes it seems so strange that I myself refuse to believe it was the reason. This doubt would be removed if I had something written to refer to. In any case a reason is a curious thing; if I concentrate all my passion on it, it grows into a huge necessity that can move heaven and earth; if I lack passion, I look down on it with scorn. Thinking it over now, it occurs to me that such a position was the very thing for me. Today it dawned on me: that was precisely the reason, I had to consider myself absolutely fitted for the job.
Wherefore I thought it proper to resign my post and seek employment with a travelling theatre, the reason being that I had no talent, and so everything to gain. The social striving and the exquisite sympathy that goes with it, is becoming more and more widespread.
In Leipzig a committee has been formed which, out of sympathy for the sad end of old horses, has decided to eat them. I have only one friend, Echo.
And why is Echo my friend? Because I love my sorrow, and Echo does not take it away from me. I have only one confidant, the silence of the night. And why is it my confidant? Because it is silent. As it happened to Parmeniscus in the legend, who in the cave of Trophonius lost the ability to laugh but got it back on Delos at the sight of the shapeless block which was supposed to be the image of the goddess Leto, so too with me. What is it that binds me?
Of what was the fetter that bound the Fenris wolf formed? So, too, am I bound by a fetter formed of dark fancies, of disturbing dreams, of restless thoughts, of dire misgivings, of inexplicable anxieties. For my examen artium I wrote an essay on the immortality of the soul for which I was awarded prae ceteris; later I won a prize for an essay on this subject.
Who would believe, after such a solid and very promising start, that in my twenty-fifth year I should have reached the point where I cannot produce a single proof of the immortality of the soul. I threw that essay away long ago. How unfortunate! Perhaps my doubting soul would have been captivated by it, as much for the content as for the beauty of the style.
So my advice to parents, guardians and teachers is to warn children entrusted to them to set aside the Danish essays written at the age of fifteen. Giving this advice is the only thing I can do for the good of mankind. How true to form human nature runs! With what native genius a small child often shows us a living image of the larger situation. I was greatly amused today at little Ludvig. He sat in his little chair and looked about him with visible pleasure.
Then the nanny, Mary, went through the room. My life is like an eternal night; when at last I die, I can say with Achilles: Du bist vollbracht, Nachtweide meines Daseyns.
I am very good at rooting out truffles for others; I myself take no pleasure in them. I root out the problems with my snout, but all I can do with them is toss them back over my head. I struggle in vain. My foot slips. What could be more unhappy? I am chosen; fate laughs at me when it suddenly shows me how everything I do to resist becomes an element in such an existence.
I depict hope so vividly that every hopeful individual will recognize himself in my portrayal; and yet it is a fake, for while I depict it I am thinking of recollection. How terrible is tedium — how terribly tedious. I know no stronger expression, none truer, for like is all that like knows. If only there were a higher expression, a stronger one, then at least there would still be some movement.
I lie stretched out, inert; all I see is emptiness, all I live on is emptiness, all I move in is emptiness. I do not even suffer pain. But even pain has lost its power to refresh me. I die death itself. Yes, if I caught sight of a fidelity that stood every trial, an enthusiasm that sustained everything, a faith that moved mountains; if I came by a thought that bound together the finite and the infinite. My soul is like the dead sea, over which no bird can fly; when it gets halfway, it sinks down spent to its death and destruction.
Tautology nevertheless is and remains the supreme principle, the highest law of thought. It has its playful, witty, entertaining form in the infinite judgements. It has its serious, scientific and edifying form. The formula for this is: when each of two magnitudes are equal to one and the same third magnitude, they are equal to each other.
This is a quantitative inference. This kind of tautology is especially useful for rostrums and pulpits, where one is expected to say something significant. The disproportion in my build is that my forelegs are too short. Like the Australian kangaroo I have quite short forelegs but infinitely long hind legs. As a rule I sit quite still, but whenever I move I make a huge leap to the horror of all those to whom I am bound by the tender bonds of kinship and friendship.
Believe a girl, you will regret it; if you do not believe her, you will also regret it; if you believe a girl or you do not believe her, you will regret both; whether you believe a girl or you do not believe her, you will regret both. If you hang yourself, you will regret it; if you do not hang yourself, you will regret it; if you hang yourself or you do not hang yourself, you will regret both; whether you hang yourself or you do not hang yourself, you will regret both.
This, gentlemen, is the sum of all practical wisdom. So their eternity will also be in a painful succession of moments in time, since they will have the double regret to live on. In saying that I do not start out from my principle, the opposite of this is not a starting-out from it, but simply the negative expression of my principle, the expression for its grasping itself as in opposition to a starting-out or a not-starting-out from it.
I do not start out from my principle, for were I to do so, I would regret it. If I were not to start out from it, I would also regret it.
Therefore if it seemed to any of my highly esteemed hearers that there was something in what I was saying, he would only prove that his mind was unsuited to philosophy. If he thought there was movement in what was said, that would prove the same. On the other hand, for those hearers capable of following me, in spite of my not making any movement, I will now unfold the eternal truth whereby this philosophy remains in itself and admits of nothing higher.
Since I never start, however, I can always stop, for my eternal starting is my eternal stopping. Far from it: it begins with nothing and can accordingly always begin. This difficulty, too, I have avoided. For if anyone believed that in stopping at this point I am really stopping, he proves he has no speculative insight.
For I do not stop; I stopped that time I began. My philosophy has, therefore, the advantage of brevity and irrefutability. For if anyone were to contradict it I would surely be justified in pronouncing him insane. One urges reverence for divine law and is meant to encourage those for whom the moral voices of the Hebrew prophets resonate most strongly.
The other unpacks what it means to love someone and is intended to persuade those who are especially drawn to the teaching of God as love.
One speech is directed toward primarily erotic souls, the other toward what the Greeks called thumotic ones—spirited individuals moved above all by the call of justice. Provided we recognize that both the Hebrew and the Christian scriptures direct us to love God and do justice, we may say 72 EO2, It is meant to appeal to strong willed, morally resolute individuals.
Justice you will love; justice you will practice early and late. Even if it has no reward, you will practice it. You feel that it has an implicit demand that still must be fulfilled. You will not sink into lethargy and then at some point comprehend that justice did have promises but that you yourself had excluded yourself from them by not doing justice.
You will not contend with men; you will contend with God and hold on to him; he is not going to get away 78 from you without blessing you! You will, you must: these are noble imperatives, echoed most strongly in the philosophical tradition by Kant. Philadelphia: The Jewish Publication Society, This divine yad vashem nevertheless cannot make us forget that Jacob is permanently wounded by the angel he wrestles through the dark hours of the night. That is to say, the way of Israel and Isaiah is hard and painful, and most suited to hearts of heroic temper.
It is one that few individuals will see to the end, and many of those, limping. True, the House of Israel abides even if the temple does not, and the seemingly miraculous fact of its survival has certainly strengthened many nonheroic individuals.
The pastor, however, is addressing a Lutheran congregation in a place where Christianity has for many centuries enjoyed a comfortable cultural ascendency. Perhaps there is even a Christian Socrates in his audience, for whom it suffices merely to know the good in order to do it.
But most, lacking the heart to keep fighting the good fight, come what may, will have to follow another route to the blessings of faith. Paradoxically, the pastor proposes to calm our doubts and cares about what we can do by deliberating on what we cannot. The pastor observes that is painful to admit that one is in the wrong.
Perhaps, however, we are encouraged in doing so by the prospect that such admissions will more and more rarely be necessary. But if the hope of moral improvement sustains us, how can the view that we are always in the wrong also do so?
The answer is supplied not by reason, but by love—for things are different when we have been wronged by someone we love fervently. As Robert L. Hence it is upbuilding always to be in the wrong—because only the infinite builds up, the finite does not! But what does it mean to say that love is an infinite relationship, and how does it build one up? Love is of and for the whole person; and if it truly is love, it is infinite in that it would do anything for the essential good of the other.
Like Isaiah and Jesus, and Socrates, too, the pastor conceives of this essential good in moral and spiritual terms. But he also assumes that you harbor secret fears about your own fidelity to what is right and good—that you are anxious, in other words, about sin. You must therefore consider the possibility that it is you who are at fault, because of something you did or failed to do in relation to the other.
And here is the beautiful twist on which the whole argument turns: you are glad to do so. Because you love the other truly, that is, infinitely, it is this very possibility that comforts you and inspires you to action, for it means that there is something you can do to right the wrong. The pastor makes it absolutely clear that it is the heart—not the mind—that builds you up.
The knowledge that you are always in the wrong in relation to God could be said to be contained in the tautology that God is greater, wiser, and holier than you are. So it is in relation to God. Yet it goes on to present love as an inexhaustible ground of ethics as well as faith.
Perkins [Macon, Ga. The pastor does not address the question of whether God, or at least this God, might himself be a mere dream. Could one have an actual relationship with an imaginary being? These are the same questions that torment A, and perhaps anyone who has been deceived in love. Would you wish, could you wish, that the situation were different? According to Levinas, however, it is metaphysical desire, not love, that opens us to the infinitude of the Other; see Totality and Infinity: An Essay on Exteriority, trans.
Could you wish that? Do not interrupt the flight of your soul; do not distress what is best in you; do not enfeeble your spirit with half wishes and half thoughts. This final exhortation, which in a way recapitulates the sermon as a whole, directs us inward in intensive self-examination. It is as if the soul, rebounding from its collision with intellectually intractable reality, is driven back into itself. This is a characteristically Kierkegaardian turn 95 for which the sermon offers at least two arguments.
First, we must recognize that we are individually as well as collectively responsible for preserving all that is good and beautiful in our lives. When we do not act with justice and compassion, human order is submerged in violence and brutality. It is, to be sure, the revealed law of God—the justice and righteousness demanded of us by the Hebrew prophets, and if Kant is right, by reason itself.
The essential point is that the laws of justice and love are sustained only through the passionate striving of human beings. God might be as real as one could wish, but without this saving passion, these laws would have no real effects in this world.
Second, theoretical reflection about the independent actuality of God is both untimely and unavailing. The law is revealed, the prophets have spoken, and now we must act. This silent upsurge, the pastor suggests, is the hand of God; it is an unstinting source of joy in the face of everything—life, and death, and all in all— that holds us above the abyss. We have in any case already answered, and will continue to answer, the questions of who God is and who we are in what Kierkegaard suggests is the only meaningful way: in the lives we insist on living.
University of Tulsa 96 Isaiah I will definitely recommend this book to philosophy, non fiction lovers. Your Rating:. Your Comment:. Read Online Download. Add a review Your Rating: Your Comment:.
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