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Existentialism
Søren Kierkegaard (1813 - 1855)
Fear and trembling
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So
to be sick unto death is, not to be able to die--yet not as
though there were hope of life (the sickness unto death) |
INTRODUCTION
Not only in the world of commerce but also in the world of ideas our age has
arranged a regular clearance-sale. Everything may be had at such absurdedly
low prices that very soon the question will arise whether any one cares to bid.
Every waiter with a speculative turn who carefully marks the significant progress
of modern philosophy, every lecturer in philosophy, every tutor, student, every
sticker-and quitter of philosophy-they are not content with doubting everything,
but "go right on." It might, possibly, be ill timed and inopportune to ask them
whither they are bound; but it is no doubt polite and modest to take it for
granted that they have doubted everything-else it were a curious statement for
them to make, that they were proceeding onward. So they have, all of them, completed
that preliminary operation and, it would seem, with such ease that they do not
think it necessary to waste a word about how they did it. The fact is, not even
he who looked anxiously and with a troubled spirit for some little point of
information, ever found one, nor any instruction, nor even any little dietetic
prescription, as to how one is to accomplish this enormous task. "But did not
Descartes proceed in this fashion?" Descartes, indeed! that venerable, humble,
honest thinker whose writings surely no one can read without deep emotion-Descartes
did what he said, and said what he did. Alas, alas! that is a mighty rare thing
in our times! But Descartes, as he says frequently enough, never uttered doubts
concerning his faith. . . .
In our times, as was remarked, no one is content with faith, but "goes right
on." The question as to whither they are proceeding may be a silly question;
whereas it is, a sign of urbanity and culture to assume that every one has faith,
to begin with, for else it were a curious statement for them to make, that they
are proceeding further. In the olden days it was different. Then, faith was
a task for a whole life time because it was held that proficiercy in faith was
not to be won within a few days or weeks. Hence, when the tried patriarch felt
his end approaching, after having fought his battles and preserved his faith,
he was still young enough at heart not to have forgotten the fear and trembling
which disciplined his youth and which the mature man has under control,
but which no one entirely outgrows-except insofar as he succeeds in "going on"
as early as possible. The goal which those venerable men reached at last-at
that spot every one starts, in our times, in order to "proceed further.". .
.
PREPARATION
There lived a man
who, when a child, had heard the beautiful Bible story of how God tempted Abraham
and how he stood the test, how he maintained his faith and, against his expectations,
received his son back again. As this man grew older he read this same story
with ever greater admiration; for now life had separated what had been united
in the reverent simplicity of the child. And the older he grew, the more frequently
his thoughts reverted to that story. His enthusiasm waxed stronger and stronger,
and yet the story grew less and less clear to him. Finally he forgot everything
else in thinking about it, and his soul contained but one wish, which was, to
behold Abraham; and but one longing, which was, to have been witness to that
event. His desire was, not to see the beautiful lands of the Orient, and not
the splendor of the Promised Land, and not the reverent couple whose old age
the Lord had blessed with children, and not the venerable figure of the aged
patriarch, and not the god given vigorous youth of Isaac-it would have been
the same to him if the event had come to pass on some barren heath. But his
wish was, to have been with Abraham on the three days' journey, when he rode
with sorrow before him and with Isaac at his side. His wish was, to have been
present at the moment when Abraham lifted up his eyes and saw Mount Moriah afar
off; to have been present at the moment when he left his asses behind and wended
his way up to the mountain alone with Isaac. For the mind of this man was busy,
not with the delicate conceits of the imagination, but rather with his shuddering
thought.
The man we speak
of was no thinker, he felt no desire to go beyond his faith: it seemed to him
the most glorious fate to be remembered as the Father of Faith, and a most enviable
lot to be possessed of that faith, even if no one knew it.
The man we speak
of was no learned exegetist, be did not even understand Hebrew-who knows but
a knowledge of Hebrew might have helped him to understand readily both the story
and Abraham.
I.
And God tempted
Abraham and said unto him: take Isaac, thine only son, whom thou lovest and
go to the land Moriah and sacrifice him there on a mountain which I shall show
thee.
It was in the early
morning, Abraham arose betimes and had his asses saddled. He departed from his
tent, and Isaac with him; but Sarah looked out of the window after them until
they were out of sight. Silently they rode for three days; but on the fourth
morning Abraham said not a word but lifted up his eyes and beheld Mount Moriah
in the distance. He left his servants behind and, leading Isaac by the hand,
he approached the mountain. But Abraham said to himself: "I shall surely conceal
from Isaac whither he is going." He stood still, he laid his hand on Isaac's
head to bless him, and Isaac bowed down to receive his blessing. And Abraham's
aspect was fatherly, his glance was mild, his speech admonishing. But Isaac
understood him not, his soul would not rise to him; he embraced Abraham's knees,
he besought him at his feet, he begged for his young life, for his beautiful
hopes, he recalled the joy in Abraham's house when he was born, he reminded
him of the sorrow and the loneliness that would be after him. Then did Abraham
raise up the youth and lead him by his hand, and his words were full of consolation
and admonishment. But Isaac understood him not. He ascended Mount Moriah, but
Isaac understood him not. Then Abraham averted his face for a moment; but when
Isaac looked again, his father's countenance was changed, his glance wild, his
aspect terrible, he seized Isaac and threw him to the ground and said: "Thou
foolish lad, believest thou I am thy father? An idol worshipper am I. Believest
thou it is God's cornmand? Nay, but my pleasure." Then Isaac trembled and cried
out in his fear: "God in heaven, have pity on me, God of Abraham, show mercy
to me, I have no father on earth, be thou then my father!" But Abraham said
softly to himself : "Father in heaven, I thank thee. Better is it that he believes
me inhuman than that he should lose his faith in thee."
When the child
is to be weaned, his mother blackens her breast; for it were a pity if her breast
should look sweet to him when he is not to have it. Then the child believes
that her breast has changed; but his mother is ever the same, her glance is
full of love and as tender as ever. Happy he who needed not worse means to wean
his child!
II.
It was in the early morning. Abraham arose betimes and embraced Sarah, the bride
of his old age. And Sarah kissed Isaac who had taken the shame from her-Isaac,
her pride, her hope for all coming generations. Then the twain rode silently
along their way, and Abraham's glance was fastened on the ground before him;
until on the fourth day, when he lifted up his eyes and beheld Mount Moriah
in the distance; but then his eyes again sought the ground. Without a word he
put the fagots in order and bound Isaac, and without a word he unsheathed his
knife. Then he beheld the ram God had chosen, and sacrificed him, and wended
his way home. . . . From that day on Abraham grew old. He could not forget that
God had required this of him. Isaac flourished as before; but Abraham's eye
was darkened, he saw happiness no more.
When the child
has grown and is to be weaned, his mother will in maidenly fashion conceal her
breast. Then the child has a mother no longer. Happy the child who lost not
his mother in any other sense!
III.
It was in the early
morning. Abraham arose betimes he kissed Sarah, the young mother, and Sarah
kissed Isaac, her joy, her delight for all times. And Abraham rode on his way,
lost in thought-he was thinking of Hagar and her son whom he had driven out
into the wilderness. He ascended Mount Moriah and he drew the knife.
It was a calm evening
when Abraham rode out alone, and he rode to Mount Moriah. There he cast himself
down on his face and prayed to God to forgive him his sin in that he had been
about to sacrifice his son Isaac, and in that the father had forgotten his duty
toward his son. And yet oftener he rode on his lonely way, but he found no rest.
He could not grasp that it was a sin that he had wanted to sacrifice to God
his most precious possession, him for whom he would most gladly have died many
times. But, if it was a sin, if he had not loved Isaac thus, then could he not
grasp the possbility that he could be forgiven : for what sin more terrible
?
When the child
is to he weaned, the mother is not without sorrow that she and her child are
to be separated more and more, that the child who had first lain under her heart,
and afterwards at any rate rested at her breast, is to be so near to her no
more. So they sorrow together for that brief while. Happy he who kept his child
so near to him and needed not to sorrow more!
IV.
It was in the early
morning. All was ready for the journey in the house of Abraham. He bade farewell
to Sarah; and Eliezer, his faithful servant, accompanied him along the way for
a little while. They rode together in peace, Abraham and Isaac, until they came
to Mount Moriah. And Abraham prepared everything for the sacrifice, calmly and
mildly; but when his father turned aside in order to unsheath his knife, Isaac
saw that Abraham's left hand was knit in despair and that a trembling shook
his frame-but Abraham drew forth the knife.
Then they returned
home again, and Sarah hastened to meet them; but Isaac had lost his faith, No
one in all the world ever said a word about this, nor did Isaac speak to any
man concerning what he had seen, and Abraham suspected not that any one had
seen it.
When the child is to be weaned, his mother has the stronger food ready lest
the child perish. Happy he who has in readiness this stronger food!
Thus, and in many
similar ways, thought the man whom I have mentioned about this event. And every
time he returned, after a pilgrimage to Mount Moriah, he sank down in weariness,
folding his hands and saying: "No one, in truth, was great as was Abraham, and
who can understand him?"
A PANEGYRIC
ON ABRAHAM
If a consciousness
of the eternal were not implanted in man; if the basis of all that exists were
but a confusedly fermenting element which, convulsed by obscure passions, Produced
all, both the great and the insignificant; if under everything there lay a bottomless
void never to be filled what else were life but despair? If it were thus, and
if there were no sacred bonds between man and man; if one generation arose after
another, as in the forest the leaves of one season succeed the leaves of another,
or like the songs of birds which are taken up one after another; if the generations
of man passed through the world like a ship passing through the sea and the
wind over the desert-a fruitless and a vain thing; if eternal oblivion were
ever greedily watching for its prey and there existed no power strong enough
to wrest it from its clutches-how empty were life then, and how dismal! And
therefore it is not thus; but, just as God created man and woman, he likewise
called into being the hero and the poet or orator. The latter cannot perform
the deeds of the hero-he can only admire and love him and rejoice in him. And
yet he also is happy and not less so; for the hero is, as it were, his better
self with which he has fallen in love, and he is glad he is not himself the
hero, so that his love can express itself in admiration.
The poet is the
genius of memory, and does nothing but recall what has been done, can do nothing
but admire what has been done. He adds nothing of his own, but he is Jealous
of what has been entrusted to him. He obeys the choice of his own heart; but
once he has found what he has been seeking, he visits every man's door with
his song and with his speech, so that all may admire the hero as he does, and
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 thus, faithful to his love,
he battles day and night against the guile of oblivion which wishes to lure
the hero from him, then has he accomplished his task, then is he gathered to
his hero who loves him as faithfully; for the poet is as it were the hero's
better self, unsubstantial, to be sure, like a mere memory, but also transfigured
as is a memory. Therefore shall no one be forgotten who has done great deeds;
and even if there be delay, even if the cloud of misunderstanding obscure the
hero from our vision, still his lover will come some time; and the more time
has passed, the more faithfully will he cleave to him.
No, no one
shall be forgotten who was great in this world. But each hero was great in his
own way, and each one was eminent in proportion to the great things he loved.
For he who loved himself became great through himself, and he who loved others
became great through his devotion, but he who loved God became greater than
all of these. Everyone of them shall be remembered, but each one became great
in proportion to his trust. One became great by the possible; another, by hoping
for the eternal; hoped for the impossible, he became greater than all of these.
Every one shall be remembered; but each one was great in proportion to the power
with which he strove. For he who strove with the world became great by overcoming
himself; but he who strove with God, he became the greatest of them all. Thus
there have been struggles in the world, man against man, one against a thousand;
but he who struggled with God, he became greatest of them all. Thus there was
fighting on this earth, and there was he who conquered everything by his strength,
and there was he who conquered God by his weakness. There was he who, trusting
in himself, gained all; and there was he who, trusting in his strength sacrificed
everything; but he who believed in God was greater than all of these. There
was he who was great through his strength, and he who was great through his
wisdom, and he who was great through his hopes, and he who was great through
his love; but Abraham was greater than all of these-great through the strength
whose power is weakness, great through the wisdom whose secret is folly, great
through the hope whose expression is madness, great through the love which is
hatred of one's self.
Through the urging
of his faith Abraham left the land of his forefathers and became a stranger
in the land of promise. He left one thing behind and took one thing along: he
left his worldly wisdom behind and took with him faith. For else he would not
have left the land of his fathers. but would have thought it an unreasonable
demand. Through his faith he came to be a stranger in the land of promise, where
there was nothing to remind him of all that had been dear to him, but where
everything by its newness tempted his soul to longing. And yet was he God's
chosen, he in whom the Lord was well pleased! Indeed, had he been one cast off,
one thrust out of God's mercy, then might he have comprehended it; but now it
seemed like a mockery of him and of his faith. There have been others who lived
in exile from the fatherland which they loved. They are not forgotten, nor is
the song of lament forgotten in which they mournfully sought and found what
they had lost. Of Abraham there exists no song of lamentation. It is human to
complain, it is human to weep with the weeping; but it is greater to believe,
and more blessed to consider him who has faith.
Through his faith
Abraham received the promise that in his seed were to be blessed all races of
mankind. Time passed, there was still the possibility of it, and Abraharn had
faith. Another man there was who also lived in hopes. Time passed, the evening
of his life was approaching; neither was he paltry enough to have forgotten
his hopes: neither shall he be forgotten by us! Then he sorrowed, and his sorrow
did not deceive him, as life had done, but gave him all it could; for in the
sweetness of sorrow he became possessed of his disappointed hopes. It is human
to sorrow, it is human to sorrow with the sorrowing; but it is greater to have
faith, and more blessed to consider him who has faith.
No song of lamentation has come down to us from Abraham. He did not sadly count
the days as time passed; he did not look at Sarah with suspicious eyes, whether
she was becoming old; he did not stop the sun's course lest Sarah should grow
old and his hope with her; he did not lull her with his songs of lamentation.
Abraham grew old, and Sarah became a laughing stock to the people; and yet was
he God's chosen, and heir to the promise that in his seed were to be blessed
all races of mankind. Were it, then, not better if he had not been God's chosen?
For what is it to be God's chosen? Is it to have denied to one in one's youth
all the wishes of youth in order to have them fulfilled after great labor in
old age?
But Abraham had
faith and steadfastly lived in hope. Had Abraham been less firm in his trust,
then would he have given up that hope. He would have said to God: "So it is,
perchance, not Thy will, after all, that this shall come to pass. I shall surrender
my hope. It was my only one, it was my bliss. I am sincere, I conceal no secret
grudge for that Thou didst deny it to me." He would not have remained forgotten,
his example would have saved many a one; but he would not have become the Father
of Faith. For it is great to surrender one's hope, but greater still to abide
by it steadfastly after having surrendered it; for it is great to seize hold
of the eternal hope, but greater till to abide steadfastly by one's worldly
hopes after having rendered them.
Then came
the fulness of time. If Abraham had not had faith, then Sarah would probably
have died of sorrow, and Abraham, dulled by his grief, would not have understood
the fulfilment, but would have smiled about it as a dream of his youth.
But Abraham had faith, and therefore he remained young; for he who always hopes
for the best, him life will deceive, and he will grow old; and he who is always
prepared for the worst, he will soon age; but he who has faith, he will preserve
eternal youth. Praise, therefore, be to this story! For Sarah, though advanced
in age, was young enough to wish for the pleasures of a mother, and Abraham,
though grey of hair, was young enough to wish to become a father. In a superficial
sense it may be considered miraculous that what they wished for came to pass,
but in a deeper sense the miracle of faith is to be seen in Abraham's and Sarah's
being young enough to wish, and their faith having preserved their wish and
therewith their youth. The promise he had received was fulfilled, and he accepted
it in faith, and it came to pass according to the promise and his faith; whereas
Moses smote the rock with his staff but believed not.
There was joy in
Abraham's house when Sarah celebrated the day of her Golden Wedding. But it
was not to remain thus; for once more was Abraham to be tempted. He had struggled
with that cunning power to which nothing is impossible, with that ever watchful
enemy who never sleeps, with that old man who outlives all-he had struggled
with Time and had preserved his faith. And now all the terror of that fight
was concentrated in one moment. "And God tempted Abraham, saying to him: take
now thine only son Isaac, whom thou lovest, and get thee into the land of Moriah;
and offer him there for a burnt offering upon one of the mountains which I will
tell thee of.
All was lost, then,
and more terribly than if a son had never been given him! The Lord had only
mocked Abraham, then! Miraculously he had realized the unreasonable hopes of
Abraham; and now he wished to take away what be had given. A foolish hope it
had been, but Abraham had not laughed when the promise had been made him. Now
all was lost-the trusting hope of seventy years, the brief joy at the fulfilment
of his hopes. Who, then, is he that snatches away the old man's staff, who that
demands that he himself shall break it in two? Who is he that renders disconsolate
the grey hair of old age, who is he that demands that he himself shall do it?
Is there no pity for the venerable old man, and none for the innocent child?
And yet was Abraham God's chosen one, and yet was it the Lord that tempted him.
And now all was to be lost I The glorious remembrance of him by a whole race,
the promise of Abraham's seed all that was but a whim, a passing fancy of the
Lord, which Abraham was now to destroy forever! That glorious treasure, as old
as the faith in Abraham's heart, and many, many years older than Isaac, the
fruit of Abraham's life, sanctified by prayers, matured in struggles-the blessing
on the lips of Abraham: this fruit was now to be plucked before the appointed
time, and to remain without significance; for of what significance were it if
Isaac was to be sacrificed? That sad and yet blessed hour when Abraham was to
take leave f rom all that was dear to him, the hour when he would once more
lift up his venerable head, when his face would shine like the countenance of
the Lord, the hour when he would collect his whole soul for a blessing strong
enough to render Isaac blessed all the days, of his life that hour was not to
come! He was to say farewell to Isaac, to be sure, but in such wise that he
himself was to remain behind; death was to part them, but in such wise that
Isaac was to die. The old man was not in happiness to lay his hand on Isaac's
head when the hour of death came, but, tired of life, to lay violent hands on
Isaac. And it was God who tempted him. Woe, woe to the messenger who would have
come before Abraham with such a command! Who would have dared to be the messenger
of such dread tidings? But it was God that tempted Abraham.
But Abraham had
faith, and had faith for this life. Indeed, had his faith been but concerning
the life to come, then might he more easily have cast away all, in order to
hasten out of this world which was not his. . . .
But Abraham had
faith and doubted not, but trusted that the improbable would come to pass. If
Abraham had doubted, then would he have undertaken something else, something
great and noble; for what could Abraham have undertaken but was great and noble!
He would have proceeded to Mount Moriah, he would have cloven the wood, and
fired it, and unsheathed his knife-he would have cried out to God: "Despise
not this sacrifice; it is not, indeed, the best I have; for what is an old man
against a child foretold of God; but it is the best I can give thee. Let Isaac
never know that he must find consolation in his youth." He would have plunged
the steel in his own breast. And he would have been admired throughout the world,
and his name would not have been forgotten; but it is one thing to be admired
and another, to be a lode star which guides one troubled in mind.
But Abraham had
faith. He prayed not for mercy and that he might prevail upon the Lord: it was
only when just retribution was to be visited upon Sodom and Gomorrha that Abraham
ventured to beseech Him for mercy.
We
read in Scripture: "And God did tempt Abraham, and said unto him, Abraham: and
he said, Behold here I am." You, whom I am now addressing did you do likewise?
When you saw the dire dispensations of Providence approach threateningly, did
you not then say to the mountains, Fall on me; and to the hills, Cover me? Or,
if you were stronger in faith, did not your step linger along the way, longing
for the old accustomed paths, as it were? And when the voice called you, did
you answer, then, or not at all, and if you did, perchance in a low voice, or
whispering? Not thus Abraham, but gladly and cheerfully and trustingly, and
with a resonant voice he made answer: "Here am I" And we read further: "And
Abraham rose up early in the morning. He made haste as though for some joyous
occasion, and early in the morning he was in the appointed place, on Mount Moriah.
He said nothing to Sarah, nothing to Eliezer, his steward; for who would have
understood him? Did not his temptation by its very nature demand of him the
vow of silence? "He laid the wood in order, and bound Isaac his son, and laid
him on the altar upon the wood. And Abraham stretched forth his hand, and took
the knife to slay his son." My listener! Many a father there has been who thought
that with his child he lost the dearest of all there was in the world for him;
yet assuredly no child ever was in that sense a pledge of God as was Isaac to
Abraham. Many a father there has been who lost his child; but then it was God,
the unchangeable and inscrutable will of the Almighty and His hand which took
it. Not thus with Abraham. For him was reserved a more severe trial, and Isaac's
fate was put into Abraham's hand together with the knife. And there he stood,
the old man, with his only hope! Yet did he not doubt, nor look anxiously to
the left or right, nor challenge Heaven with his prayers. He knew it was God
the Almighty who now put him to the test; he knew it was the greatest sacrifice
which could be demanded of him; but he knew also that no sacrifice was too great
which God demanded-and he drew forth hisknife.
Who strengthened
Abraham's arm, who supported his right arm that it drooped not powerless? For
he who contemplates this scene is unnerved. Who strengthened Abraham's soul
so that his eyes grew not too dim to see either Isaac or the ram? For he who
contemplates this scene will be struck with blindness. And yet, it is rare enough
that one is unnerved or is struck with blindness, and still more rare that one
narrates worthily what there did take place between father and son. To be sure,
we know well enough-it was but a trial!
If Abraham had
doubted, when standing on Mount Moriah; if he had looked about him in perplexity;
if he had accidentally discovered the ram before drawing his knife; if God had
permitted him to sacrifice it instead of Isaac-then would he have returned home,
and all would have been as before, he would have had Sarah and would have kept
Isaac; and yet how different all would have been! For then had his return been
a flight, his salvation an accident, his reward disgrace, his future, perchance,
perdition. Then would he have borne witness neither to his faith nor to God's
mercy, but would have witnessed only to the terror of going to Mount Moriah.
Then Abraham would not have been forgotten, nor either Mount Moriah. It would
be mentioned, then, not as is Mount Ararat on which the Ark landed, but as a
sign of terror, because it was there Abraham doubted.
Venerable patriarch
Abraham! When you returned home from Mount Moriah you required no encomiums
to console you for what you had lost; for, indeed, you did win all and still
kept Isaac, as we all know. And the Lord did no more take him from your side,
but you sate gladly at table with him in your tent as in the life to come you
will, for all times. Venerable patriarch Abraham! Thousands of years have passed
since those times, but still you need no late born lover to snatch your memory
from the power of oblivion, for every language remembers you-and yet do you
reward your lover more gloriously than any one, rendering him blessed in your
bosom, and taking heart and eyes captive by the marvel of your deed. Venerable
patriarch Abraham! Second father of the race! You who first perceived and bore
witness to that unbounded passion which has but scorn for the terrible fight
with the ragring elements and the strength of brute creation, in order to struggle
with God; you who first felt that sublimest of all passions, you who found the
holy, pure, humble expression for the divine madness which was a marvel to the
heathen-forgive him who would speak in your praise, in case he did it not fittingly.
He spoke humbly, as if it concerned the desire of his heart; he spoke briefly,
as is seemly; but he will never forget that you required a hundred years to
obtain a son of your old age, against all expections; that you had to draw the
knife before being permitted to keep Isaac; he will never forget that in a hundred
and thirty years you never got farther than to faith.
PRELIMINARY
EXPECTORATION
An old saying,
derived from the world of experience, has it that "he who will not work shall
not eat. But, strange to say, this does not hold true in the world where it
is thought applicable; for in the world of matter the law of imperfection prevails,
and we see, again and again, that he also who will not work has bread to eat-indeed,
that he who sleeps has a greater abundance of it than he who works. In the world
of matter everything belongs to whosoever happens to possess it; it is thrall
to the law of indifference, and he who happens to possess the Ring also has
the Spirit of the Ring at his beck and call, whether now he be Noureddin or
Aladdin and he who controls the treasures of this world, controls them, howsoever
he managed to do so. It is different in the world of spirit. There, an eternal
and divine order obtains, there the rain does not fall on the just and the unjust
alike, nor does the sun shine on the good and the evil alike; but there the
saying does hold true that he who will not work shall not eat, and only he who
was troubled shall find rest, and only he who descends into the nether world
shall rescue his beloved, and only he who unsheathes his knife shall be given
Isaac again. There, he who will not work shall not eat, but shall be deceived,
as the gods deceived Orpheus with an immaterial figure instead of his beloved
Euridice, deceived him because he was love sick and not courageous, deceived
him because he was a player on the cithara rather than a man.. There, it avails
not to have an Abraham for one's father, or to have seventeen ancestors. But
in that world the saying about Israel's maidens will hold true of him who will
not work: he shall bring forth wind; but he who will work shall give birth to
his own father.
There is a kind
of learning which would presumptuously introduce into the world of spirit the
same law of indifference under which the world of matter groans. It is thought
that to know about great men and great deeds is quite sufficient, and that other
exertion is not necessary. And therefore this learning shall not eat, but shall
perish of hunger while seeing all things transformed into gold by its touch.
And what, forsooth, does this learning really know? There were many thousands
of contemporaries, and countless men in after times, who knew all about the
triumphs of Miltiades; but there was only one whom they rendered sleepless.
There have existed countless generations that knew by heart, word for word,
the story of Abraham; but how many has it rendered sleepless?
Now the
story of Abraham has the remarkable property of always being glorious, in however
limited a sense it is understood; still, here also the point is whether one
means to labor and exert one's self. Now people do not care to labor and exert
themselves, but wish nevertheless to understand the story. They extol Abraham,
but how? By expressing the matter in the most general terms and saying: "the
great thing about him was that he loved God so ardently that he was willing
to sacrifice to Him his most precious possession." That is very true; but "the
most precious possession" is an indefinite expression. As one's thoughts, and
one's mouth, run on one assumes, in a very easy fashion, the identity of Isaac
and "the most precious possession"-and meanwhile he who is meditating may smoke
his pipe, and his audience comfortably stretch out their legs. If the rich youth
whom Christ met on his way had sold all his possessions and given all to the
poor, we would extol him as we extol all which is great-aye, would not understand
even him without labor; and yet would he never have become an Abraham, notwithstanding
his sacrificing the most precious possessions he had. That which people generally
forget in the story of Abraham is his fear and anxiety; for as regards money,
one is not ethically responsible for it, whereas for his son a father has the
highest and most sacred responsibility. However, fear is a dreadful thing for
timorous spirits, so they omit it. And yet they wish to speak of Abraham.
So they keep on
speaking, and in the course of their speech the two terms Isaac and "the most
precious thing" are used alternately, and everything is in the best order. But
now suppose that among the audience there was a man who suffered with sleeplessness-and
then the most terrible and profound, the most tragic, and at the same time the,
most comic, misunderstanding is within the range of possibility. That is, suppose
this man goes home and wishes to do as did Abraham; for his son is his most
precious possession. If a certain preacher learned of this he would, perhaps,
go to him, he would gather up all his spiritual dignity and exclaim: "'Thou
abominable creature, thou scum of humanity, what devil possessed thee to wish
to murder son?" And this preacher, who had not felt any particular warmth, nor
perspired while speaking about Abraham, this preacher would be astonished himself
at the earnest wrath with which he poured forth his thunders against that poor
wretch; indeed, he would rejoice over himself, for never had he spoken with
such power and unction, and he would have said to his wife: "I am an orator,
the only thing I have lacked so far was the occasion. Last Sunday, when speaking
about Abraham, I did not feel thrilled in the least."
Now, if
this same orator had just a bit of sense to spare, I believe he would lose it
if the sinner would reply, in a quiet and dignified manner: "Why, it was on
this very same matter you preached, last Sunday!" But however could the preacher
have entertained such thoughts? Still, such was the case, and the preacher's
mistake was merely not knowing what he was talking about. Ah, would that some
poet might see his way clear to prefer such a situation to the stuff and nonsense
of which novels and comedies are full! For the comic and the tragic here run
parallel to infinity. The sermon probably was ridiculous enough in itself, but
it became infinitely ridiculous through the very natural consequence it had.
Or, suppose now the sinner was converted by this lecture without daring to raise
any objection, and this zealous divine now went home elated, glad in the consciousness
of being effective, not only in the pulpit, but chiefly, and with irresistible
power, as a spiritual guide, inspiring his congregation on Sunday, whilst on
Monday he would place himself like a cherub with flaming sword before the man
who by his actions tried to give the lie to the old saying that "the course
of the world follows not the priest's word."
If, on the other
hand, the sinner were not convinced of his error his position would become tragic.
He would probably be executed, or else sent to the lunatic asylum-at any rate,
he would become a sufferer in this world; but in another sense I should think
that Abraham rendered him happy; for he who labors, he shall not perish.
Now how shall we
explain the contradiction contained in that sermon? Is it due to Abraham's having
the reputation of being a great man-so that whatever he does is great, but if
another should undertake to do the same it is a sin, a heinous sin ? If this
be the case I prefer not to participate in such thoughtless laudations. If faith
cannot make it a sacred thing to wish to sacrifice one's son, then let the same
judgment be visited on Abraham as on any other man. And if we perchance lack
the courage to drive our thoughts to the logical conclusion and to say that
Abraham was a murderer, then it were better to acquire that courage, rather
than to waste one's time on undeserved encomiums. The fact is, the ethical expression
for what Abraham did is that he wanted to murder Isaac; the religious, that
he wanted to sacrifice him. But precisely in this contradiction is contained
the fear which may well rob one of one's sleep. And yet Abraham were not Abraham
without this fear. Or, again, supposing Abraham did not do what is attributed
to him, if his action was an entirely different one, based on conditions of
those times, then let us forget him; for what is the use of calling to mind
that past which can no longer become a present reality?-Or, the speaker had
perhaps forgotten the essential fact that Isaac was the son. For if faith is
eliminated, having been reduced to a mere nothing, then only the brutal fact
remains that Abraham wanted to murder Isaac-which is easy for everybody to imitate
who has not the faith-the faith, that is, which renders it most difficult for
him. . . .
Love has
its priests in the poets, and one bears at times a poet's voice which worthily
extols it. But not a word does one hear of faith. Who is there to speak in honor
of that passion? Philosophy "goes right on." Theology sits at the window with
a painted visage and sues for philosophy's favor, offering it her charms. It
is said to be difficult to understand the philosophy of Hegel; but to understand
Abraham, why, that is an easy matter! To proceed further than Hegel is a wonderful
feat, but to proceed further than Abraham, why, nothing is easier! Personally,
I have devoted a considerable amount of time to a study of Hegelian philosophy
and believe I understand it fairly well; in fact, I am rash enough to say that
when, notwithstanding an effort, I am not able to understand him in some passages,
is because he is not entirely clear about the matter himself. All this intellectual
effort I perform easily and naturally, and it does not cause my head to ache.
On the other hand, whenever I attempt to think about Abraham I am, as it were,
overwhelmed. At every moment I am aware of the enormous paradox which forms
the content of Abraham's life, at every moment I am repulsed, and my thought,
notwithstanding its passionate attempts, cannot penetrate into it, cannot forge
on the breadth of a hair. I strain every muscle in order to envisage the problem-and
become a paralytic in the same moment.
I am by no means unacquainted with what has been admired as great and noble,
my soul feels kinship with it, being satisfied, in all humility, that it was
also my cause the hero espoused; and when contemplating his deed I say to myself:
"jam tua causa agitur." I am able to identify myself with the hero; but
I cannot do so with Abraham, for whenever I have reached his height I fall down
again, since he confronts me as the paradox. It is by no means my intention
to maintain that faith is something inferior, but, on the contrary, that it
is the highest of all things; also that it is dishonest in philosophy to offer
something else instead, and to pour scorn on faith; but it ought to understand
its own nature in order to know what it can offer. It should take away nothing;
least of all, fool people out of something as if it were of no value. I am not
unacquainted with the sufferings and dangers of life, but I do not fear them,
and cheerfully go forth to meet them. . . . But my courage is not, for all that,
the courage of faith, and is as nothing compared with it. I cannot carry out
the movement of faith: I cannot close my eyes and confidently plunge into the
absurd-it is impossible for me; but neither do I boast of it. . .
Now I wonder if
every one of my contemporaries is really able to perform the movements of faith.
Unless I am much mistaken they are, rather, inclined to be proud of making what
they perhaps think me unable to do, viz., the imperfect movement. It is repugnant
to my soul to do what is so often done, to speak inhumanly about great deeds,
as if a few thousands of years were an immense space of time. I prefer to speak
about them in a human way and as though they had been done but yesterday, to
let the great deed itself be the distance which either inspires or condemns
me. Now if I, in the capacity of tragic hero-for a higher flight I am unable
to take-if I had been summoned to such an extraordinary royal progress as was
the one to Mount Moriah, I know very well what I would have done. I would not
have been craven enough to remain at home; neither would I have dawdled on the
way; nor would I have forgot my knife-just to draw out the end a bit. But I
am rather sure that I would have been promptly on the spot, with every thing
in order-in fact, would probably have been there before the appointed time,
so as to have the business soon over with. But I know also what I would have
done besides. In the moment I mounted my horse I would have said to myself:
"Now all is lost, God demands Isaac, I shall sacrifice him, and with him all
my joy-but for all that, God is love and will remain so for me; for in this
world God and I cannot speak together, we have no language in common."
Possibly, one or
the other of my contemporaries will be stupid enough, and jealous enough of
great deeds, to wish to persuade himself and me that if I had acted thus I should
have done something even greater than what Abraham did; for my sublime resignation
was (he thinks) by far more ideal and poetic than Abraham's literal minded action.
And yet this is absolutely not so, for my sublime resignation was only a substitute
for faith. I could not have made more than the infinite movement (of resignation)
to find myself and again repose in myself. Nor would I have loved Isaac as Abraham
loved him. The fact that I was resolute enough to resign is sufficient to prove
my courage in a human sense, and the fact that I loved him with my whole heart
is the very presupposition without which my action would be n. me; but still
I did not love as did Abraham, for else I ould have hesitated even in the last
minute, without, for that matter, arriving too late on Mount Moriah. Also, I
would have spoiled the whole business by my behavior; for if I had had Isaac
restored to me I would have been embarrassed. That which was an easy matter
for Abraham would have been difficult for me, I mean, to rejoice again in Isaac;
for he who with all the energy of his soul proprio motu et propriis auspiciis
has made the infinite movement of resignation and can do no more, he will retain
possession of Isaac only in his sorrow.
But what
did Abraham? He arrived neither too early nor too late. He mounted his ass and
rode slowly on his way. And all the while he had faith, believing that God would
not demand Isaac of him, though ready all the while to sacrifice him, should
it be demanded of him. He believed this on the strength of the absurd; for there
was no question of human calculation any longer. And the absurdity consisted
in God's, who yet made this demand of him, recalling his demand the very next
moment. Abraham ascended the mountain and whilst the knife already gleamed in
his hand he believed-that God would not demand Isaac of him. He was, to be sure,
surprised at the outcome; but by a double movement he had returned at his first
state of mind and therefore received Isaac back more gladly than the first time.
. . .
On this height,
then, stands Abraham. The last stage he loses sight of is that of infinite resignation.
He does really proceed further, he arrives at faith. For all these caricatures
of faith, wretched lukewarm sloth, which thinks. "Oh, there is no hurry, it
is not necessary to worry before the time comes"; and miserable hopefulness,
which says: "One cannot know what will happen, there might perhaps," all these
caricatures belong to the sordid view of life and have already fallen under
the infinite scorn of infinite resignation.
Abraham, I am not
able to understand; and in a certain sense I can learn nothing from him without
being struck with wonder. They who flatter themselves that by merely considering
the outcome of Abraham's story they will necessarily arrive at faith, only deceive
themselves and wish to cheat God out of the first movement of faith-it were
tantamount to deriving worldly wisdom from the paradox. But who knows, one or
the other of them may succeed in doing this; for our times are not satisfied
with faith, and not even with the miracle of changing water into wine-they "go
right on" changing wine into water.
Is
it not preferable to remain satisfied with faith, and is it not outrageous that
every one wishes to "go right on". If people in our times decline to be satisfied
with love, as is proclaimed from various sides, where will we finally land?
In worldly shrewdness, in mean calculation, in paltriness and baseness, in all
that which renders man's divine origin doubtful. Were it not better to stand
fast in the faith, and better that he that standeth take heed lest he fall;
for the movement of faith must ever be made by virtue of the absurd, but, note
well, in such wise that one does not lose the things of this world but wholly
and entirely regains them.
As
far as I am concerned, I am able to describe most excellently the movements
of faith; but I cannot make them myself. When a person wishes to learn how to
swim he has himself suspended in a swimming belt and then goes through the motions;
but that does not mean that he can swim. In the same fashion I too can go through
the motions of faith; but when I am thrown into the water I swim, to be sure
(for I am not a wader in the shallows), but I go through a different set of
movements, to wit, those of infinity; whereas faith does the opposite, to wit,
makes the movements to regain the finite after having made those of infinite
resignation. Blessed is he who can make these movements, for he performs a marvellous
feat, and I shall never weary of admiring him, whether now it be Abraham himself
or the slave in Abraham's house, whether it be a professor of philosophy or
a poor servant girl: it is all the same to me, for I have regard only to the
movements. But these movements I watch closely, and I will not be deceived,
whether by myself or by any one else. The knights of infinite resignation are
easily recognized, for their gait is dancing and bold. But they who possess
the jewel of faith frequently deceive one because their bearing is curiously
like that of a class of people heartily despised by infinite resignation as
well as by faith-the philistines.
Let me admit
frankly that I have not in my experience encountered any certain specimen of
this type; but I do not refuse to admit that as far as I know, every other person
may be such a specimen. At the same time I will say that I have searched vainly
for years. It is the custom of scientists to travel around the globe to see
rivers and mountains, new stars, gay colored birds, misshapen fish, ridiculous
races of men. They abandon themselves to a bovine stupor which gapes at existence
and believe they have seen something worth while. All this does not interest
me; but if I knew where there lived such a knight of faith I would journey to
him on foot, for that marvel occupies my thoughts exclusively. Not a moment
would I leave him out of sight, but would watch how he makes the movements,
and I would consider myself provided for life, and would divide my time between
watching him and myself practicing the movements, and would thus use all my
time in admiring him,
As I said, I have
not met with such a one; but I can easily imagine him. Here he is. I make his
acquaintance and am introduced to him. The first moment I lay my eyes on him
I push him back, leaping back myself, I hold up my hands in amazement and say
to myself: "Good Lord! that person? Is it really he-why, he looks like a parish
beadle!" But it is really he. I become more closely acquainted with him, watching
his every movement to see whether some trifling incongruous movement of his
has escaped me, some trace, perchance, of a signalling from the infinite, a
glance, a look, a gesture, a melancholy air, or a smile, which might betray
the presence of infinite resignation contrasting with the finite.
But no! I examine
his figure from top to toe to discover whether there be anywhere a chink through
which the infinite might be seen to peer forth. But no! he is of a piece, all
through. And how about his footing? Vigorous, altogether that of finiteness,
no citizen dressed in his very best, prepared to spend his Sunday afternoon
in the park, treads the ground more firmly. He belongs altogether to this world,
no philistine more so. There is no trace of the somewhat exclusive and haughty
demeanor which marks off the knight of infinite resignation. He takes pleasure
in all, things, is interested in everything, and perseveres in whatever he does
with the zest characteristic of persons wholly given to worldly things. He attends
to his business, and when one sees him one might think he was a clerk who had
lost his soul in doing double bookkeeping, he is so exact. He takes a day off
on Sundays. He goes to church. But no hint of anything supernatural or any other
sign of the incommensurable betrays him, and if one did not know him it would
be impossible to distinguish him in the congregation, for his brisk and manly
singing proves only that he has a pair of good lungs.
In the afternoon
he walks out to the forest. He takes delight in all he sees, in the crowds of
men and women, the new omnibusses, the Sound-if one met him on the promenade
one might think he was some shopkeeper who was having a good time, so simple
is his joy; for he is not a poet, and in vain have I tried to lure him into
betraying some sign of the poet's detachment. Toward evening he walks home again,
with a gait as steady as that of a mail carrier. On his way he happens to wonder
whether his wife will have some little special warm dish ready for him, when
he comes home-as she surely has-as, for instance, a roasted lamb's head garnished
with greens. And if he met one minded like him he is very likely to continue
talking about this dish with him till they reach the East Gate, and to talk
about it with a zest befitting a chef. As it happens, he has not four
shillings to spare, and yet he firmly believes that his wife surely has that
dish ready for him. If she has, it would be an enviable sight for distinguished
people, and an inspiring one for common folks, to see him eat, for he has an
appetite greater than Esau's. His wife has not prepared it-strange, he remains
altogether the same.
Again, on
his way he passes a building lot and there meets another man. They fall to talking,
and in a trice he erects a building, freely disposing of everything necessary.
And the stranger will leave him with the impression that he has been talking
with a capitalist-the fact being that the knight of my admiration is busy with
the thought that if it really came to the point he would unquestionably have
the means wherewithal at his disposal.
Now
he is lying on his elbows in the window and looking over the square on which
he lives. All that happens there, if it be only a rat creeping into a gutter
hole, or children playing together-everything engages his attention, and yet
his mind is at rest as though it were the mind of a girl of sixteen. He smokes
his pipe in the evening, and to look at him you would swear it was the green
grocer from across the street who is lounging at the window in the evening twilight.
Thus he shows as much unconcern as any worthless happy go lucky fellow; and
yet, every moment he lives he purchases his leisure at the highest price, for
he makes not the least movement except by virtue of the absurd; and yet, yet-indeed,
I might become furious with anger, if for no other reason than that of envy-and
yet, this man has performed, and is performing every moment, the movement of
infinity . . . He has resigned everything absolutely, and then again seized
hold of it all on the strength of the absurd. . .
But this
miracle may so easily deceive one that it will be best if I describe the movements
in a given case which may illustrate their aspect in contact with reality; and
that is the important point. Suppose, then, a young swain falls in love with
a princess, and all his life is bound up in this love. But circumstances are
such that it is out of the question to think of marrying her, an impossibility
to translate his dreams into reality. The slaves of paltriness, the frogs in
the sloughs of life, they will shout, of course: "Such a love is folly, the
rich brewer's widow is quite as good and solid a match." Let them but croak.
The knight of infinite resignation does not follow their advice, he does not
surrender his love, not for all the riches in the world. He is no fool, he first
makes sure that this love really is the contents of his life, for his soul is
too sound and too proud to waste itself on a mere intoxication. He is no coward,
he is not afraid to let his love insinuate itself into his most secret and most
remote thoughts, to let it wind itself in innumerable coils about every fiber
of his consciousness-if he is disappointed in his love he will never be able
to extricate himself again. He feels a delicious pleasure in letting love thrill
his every nerve, and yet his soul is solemn as is that of him who has drained
a cup of poison and who now feels the virus mingle with every drop of his blood,
poised in that moment between life and death.
Having thus imbibed
love, and being wholly absorbed in it, he does not lack the courage to try and
dare all. He surveys the whole situation, he calls together his swift thoughts
which like tame pigeons obey his every beck, he gives the signal, and they dart
in all directions. But when they return, every one bearing a message of sorrow,
and explain to him that it is impossible, then he becomes silent, he dismisses
them, he remains alone; and then he makes the movement. Now if what I say here
is to have any significance, it is of prime importance that the movement be
made in a normal fashion. The knight of resignation is supposed to have sufficient
energy to concentrate the entire contents of his life and the realization of
existing conditions into one single wish. But if one lacks this concentration,
this devotion to a single thought; if his soul from the very beginning is scattered
on a number of objects, he will never be able to make the movement-he will be
as worldly wise in the conduct of his life as the financier who invests his
capital in a number of securities to win on the one if he should lose on the
other; that is, he is no knight. Furthermore, the knight is supposed to possess
sufficient energy to concentrate all his thought into a single act of consciousness.
If he lacks this concentration he will only run errands in life and will never
be able to assume the attitude of infinite resignation; for the very minute
he approaches it he will suddenly discover that he forgot something so that
he must remain behind. The next minute, thinks he, it will be attainable again,
and so it is; but such inhibitions will never allow him to make the movement
but will, rather, tend to him sink ever deeper into the mire.
Our knight,
then, performs the movement-which movement? Is he intent on forgetting the whole
affair, which, too, would presuppose much concentration? No, for the knight
does not contradict himself, and it is a contradiction to forget the main contents
of one's life and still remain the same person. And he has no desire to become
another person; neither does he consider such a desire to smack of greatness.
Only lower natures forget themselves and become something different. Thus the
butterfly has forgotten that it once was a caterpillar-who knows but it may
forget her that it once was a butterfly, and turn into a fish! Deeper natures
never forget themselves and never change their essential qualities. So the knight
remembers all; but precisely this remembrance is painful. Nevertheless, in his
infinite resignation he has become reconciled with existence. His love for the
princess has become for him the expression of an eternal love, has assumed a
religious character, has been transfigured into a love for the eternal being
which, to be sure, denied him the fulfilment of his love, yet reconciled him
again by presenting him with the abiding consciousness of his love's being preserved
in an everlasting form of which no reality can rob him. . . .
Now, he
is no longer interested in what the princess may do, and precisely this proves
that he has made the movement of infinite resignation correctly. In fact, this
is a good criterion for detecting whether a person's movement is sincere or
just make believe. Take a person who believes that he too has resigned, but
lo! time passed, the princess did something on her part, for example, married
a prince, and then his soul lost the elasticity of its resignation. This ought
to show him that he did not make the movement correctly, for he who has resigned
absolutely is sufficient unto himself. The knight does not cancel his resignation,
but preserves his love as fresh and young as it was at the first moment, he
never lets go of it just because his resignation is absolute. Whatever the princess
does, cannot disturb him, for it is only the lower natures who have the law
for their actions in some other person, i.e. have the premises of their actions
outside of themselves. . . .
Infinite resignation
is the last stage which goes before faith, so that every one who has not made
the movement of infinite resignation cannot have faith; for only through absolute
resignation do I become conscious of my eternal worth, and only then can there
arise the problem of again grasping hold of this world by virtue of faith.
We will now suppose
the knight of faith in the same case. He does precisely as the other knight,
he absolutely resigns the love which is the contents of his life, he is reconciled
to the pain; but then the miraculous happens, he makes one more movement, strange
beyond comparison, saying: "And still I believe that I shall marry her-marry
her by virtue of the absurd, by virtue of the act that to God nothing is impossible."
Now the absurd is not one of the categories which belong to the understanding
proper. It is not identical with the improbable, the unforeseen, the unexpected.
The very moment our knight resigned himself he made sure of the absolute impossibility,
in any human sense, of his love. This was the result reached by his reflections,
and he had sufficient energy to make them. In a transcendent sense, however,
by his very resignation, the attainment of his end is not impossible; but this
very act of again taking possession of his love is at the same time a relinquishment
of it. Nevertheless this kind of possession is by no means an absurdity to the
intellect; for the intellect all the while continues to be right, as it is aware
that in the world of finalities, in which reason rules, his love was and is,
an impossibility. The knight of faith realizes this fully as well. Hence the
only thing which can save him is recourse to the absurd, and this recourse he
has through his faith. That is, he clearly recognizes the impossibility, and
in the same moment he believes the absurd; for if he imagined he had faith,
without at the same time recognizing, with all the passion his soul is capable
of, that his love is impossible, he would be merely deceiving himself, and his
testimony would be of no value, since he had not arrived even at the stage of
absolute resignation. . . .
This last movement,
the paradoxical movement of faith, I cannot make, whether or no it be my duty,
although I desire nothing more ardently than to be able to make it. It must
be left to a person's discretion whether he cares to make this confession; and
at any rate, it is a matter between him and the Eternal Being, who is the object
of his faith, whether an amicable adjustment can be affected. But what every
person can do is to make the movement of absolute resignation, and I for my
part would not hesitate to declare him a coward who imagines he cannot perform
it. It is a different matter with faith. But what no person has a right to,
is to delude others into the belief that faith is something of no great significance,
or that it is an easy matter, whereas it is the greatest and most difficult
of all things.
But the story of
Abraham is generally interpreted in a different way. God's mercy is praised
which restored Isaac to him-it was but a trial! A trial. This word may mean
much or little, and yet the whole of it passes off as quickly as the story is
told: one mounts a winged horse, in the same instant one arrives on Mount Moriah,
and presto one sees the ram. It is not remembered that Abraham only rode
on an ass which travels but slowly, that it was a three days' journey for him,
and that he required some additional time to collect the firewood, to bind Isaac,
and to whet his knife.
And yet one extols
Abraham. He who is to preach the sermon may sleep comfortably until a quarter
of an hour before he is to preach it, and the listener may comfortably sleep
during the sermon, for everything is made easy enough, without much exertion
either to preacher or listener. But now suppose a man was present who suffered
with sleeplessness and who went home and sat in a corner and reflected as follows:
"The whole lasted but a minute, you need only wait a little while, and then
the ram will be shown and the trial will be over." Now if the preacher should
find him in this frame of mind, I believe he would confront him in all his dignity
and say to him: "Wretch that thou art, to let thy soul lapse into such folly;
miracles do not happen, all life is a trial." And as he proceeded he would grow
more and more passionate, and would become ever more satisfied with himself;
and whereas he had not noticed any congestion in his head whilst preaching about
Abraham, he now feels the veins on his forehead swell. Yet who knows but he
would stand aghast if the sinner should answer him in a quiet and dignified
manner that it was precisely this about which he preached the Sunday before.
Let us then either waive the whole story of Abraharn, or else learn to stand
in awe of the enormous paradox which constitutes his significance for us, so
that we may learn to understand that our age, like every age, may rejoice if
it has faith. If the story of Abraham is not a mere nothing, an illusion, or
if it is just used for show and as a pastime, the mistake cannot by any means
be in the sinner's wishing to do likewise; but it is necessary to find out how
great was the deed which Abraham performed, in order that the man may judge
for himself whether he has the courage and the mission to do likewise. The comical
contradiction in the procedure of the preacher was his reduction of the story
of Abraham to insignificance whereas he rebuked the other man for doing the
very same thing.
But should we then cease to speak about Abraham? I certainly think not. But
if I were to speak about him I would first of all describe the terrors of his
trial. To that end leechlike I would suck all the suffering and distress out
of the anguish of a father, in order to be able to describe what Abraham suffered
whilst yet preserving his faith. I would remind the hearer that the journey
lasted three days and a goodly part of the fourth-in fact, these three and half
days ought to become infinitely longer than the few thousand years which separate
me from Abraham. I would remind him, as I think right, that every person
is still permitted to turn about before trying his strength on this formidable
task; in fact, that he may return every instant in repentence. Provided this
is done, I fear for nothing. Nor do I fear to awaken great desire among people
to attempt to emulate Abraham. But to get out a cheap edition of Abraham and
yet forbid every one to do as he did, that I call ridiculous.
Ce
qu'on fait n'est jamais compris mais seulement loué ou blâmé.
Nietzsche, Gay Science |
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