This is how I have tried to understand life. The person who has understood it the same way presumably will conduct himself in the same way and, above all, continually express himself so circumspectly and in the form of deception that he avoids the danger of which everyone, right down to the most insignificant newspaper reporter, must be aware of in our age—that there nevertheless were a couple of people who had the preposterous idea that what was said directly was the truth and that their task was to sally forth into the world etc. But sallying forth into the world must be left to knights-errant; true earnestness is aware of every danger, of this one also—that someone might bona fide become a thoughtless follower, something best prevented by using antithesis as the form of presentation. In my opinion, no one, with the exception of such authorized individualities as the apostles, whose dialectical position I do not grasp,317 has been more earnest than the person who clothed his thoughts in the form of jest, and no one has so sympathetically loved his fellow beings, and no one has so deeply admired the divine.318 So let the history books tell of kings who introduced Christianity—I am of the opinion that a king can introduce an improved breed of sheep and railroads etc., but Christianity and spirit, ethically understood, not even an emperor should go to the trouble of introducing—that is, essentially understood.
A change is now occurring in my relationship with her. Until now, I have kept very quiet and respected the infinity in her. Now I offer an explanation. This I regard as a deception. Earlier the form was deception and the contents interest for the infinity in her. Thus my stillness, my silence, my annihilation [VI 323] was deception’s form of an infinite interest for her. Now it is otherwise. What I say I do not mean, but neither do I mean that in the form of deception it is the adequate guise or disguise for my true meaning. Whether it actually influences her makes no difference. My only concern is the essential, and the essential is that this is my motive and intention. My explanation that I repent but cannot undo what I am guilty of doing is nonsense. In other words, if I cannot give the reason why I cannot undo it, I should never speak of repenting, but least of all give pride as the reason (i.e., that I do not want to), for that is actually to make a fool of her. Therefore I have never represented myself as repenting before now, although I do indeed repent and have repented that I entered into that relationship and find my humiliation in not being able to undo it, precisely what my pride desires, since it is crushed because I, who have had an almost foolhardy conception of willing, must wince because there is something I will, will with all my passion, but cannot do. Why I cannot (which is due to my relation to the idea, until either this is changed or I am), I cannot tell her in such a way that she can understand it, but for this very reason I have never said that I repented. Thus there was meaning in my conduct. But to repent and to give pride as the hindrance to the expression of repentance, since, on the contrary, it ought to be the object of repentance, is high treason against God. How anyone can understand it and find it plausible, I do not comprehend, but in return most people presumably say the same thing about my view.
For the first time in my life, perhaps, I am doing something that I myself regard as meaningless. I have done much that the majority perhaps would regard as that; this has not disturbed me since it also could be because the majority do not have enough understanding to think it through and the courage to venture out into the extremities where I have my life. I have also done much that I myself later perceived to be foolish, and even though repentance does not respect excuses when it makes inspection, I still find a kind of consolation in the fact that when I did it I did not regard it as meaningless. Incapable as I am of understanding such tasks as the future of all mankind or what it is that the times demand, I have concentrated entirely on myself. When the right thing becomes doubtful to me, I have usually said my name aloud to myself, with the addition: One may die, one may become unhappy, but one can still preserve meaning in one’s life and faithfulness to the [VI 324] idea. Now that is at an end. 319And who is to blame for that? Someone else would perhaps say: It is she, to whose apron strings you still are tied. But I would not say that, for I usually refrain from such nonsense, that someone else is to blame when I do something wrong. I prefer to say that I myself am at fault. The fault is mine, is my weakness, and the difficulty is that my understanding guarantees me that it can be beneficial to her in the finite sense, whereas my sympathy would rather love her in the infinite sense. This relationship has humbled me, and now, whether she reads my letters or not, whether they have any influence on her or not, she now triumphs over me in a way that makes me dejected.
May 21. Midnight.
There is nothing new under the sun, says Solomon.320 Well, so be it, but it is worse when nothing at all happens. With this observation alone I assure myself how absurd it would be if I sought out any confidant. Yes, if my pain were rich in incidents, in changes of scene and setting, then it would have interest. But my suffering is boring. It is true, I am still continually involved in the exposition of this nothing, and the scene unchanged is the same.
321Suppose that I traveled in order to make time pass, per mare tristitiam fugiens per saxa per ignes [fleeing sorrow through sea, through rocks, through flame],322 but it cannot be done. I still ought to keep entirely quiet. A journey, of which she would easily be informed, could possibly upset her and delude her into thinking that after a longer passage of time I had changed. But time must be dispensed to her as scantily as possible. I only wish that Governance will lead our paths together frequently, because she benefits from seeing me; she thereby has the opportunity to reassure herself that I am here and living as usual and that I am not in a foreign country—and possibly thinking of her and possibly being homesick. If I were to travel, I ought to have gone a long time ago, ought to have given out a false indication of time for the journey, and then suddenly have come back. It might have occurred to her that this suddenness pertained to her; until she perceived that it did [VI 325] not pertain to her, it perhaps would have been beneficial. But the time for such things is over.
Just now the clock struck one. This inconsolable indication of time! For twelve is indeed a large number of strokes, and a person is conscious that it is time that is being indicated, and two, of course, is counting,323 but one is like a declaration of eternity. If there is a kind of eternity of punishment, and the poor wretch wanted to lament to someone, why would not people shun him, for he is not only wretched but his suffering is boring—if it were not boring, one very likely could show him sympathy.
As for me, I want no one’s sympathy. God in heaven is not disgusted with what is boring. It is supposed to be a duty to pray, it is supposed to be beneficial to pray, there are supposed to be three reasons, perhaps even four, for praying. I have no intention of depriving anyone of his reasons; he is welcome to keep them if only I may keep daring to pray as something so inspiring that in a far deeper sense than Plato and Aristotle one can say that wonder [Forundring] is the starting point of knowledge.324 In this respect, I have no confidence in many arguments and sixteen reasons; it would perhaps be better, especially with regard to the educated (for it comes easier to the poor, wretched, and simple to pray), if permission to pray were made to cost something—then there perhaps would be a great demand for it. If it holds true of earthly love that it seeks secrecy, it is even more true of prayer that it prefers solitude and being as secret as possible in order neither to be disturbed nor to embarrass others by its emotion; one does not need to have witnesses, either, and it helps very little to have them. A prince who travels incognito can lay aside his incognito at any time; it seems to me that the external appearance of the one who is praying is also an incognito that he certainly cannot lay aside in order to become an object of worldly admiration [Beundring], but he can lay it aside when in prayer he is lifted to a new and infinite wonder [Under] that God in heaven is the only one who does not become weary of listening to a human being. And this holy wonder in turn will keep the one who is praying from thinking wheth
er he receives what he is praying about. 325Falling in love is not beautiful if one looks to see if it pays, and even if one sees that it pays exceptionally well, it is [VI 326] not a happy falling in love. Prayer was certainly not devised in order to rebuke God but is a favor that is graciously granted to every human being and that makes him more than a nobleman. But if one understands to the point of wonder—indeed, to the point where wonder shipwrecks one’s understanding—that it is a favor, then arguments are perceived to be not necessary, either, for it is only the problematic that is commended by arguments. Every external reflection eo ipso nullifies prayer, be it reflection squinting at the temporal advantage or be it reflection on the individual himself and his relation to others, as if a man were so earnest that he could not pray within himself and alone but had to step forward and benefit the whole congregation with his intercession and his example as one who prays; 326likewise there are also people who are unable to speak except to a general assembly, and Madame Voltisubito cannot ride without hearing the whip crack.327
But her, her! What if she still refuses to understand this within herself but instead seeks finite consolation! How hard it is for a person who has not scattered his soul in diffusive concern for every Tom, Dick, and Harry, or for the whole human race, to dare in solitude to express his concern for himself alone, like shadowboxing, and not dare to do all that which certainly in a higher sense is a nothing but which does, nevertheless, provide sympathetic relief.
May 22. Morning.
328A year ago today. Laughter is and continues to be the best method of exploration. She joins in the laughter, but then she is unable to laugh any more and her laughter is exhausted. So, then, she does not have infinite passion but only to a certain degree. Then I shudder, for I know what is coming. Then come pleas and tears, until she becomes tired again, but my prattling away has not become tired, it continues steadily.
It is terrible to be jabbed where the most delicate nerves are, but it is still more terrible not once to dare to alter one’s features while it goes on but to have to sit there perfectly calm and to chatter away.
For only ten minutes I was earnest today. I intend to act that [VI 327] way once a week. I calmly said to her: “End it, break up; in the long run you will not resist me.” 329But then her passion flares up most violently; she declares that she would rather have all this than not to see me. This is only a passionate outburst, and its violence shows me definitely that my approach will contribute to working her afloat.
May 25. Midnight.
Recollect her I dare not. If death had separated us as it separates lovers, if she had broken with me, then I would dare to recollect what was beautiful and lovely, every moment that was once happy for us. Then when spring youthfully breaks into bud, I would remember her; when the foliage throws its shadow, I would rest in the recollection of her; in the evening when the summer mists gather, I would see her image; beside the quiet lake, when the reeds whisper, I would be reminded of her; 330along the seashore, when the ship is coming in, I would imagine that I would meet her until the monotonous waves rocked me away into recollection; at my favorite old café I would seek a vestige of it and often, often deceive myself, as if I were going to her. But I dare not. For me there is no change of the seasons, just as for me there is no change; 331recollection does not bloom and blossom in my hands; it is like a judgment hanging over me, or like a mysterious sign, the meaning of which I am not quite sure. 332Indeed, did Adam dare to recollect Eden; did he dare, when he saw thistles and thorns333 at his feet, did he dare to say to Eve: No! It was not like this in Eden. In Eden, oh, do you recollect? Did Adam dare to do this? Even less do I.
May 27. Midnight.
Forget her? —It is impossible. My edifice has collapsed. 334I was depressed, but in this depression I was an enthusiast, and that bleak idea of my youth that I was good for nothing was perhaps only a form of enthusiasm because I required an ideality, under which I sank. This secret I wanted to hide within myself and within this secret an ardor that certainly made me unhappy but also indescribably happy. Early, all too soon, I [VI 328] thought I detected that the enthusiasm one finds on the high-ways and byways is not the kind I wanted to have any part of. Then I would put on a cold and callous front in order to have no association with what is cosmeticized or self-deluding. That was a proud thought, something that could occur to a depressed person. But even if there were shrill cries against me, that I was an egotist, I did not want anyone to be right in opposition to me. All this is thrown into chaos; I am disarmed. I have become a prisoner in the appearance I wanted to conjure up. I have indeed acted shabbily toward a human being. Even if I see it differently and even if I am as sure as the sun rises in the east that I shall always have enthusiasm on my side, whatever I do—I cannot make myself comprehensible to any human being.
Governance has made me captive. The idea of my existence was proud; now I am crushed. I do know that. I can conceal it from others, but I have lost the very substance of my existence, the secure place of resort behind my deceptive appearance, lost what I shall never regain, precisely what I myself must prevent myself from regaining, for my pride still remains but has had to referre pedem [give ground] and now has the task, among other things, of never forgiving myself. Only religiously can I now become intelligible to myself before God; in relation to people, misunderstanding is the foreign language I speak. I wanted to have the power to be able to express myself in the universal any time I wished; now I cannot do it.
Ah, to have an understanding with God is blissful, but that through Governance or myself I am so encompassed with misunderstanding that I am continually being forced back into this solitary understanding still has its pain also. Who would think twice about choosing a relationship of confidence, but my choice is not free. Here I am sensible of freedom only when in necessity I surrender myself and in the surrender forget it. I cannot say “to whom should I go but to you,”335 for I cannot go to anyone, since one cannot, of course, entrust oneself to the intimacy of misunderstanding; I cannot go to anyone, for I am a prisoner, and misunderstanding and again misunderstanding and again misunderstanding are the heavy iron bars before my window, and I choose not to go to God, for I am constrained. But then comes the moment of understanding, and then it is once again blessed that there are iron bars before the windows, for the result of this is that the understanding cannot be an illusion, something acquired, a yield at second hand, and that it cannot become some chattering blabbing, [VI 329] for to whom should I speak?
My idea was to structure my life ethically in my innermost being and to conceal this inwardness in the form of deception. Now I am forced even further back into myself; my life is religiously structured and is so far back in inwardness that I have difficulty in making my way to actuality.
To whom, indeed, would it occur to want to be self-important in relation to God, but my relationship is of such a nature that it is as if God had chosen me, not I God. Not even the appearance of the negative expression of being something—that it is I who come to him—is left to me.336 If I am unwilling to resign myself to bearing the pain of necessity, I am annihilated and have nowhere to be but among men in misunderstanding. If I endure the pain of necessity, then the transformation occurs.
My loss I shall never get over, and it will probably be a long time before I learn to bear it. As I walk about among men, it seems to me as if my lost pride walked by, as if I read in another’s face that he was judging me in this way. Then I could rush like a desperate man in among the people to try to grasp my lost shadow, to claim it,337 to avenge myself, to console myself with revenge until I would sink down from exhaustion. Yes, woe to the woman whose look moved me in this way. But one can have revenge upon a woman. 338I know that the person who is offended by natural conditions can be possessed by dreadful thoughts. How did it happen that Richard III could overpower the woman who was his sworn enemy and change her into his lover?339 And why, I wonder, did he do it? Was it politics? Was the derision with which he ponders
the ease of his conquest politics also? When he dwells on his own deformity with the passion of despair, was it self-examination, whereby he would perceive himself fit to be king? No, it was a hatred of life; it was by the power of the spirit that he wanted to scoff at nature, which had scoffed at him; he wanted to hold nature up to ridicule together with its invention of erotic love and love of the beautiful, for he, the injured one, he, the cripple, he, the desperate one, he, the devil, wanted to demonstrate, despite language and all the laws of life, that he could be loved. Then he learned, then he discovered [VI 330] that there is a power that works upon woman with certainty, the power of falsehood and lies, when they are declared with the flame of wild enthusiasm, with the unhealthy excitement of lust, and yet with the chilling coldness of the understanding, just as the strongest wines are served cooled with ice. He himself hated, and yet he aroused erotic love, even though women do not love someone like that but are disgusted with him and succumb to him only when dizzy and stunned. There is an evil spirit such as that, and it offers huge sums of earnest money: the anticipation of suprahuman powers; and it tempts with mirages, as if an insane revenge were the true way to save one’s pride and avenge one’s honor. And the way is bound to be hard even though it is possible—the way back over the chasmic abyss that separates good and evil in time as well, the transition from being of supranatural size by the power of evil to being nothing, nothing at all, less than nothing in repentance.
Stages on Life’s Way Page 40