问题三
亚伯拉罕对撒拉、以利亚撒和以撒隐瞒自己的目的,这在伦理上合乎情理吗?
伦理本身是有普遍性的东西;而作为有普遍性的东西,它是有无蔽性的。而个人,作为直接的、有感觉、有精神和灵魂的存在物,则是隐藏的。因此,他的伦理任务就是从这隐藏状态中打开自我,在普遍性中显露自己,变得无隐蔽性。这样,每当他想要保持隐蔽性状态,他就犯了罪,处于诱惑的考验中,他只有通过显露自我才能从中脱离出来。
如此,我们发现自己再次回到同一地点。如果没有一种基于个体高于普遍性的隐蔽性,那么亚伯拉罕的行为就不可辩护,因为他无视那些直接的伦理因素。但是,如果有这样的一种隐藏性,那么,我们就面临一个悖论,一个无法调解的悖论,这正是因为,这悖论是以个人作为个体高于普遍性这一点为基础的,而那普遍性正是用以调解的媒介。黑格尔派哲学认为,不存在合乎情理的隐藏性,也不存在合乎情理的不能通约性或者叫无从比较性,因而这和它对无蔽性的要求是一致的,但是它想把亚伯拉罕视为信仰之父和谈论信仰则不是很公平合理。因为信仰不是最开始的直接性,而是后来的直接性。最开始的直接性是美学性的,在这里黑格尔哲学很可能是正确的。但是,信仰不是美学性的,或者如果说它是,那么就可以说,信仰因为一直存在而从未存在。
这里最好从纯美学的角度来研究一下整个问题,并为此开始美学探究,我想请读者暂时全情投入这研究,而同时我自己也相应地改变我的描述方式。我想更仔细一点研究的范畴是有趣的事物,这一范畴在今天我们这个时代(正因为我们生活在人类事务的转折点上)已经变得非常重要,因为它实际上就是危机范畴。因此,人们不应该在自己全力热爱过这一范畴之后,像有些人那样,因为自己经历过它,超越了它,就蔑视它。但是我们也对此过于贪婪,因为,可以确定的是,要变成有趣的人或过有趣的生活,这和你擅长做什么没有关系,它是一种重大的特权,这种特权,像精神世界的所有特权一样,只有通过深重的痛苦来获得。例如,苏格拉底是在这世上生活过的最有意思的人,他所过的生活是所有生活中最有意思的生活,但是这种存在是神分配给他的,而且既然他不得不为之奋斗,他对麻烦和痛苦而言绝不是陌生人。亵渎这样的存在的人不会成为认真生活的人,然而,现如今,这样的例子并不少见。更进一步来说,有趣这一范畴是一个边界范畴,它是美学和伦理学之间的边界。因为这个原因,我们在探究中必须不断地扫视伦理学领地,为了使我们的探究有重要性,我们必须带着真正的审美情感来领会问题。我们现在这个时代,伦理学很少考虑这些事宜。原因应该是伦理学体系里没有容纳它们的合适空间。那么,人们在专题论文里做这样的研究应该是没问题的,而且,如果人们不想写得冗长啰唆,也可以写得言简意赅却达到同样的目的,只要人们能用好谓语,因为一两个谓语便可揭示出整个世界。伦理学体系里能没有像谓语这样的小词语的一点儿空间吗?
亚里士多德在他的不朽名作《诗学》里写道:“的确,故事的两个部分,即命运突变[突转,(悲剧情节的关键)]和发现,与这些事有关。”当然,在这里,我只关心第二个特点,即发现。有发现这个问题的地方就暗示着先前有一种隐藏存在。所以,正如发现是戏剧性生活中解决矛盾性、放松性的因素,隐藏就是生活之剧中制造紧张的因素。亚里士多德在同一章里关于悲剧中命运突转和认知两者之间是否有冲突撞击的不同价值的讨论,以及他对单一发现和双重发现的论述,我在此不加以探讨,尽管他的讨论中体现出真诚和安静的专注,这对早已厌倦那些学者们百科全书似的肤浅的人而言是特别有吸引力的。这里,一个更为概括的评论就够了。在希腊悲剧中,隐藏(而后发现)是一种史诗般的幸存,这种幸存是以戏剧化行为隐蔽起来这样的命运为基础,它也从这种命运中获得了它的模糊神秘的起源。这就是为什么希腊悲剧所产生的效果类似于那种眼睛缺乏力量的大理石雕像给人的印象。希腊悲剧是盲目的。因此,要想正确地欣赏它,需要进行一定的抽象处理。一个儿子杀了父亲,但他后来才知道他杀的人是自己的父亲。一个姐姐正要牺牲弟弟,但在一个决定性时刻才发现他的身份。我们这个反思性的时代不大可能对这种性质的悲剧感兴趣。现代戏剧已经放弃了宿命这个理念,并且从戏剧性方面解放了自己。它仔细观察,也彻底检查自己,还从戏剧意识角度考虑命运。隐藏和显露因而成了英雄的自由行为,他为自己的行为负责。
发现和隐藏在现代戏剧里同样作为必要因素存在。要举这样的例子就会扯远了。我很谦恭地认为,在我们这个时代,每个人在美学上都如此肆意骄奢,如此有能力,如此激奋,以至于他们就如同亚里士多德所说的松鸡那样,那松鸡只要听到公鸡的声音或公鸡在头顶飞过的响声就很兴奋,他们对一种概念也可以很轻易地作出想象。我设想,我们这个时代每个人只要听到“隐藏”这一单词,就能从袖子里抖落出一打浪漫故事和喜剧故事来。因此,我在这里只简要地直接给出一个相当宽泛概括的评论。如果做隐藏的人,也就是说,把引起戏剧性因素引入喜剧的人,藏了某种无意义的东西,我们就会得到喜剧。但是,如果那藏匿者明白隐藏的概念,他就可能接近于变成悲剧英雄。这儿我就举一个喜剧例子吧。一个男人化了妆,带上假发,他渴望在美丽异性那儿获得青睐。他确信,化妆和假发无疑会使自己令人难以抗拒,所以会有很多成功。他捕获了一位姑娘,正处在幸福的顶点。现在,让我们看看故事的实质意义。如果他能承认自己的欺术,一旦他显露出自己普通,实际上甚至秃顶的样子,难道他不会失去他迷人的魅力吗?难道他不会再次失去所爱之人吗?隐藏是他的自由行为,而美学使他为此行为负责。但是美学这个学科绝不是秃头的伪君子的朋友,而会使他受人嘲笑。既然我们这里不把喜剧包括在探究的兴趣课题之内,这个例子就足以表明我的意思。
我的探究步骤是辩证地研究隐藏在美学和伦理学上扮演的角色,目的是揭示美学性的隐藏和悖论之间的绝对不同。
先举几个例子吧。一个姑娘和某人悄悄恋爱了,不过双方都还没向对方坦白这份爱。姑娘的父母强迫她嫁给另一个人(她甚至可能考虑到应尽的孝道而服从)。她服从了父母的意愿。她隐藏起自己的爱,“为了不使对方难过,没有人会知道她的痛苦”。或者另一个故事版本:一个小伙子身处两难之境:只要说出那个字,他就可以得到他魂牵梦萦的对象。但是,这个小小的字却会危害到,是的,甚至(谁知道呢)毁了整个家庭。于是,他高尚地选择继续隐藏自己的情感,“绝不能让那女孩知道,这样她也许能在另一个人那儿找到幸福”。这两个人都对各自所爱之人隐瞒了感情,他们互相隐瞒,这是多么可怜啊!否则的话,一个非凡的更优秀的结合就可能产生。他们的隐藏行为是自由行为,甚至从美学意义上讲他们也为此行为负责。不过,美学是一个可敬的多愁善感的学科,它知道的修理东西的方式比物业经理助理知道的还多。那么,它做什么呢?它做一切可能之事来帮助相爱之人。机缘巧合,那相恋双方的规划婚姻里的伴侣得知了对方的高尚决定。接着进行了种种解释。他们得到了彼此,而且作为额外收获,还进入了真英雄的行列。而尽管他们甚至都没有时间去好好考虑他们英雄般的决定,美学还是把他们当作似乎已经为这个决定勇敢地奋斗了多年来对待。因为美学不怎么在乎时间问题,不管是严肃认真还是玩笑,时间在美学里都一样快速地飞逝。
但是,伦理学既不知道这样的巧合,也不懂得多愁善感。它也没有时间飞逝的概念。这样的话,事情就有了不同的一方面。你不能和伦理学争辩,因为它运用的是纯粹的范畴。它也不诉诸于经验。因为经验在所有可笑的事情里也许是最可笑的,它远不能使人英明,如果一个人不懂得任何比经验更高等的东西的话,那么,经验很快就会使他发疯。伦理学也没有什么巧合偶然,所以不需要对事情作种种解释。它不玩弄尊严,它把责任的重担压在英雄孱弱的双肩,它谴责英雄想要在他的行为中扮演上帝是一种傲慢放肆,但也谴责他想要通过他承受的痛苦来这样做。它命令人相信现实,嘱咐人要有勇气反抗现实的所有磨难,而不是反抗他自己承担责任时所受的苍白的痛苦;它警告要提防把信仰置于理性的精明计算之中,这计算比古代的神谕还不牢靠。它警告不要不合时宜的慷慨大度。让现实决定需要显示勇气的场合吧。不过,伦理学同时也会提供所有可能的帮助。如果在那二人之间有某种更深刻的东西在涌动,如果他们有看到这任务,并开始着手行动的认真态度,那么无疑他们会产生某种东西。但是伦理学不会帮助他们。因为他们对它隐瞒了一个秘密,一个他们自己要承担责任的秘密,伦理学觉得受到了冒犯。
所以说,美学要求隐秘行为并回报这种行为;而伦理学要求显露,要求公开隐秘,并惩罚隐秘行为。
但是,有时候,即便是美学也要求公开要求显露。当那被美学幻想所俘虏的英雄认为自己可以通过沉默救另一个人时,美学要求沉默并褒奖它。但当英雄的行为会干涉到另一人的生活时,美学则又要求公开隐秘。现在我谈论的是悲剧英雄。这里我们思考一下欧里庇得斯的《奥利斯的依菲琴尼亚》。阿伽门农正准备献祭依菲琴尼亚那一情节。此刻美学要求阿伽门农保持沉默,因为从别人那儿寻求安慰不符合英雄的身份,而且出于对女人的担心,他也应该尽可能长久地对她们隐瞒。但是,从另一方面来说,英雄,正因为要当英雄,才必须受到克吕泰墨斯特拉(阿伽门农的妻子)和依菲琴尼亚的泪水的考验。美学怎么办?它有个权宜之计。它让站在旁边的一个老仆人把一切透露给了克吕泰墨斯特拉。那么一切就顺理成章了。
但是,伦理学里没有巧合,没有随时待命的老仆人。美学的理念一旦运用到现实里就会自相矛盾。因此,伦理学要求公开披露 【9】 。那悲剧英雄没有成为美学幻想的俘虏,他自己完成了告诉依菲琴尼亚她的命运这个任务,这个行为正好显示了伦理勇气。在这方面,悲剧英雄是伦理学的宠儿,她对他甚为满意。但如果他保持沉默,也许是因为他这样做可以使别人好过些,又或许是这样可以使他自己好过些。但悲剧英雄知道他不受后一个动机的影响。他保持沉默是因为他要作为个体承担责任,他忽视任何外界的议论。但是,作为悲剧英雄,他不能这样做。因为正是由于他一贯表现普遍性,伦理学才爱他。他的英雄行为需要勇气,而他那勇气的一部分本身就是不躲避争论。但是一个人的眼泪是一种为了自己个人利益的可怕争辩,而无疑有那种不为任何事物所动却可能被眼泪所撼动的人。那个剧本里有让依菲琴尼亚哭泣的情节。实际上,像耶弗他的女儿一样,她应该被允许哭泣两个月,而且不是孤独地哭泣,而是在她父亲的脚边。她应该使出浑身解数哭泣,不是用橄榄枝,而是用自己缠住父亲的腿(cf. v. 1224)。美学要求公开透露秘密,但是是通过巧合的方式;伦理学也要求公开秘密,它却是在悲剧英雄身上得到满足。
尽管伦理对公开秘密的要求很严格,但不可否认的是,保密和沉默,作为内在情感的决定因素,的确使一个人伟大。当埃莫离开塞琪时,他对她说:“如果你保持沉默,你将生一个圣婴,但是如果你透露了这个秘密,你就会只生个凡人。”悲剧英雄这种伦理学的宠儿,是有纯粹人性的人,我可以理解这种人,他一切的所作所为都是公开的。但是如果我进一步思考,就会碰到那个悖论,神圣者和魔鬼;因为沉默就是这两者。沉默是魔鬼的陷阱;一个人沉默越多,魔鬼就变得越可怕;但是沉默又是神灵与个人之间的默契交融。
然而,在我们回到亚伯拉罕的故事之前,我想介绍几个具有诗意的角色。通过对他们施加辨证的力量,我将把他们置于绝境,同时借助绝望对他们的蹂躏,我阻止他们静止不动,这样,处于痛苦中的他们也许有可能揭示出点什么,给人启迪。 【10】
亚里士多德在他的《政治学》里,讲了一个在特尔斐(希腊古都)发生的由一桩婚事引发的一场政治骚乱。一位新郎,因为占卜师预言他会在即将结婚之际遭遇不幸,于是他在就要去迎接新娘时,突然改变了计划,不打算进行婚礼了。 这种情节就是我所需要的。 【11】 在特尔斐,这肯定是引人潸然泪下的。如果一个诗人描述此事,他肯定可以指望引人同情。在生活中经常被流放的爱情在此还要被剥夺上天之助的机会,难道这不可怕吗?难道婚姻是天作之合这条古谚语在此要蒙羞了吗?在通常情况下,是有限运动的考验和苦难,它们像恶鬼幽灵一样试图拆散恋人们,而爱情本身则有上天这个神圣同盟帮助,会战胜一切敌人。此处发生的则是上天本身要拆散它自己促成的联姻。谁能猜到会这样?新娘是最难预料到这样的事的。片刻之前,她还盛装端坐在闺房,可爱的女仆已经精心地打扮好她,准备向世人证明她们的手艺。打扮新娘的过程给她们带来的不只是开心,甚至还有羡慕;她们开心的是她们已不可能变得更加羡慕,因为新娘已经美丽得无以复加了。独坐在闺房时的她已经从一个美女变成了另一个美女,所有可以用的适合她的美的妆扮之术都用上了。但是,还缺了一样这些女仆们没有想到的东西,它是一个面纱,比女仆们用来遮盖她的面纱还要更精美,更轻柔而且更有遮蔽性。这是一种女仆所不知道的也不知如何帮她穿的婚纱,是的,连新娘自己也不知道如何获得它和穿上它。它是一种看不见的,友好的力量,这种力量以在新娘不知情的情况下妆扮她,包裹住她为乐趣。因为新娘所看见的是新郎在经过走向神庙的路,看到门在他身后关上,她变得更加镇静和喜悦,因为她只知道他现在更加属于自己了。庙门打开,他走了出来,但她端庄文雅地垂下眼睛,因此她没有看见他神色不安。但是他却看见上天嫉妒新娘的美丽和自己的幸运。庙门打开了,女仆们看到新郎走了出来,但她们没有看到他神色不安,她们正忙于把新娘接过来。接着,她文雅谦恭地走了出来,而同时又像被伴娘簇拥的王后,伴娘像通常那样对新娘鞠躬行礼。这样,她站在她那可爱的队列之首等待——却只有一瞬间,因为那庙就在附近——新郎走了过来,却又走过了她的门口。
但我就此打住。因为我不是个诗人,我只辩证地分析事物。首先必须要记住,是在关键时刻,英雄才得知将要发生的事,所以他是清白而无可责备的,他并没有轻浮而不负责任地要和爱人联姻。其次,在他面前的,或确切地说,与他作对的,是神谕,所以他不像那些受狂妄自负所控制的微弱的恋人们。此外,更不用说,这神谕使他同新娘一样难过,甚至可以说他更难过,因为毕竟他是她的不幸的起因。的确,占卜师只是为他预言了灾难,但问题是这灾难是否是一种会同时影响到他们的婚姻幸福的灾难。那么他该怎么办?(1)他是否应保持沉默并举行婚礼?同时想着“也许这灾难不会立即发生,无论如何,我对爱人是真诚的,我也不怕使自己难受;但我必须保持沉默,否则连这短暂的时刻也会丧失”。这听起来可行,但实际上绝非如此,因为他若这样做就是侮辱了他的爱人。他的保持沉默从某种意义上说就使她有罪,因为她若知道真相,她绝不会同意这样的联姻。所以,在艰苦时刻,他要承受的不仅是灾难不幸,还有保持沉默的责任以及她对他沉默不语隐瞒秘密所感到的义愤。(2)他是否应保持沉默而且不结婚?那样的话,他就必须进行欺骗,以使自己废除与她的关系。美学可能赞同这样做。那么那灾难就可以像真实故事里那样发生,不过,在最后时刻,会有解释,尽管这解释已经太迟了,因为从美学上必须让他死,除非美学能找到废除那宿命预言的方式。然而,这行为尽管高尚,但它是对那姑娘及其爱情的侮辱和犯罪。(3)他该说出实情吗?当然,我们不应忘记,英雄若认为放弃爱情的重要性和一笔不成功的生意的重要性没有区别,这样未免有些过于诗人气质了。如果他说了实情,那么,整件事就会变成像阿克塞尔和沃尔伯格那样的不幸爱情故事。他们会变成一对上天自己拆散的恋人。不过,在眼下这个例子中,这个拆散要从不同的角度来看待,因为它也是个人的自由行为的结果。对这个例子的辩证分析的最难之处在于该不幸只会影响新郎。那么,这俩人,不像阿克塞尔和沃尔伯格那样,可以找到一种表达他们痛苦的共同语言,因为那俩人对彼此同等亲近,上天从双方的角度均匀平等地拆散这段姻缘。 【12】 如果这个例子里的情况亦是如此,那么就可以找到一个出路。因为既然上天没有用可见的力量来拆散他们,而是留给他们自己作决定,那么我们很容易可以想象到他们会藐视天庭和它所预言的灾难,最终结合在一起。
然而,伦理学会要求他说出实情。那样的话,他的英雄主义的本质就在于他放弃了美学上的高尚慷慨这一事实。而这在此几乎不能被认为含有任何与隐瞒有关的虚荣的掺合物,既然他一定很清楚是他使那个女孩难过。但是,这种英雄主义实际上基于这样一个事实:他本可以有机会拥有真爱却取消了这种假设(他真挚地爱她,为了她而不是为自己而保持沉默。——英译者注);因为否则的话,我们就会有足够的英雄,尤其是在我们这个无比精通于伪造的时代,这个时代擅长跳过中间环节伪造最高标准的赝品。
但是,既然我超越不了悲剧英雄,为什么要有上述的概述呢?因为这概述有可能揭示前面所述的悖论。这都取决于我们的英雄与占卜师所说的话之间的关系,这话无论如何将决定他的生活。那占卜师的话是公开性的宣告还是私人性的呢?故事的场景是在希腊;占卜师的话是所有人都可以理解的——我不仅仅是说每个人可以从词法上理解那话的内容,而是说每个人可以领会占卜师所传达的是上天的决定。所以占卜师的话不仅英雄可以理解,而且每个人都可以理解,这样他的话表达的就绝不是和神灵之间的私人性质的关系。他可以做他想做的,但是被预言的事终将会发生,不管是通过做任何事情还是通过克制自己不做任何事情他都不能更接近神灵,也不能变成神灵怜悯或愤怒的对象。所预言的结果对任何人和英雄而言都是易于理解的,也没有只有英雄才可以读懂的秘密代码。所以他要是想要说出实情的话,他完全可以说得很清楚,因为他可以使自己得到理解;而如果他想要保持沉默,那也是因为他想要通过做单一的个体,成为高于普遍性的人,想要用各种关于她如何会很快忘记悲伤的奇怪幻想来欺骗自己,等等。然而,如果上天的意志不是由占卜师来向他宣告的,如果上天的意志以一种私密的方式让他知道,如果这意志将自己置于一种和他相当私密的关系中,那么我们就遇上了那悖论——假设有这样的一种东西(既然我这儿的反思呈现出一种进退两难的形式)——那么,不管他可能有多么想要说出实情,他也不能说。他非但没有在沉默中享受快乐,反而承受了痛苦。然而对他而言,这痛苦正是使他确信自己做了正确的事情的东西。所以,他沉默的原因并不是他想把自己作为单一的个体置于与普遍性的绝对关系中,而是把自己作为单一的个体置于与绝对的绝对关系中。在我看来,他这样做也会找到平静安宁,但是,伦理的要求会不断地搅扰他高尚的沉默。人们只是很渴望美学可以从它多年前停止的地方起步,从对高尚的幻想开始。一旦它这样做了,它就会和宗教联手协作,因为宗教是唯一能够将美学从它与伦理的冲突中拯救出来的力量。伊丽莎白女王就是为了国家,通过签署了埃塞克斯死亡令的方式牺牲了她对他的爱。这是一个英雄主义行为,即便里面涉及到因为他没有送给她戒指这样的事引起的一点个人抱怨。其实,我们知道,他的确送了她戒指,但是这戒指被某个恶意的宫女隐瞒了。据说(如果我没弄错的话),伊丽莎白得知此事后,咬着一根手指,静坐了十天,一言不发,于是郁郁而终。这对于知道如何撬开人们嘴巴窥探真相的诗人而言是个好素材;否则的话,它至多对芭蕾舞大师有用,的确,现如今的诗人常常把自己与芭蕾舞大师混淆起来。
接着,我想简述一下涉及到着魔之人的事物。为此我将利用一下《艾格尼丝和雄性人鱼》的传说。雄性人鱼是一个从隐蔽的深渊中跃出的诱惑者,在疯狂的欲望控制下,他抓住和毁了那朵静立于海岸边无辜的美丽鲜花,它当时正低头作沉思状倾听着大海的咆哮。目前诗人们就是这样阐释这个传说的。让我们做个改变吧。那雄性人鱼是个诱惑者。他呼唤艾格尼丝,并用他的甜言蜜语从她那儿骗得了她心中的秘密。她从雄性人鱼身上找到了她所寻求的东西,找到了她凝视大海深处所要找的东西。艾格尼丝愿意追随他而去。那雄性人鱼已将她抱入怀中,艾格尼丝则充满信任地用胳膊缠绕住着他的脖子;她全身心地将自己献给了这个更强的人。他已经到了海边,弯腰准备带着他的猎物潜入海中。就在那时,艾格尼丝再次注视着他,那目光不是充满畏惧,不是充满怀疑,不是带着对自己姣好外表的骄傲,也没有沉醉于欲望之中,而是带着绝对的信任,绝对的谦恭,就像她自视为的一朵低下的鲜花;她带着绝对的信任把自己全部的命运托付于他。看!大海不再咆哮,它的狂野的吼声已静下来,大自然的激情——它是这人鱼的力量——遗弃了他,大海变得一片死寂。而艾格尼丝依然那样注视着他。于是人鱼崩溃了,他抵抗不了纯真无邪的力量,他的原有本性背叛了他,他不能够引诱艾格尼丝。于是他又带她回了家,他对她解释说他只是想给她看看大海在平静时有多美丽,而艾格尼丝也相信他说的话。接着他独自返回,大海又狂暴怒吼着,但更加汹涌澎湃的是人鱼的绝望之心。他能够引诱艾格尼丝,他能够引诱成百上千个艾格尼丝,他可以迷住任何女孩,但是艾格尼丝已战胜了他,人鱼已失去了她。只有作为捕获的战利品她才能属于他;而他不能忠实于任何姑娘,因为他只是个人鱼。在此,我冒昧地在这人鱼身上做了一点改变。 【13】 实际上,我也对艾格尼丝做了些许改变。在那传说中,艾格尼丝也绝不是没有罪过。而且,一般来说,想象一个姑娘在一件引诱之事中绝对地无可责备,是一种胡说,一种对女性的轻视和侮辱。用一种有点现代化的说法来说,在那传说中,艾格尼丝是一个渴求“有趣之事”的女性,每个这样的女人总是确信海面上有雄性人鱼;而人鱼们密切关注这类人,他们会像鲨鱼追踪猎物一样对此类人尾随不放。因此,认为(或者,这是否是人鱼散布的一种谣言?)所谓的文化修养可以保护女孩不受引诱是十分愚蠢的。不,不是这样的,生活是更公正合理的;只有一种保护手段,那就是纯真无那。
现在,我们将赋予人鱼人类的意识,同时假设他作为人鱼存在意味着一种人的前生(预先存在),因为这前生他的生活变得纠缠混乱。没有什么可以阻止他成为英雄;因为他现在所做的事都是调解性的。他被艾格尼丝拯救了,引诱者已被彻底击垮了,他已屈服于纯真的力量,他再也无力诱惑人了。但是立即有两种力量试图控制他:忏悔(独自忏悔)和对艾格尼丝忏悔。如果独自忏悔控制住了他,那么他可以保持隐蔽,如果对艾格尼丝忏悔控制住了他,那么他就被暴露了。
然而,如果只是忏悔掌控住了他,而他又保持隐秘的话,那么他必定会使艾格尼丝不快乐;因为艾格尼丝无比纯真地爱着他,即便在她看来他似乎在那一瞬间变了似的,不管他隐藏得多么好,说他只是想让她看看大海的平静之美,即便在那个时刻,她依然相信他。但是,就情感而言,人鱼自己甚至变得更不开心。因为他怀着多重情感爱着艾格尼丝,而且还要承受新的负疚感。无疑,忏悔的魔性一面会对他解释说,这正是对他的惩罚(因为他前生的过错),并说这惩罚越折磨他,就越好。
如果他屈服于这种魔性因素,他可能会再次尝试救助艾格尼丝,他会用从某种意义上诉诸邪恶的方式来救一个人。他知道艾格尼丝爱他。如果他能从艾格尼丝那儿挣脱她对自己的爱,那么,从某种意义上来说,她就得救了。但是如何做到这一点呢?人鱼很明智,他不会认为开诚布公地坦白可以引起她对自己的厌恶。那么他也许会尝试去激起她所有的负面情绪,去蔑视她,嘲笑她,讥笑她的爱,可能的话,他还会煽动她的自尊心。他还会不遗余力地折磨自己,因为这是魔性深深的自我矛盾之处,从某种意义上,在一个魔鬼身上比一个肤浅微不足道之人身上有多得多的善。艾格尼丝越自私,他欺骗她就越容易(只有没有经验之人才会认为欺骗纯真之人是容易的;生活是深刻的,实际上精明之人觉得精明人之间彼此互相欺骗是最容易的),但是人鱼承受的痛苦也就更可怕。他的欺骗设计得越狡猾,艾格尼丝就越不会羞怯地对他隐瞒自己的痛苦;她会用尽办法,不是为了赶走他,而是为了折磨他,这些办法也不是没有效果。
借助魔性之力,人鱼渴望成为一个作为个体却高于普遍全体的个人。魔鬼拥有和神圣者相同的特点,即个体可以与之建立一种绝对的关系。这就是那类似之处,就是我们所讨论的悖论的对应物。因此,它和悖论有一定的相似性,这相似性容易令人误解。因而,那人鱼显然有事实证明他的沉默是合理的,即正因为沉默,他承受了一切痛苦。当然,毫无疑问,他是可以说出实情的。如果他说出来的话,他就可以成为一个悲剧英雄,在我看来,是一个宏伟堂皇的悲剧英雄。也许只有很少的人可以理解其中的堂皇之处。 【14】 那样,他就可以有勇气把自己从能够通过诡计使艾格尼丝快乐的自我欺骗中解脱出来;从人性的角度说,他就会有勇气击败艾格尼丝。这里,我要从心理学的角度来作探讨。我们使艾格尼丝越自私,人鱼的自我欺骗就越有效,的确,实际上,人鱼凭借他的魔鬼的精明,从人的角度讲,不仅救了艾格尼丝,还使她显露出最非凡的一面,这也不是不可想象的。因为魔鬼知道如何逼迫即便是最软弱的人,使其显出力量,而他也可能用自己的方式表现出对一个人最善良的意图。
那人鱼处于辩证的一极。如果他从愧悔的魔性一面中解脱出来,那么会有两条可能的道路。他可以控制自己,继续隐藏,但不能依赖他的精明来这样做。那样的话,他不能作为单一的个体与魔鬼建立绝对关系,但可以在悖论的对立面——神灵会拯救艾格尼丝——得到心安。(这就是中世纪会作的推理,根据那时的观念,人鱼显然已致力于献身修道院。)或者,另一条路是,他可以通过艾格尼丝得救。但是这绝不能理解为意味着艾格尼丝的爱将来可能把他从一个诱骗者改变过来(这是美学进行拯救的方式,它总是避开主要问题,即人鱼生活的连续性);从那方面讲,他已得救。只要他显露自己公开实情,他就会得救。因此他娶了艾格尼丝。但是他必须依然求助于那个悖论。因为,当个体出于内疚感脱离普遍性,他只有凭借变成与绝对者建立绝对关系的个体来回归普遍性。在此,我要插入一个评论,这评论比我们之前任何地方所论述的都要更进一步。 【15】 罪不是第一直接性,它是后来的直接性。在罪的范畴,个人已经高于普遍性(根据魔鬼的悖论这一方面而言),因为普遍性想要强迫一个缺乏必要条件的人去表现普遍性其实是它本身的自我矛盾。要是哲学,像其他的自负狂妄的学科那样,以为有人可能真的想在实践中遵循它的准则戒律,就会出现一个古怪的滑稽剧。忽视罪的伦理学是个完全无用的学科,但是它一旦要肯定罪为当然的基本条件,它又因此而超越了自身的范畴。哲学告诉我们说,直接性的东西应该被中止。这确实是对的,但它不正确的地方是,罪,理所当然的就是直接性的东西,就像信仰理所当然就是直接性的东西一样。
只要我在这个范围内讨论,一切就都很顺畅,但实际上此处所说的一切也绝解释不了亚伯拉罕。他没有通过罪变成单一的个体;相反,他是上帝所拣选的正义的人。所以,任何对亚伯拉罕所做的类比只有在那个体能够实现普遍性之后才能出现,而接着悖论又重复出现了。
因此,我可以理解人鱼的行为,却不能理解亚伯拉罕。因为人鱼求助于悖论是为了实现普遍性。如果他继续隐藏,努力承受悔悟的种种痛苦,他就会变成魔鬼,而且会正因如此而归于虚无。如果他继续隐藏,但却并不怀有通过自己受悔恨之枷锁的奴役的折磨,来解救艾格尼丝这样狡猾的想法,那么,他会得到安宁平和,但却失去了世界。如果他公开自己,让自己通过艾格尼丝得救,那么他就是我所能想象得到的最伟大的人。只有美学才会不负责任地认为它可以通过让一个迷失的人得到一个纯真姑娘的爱并由此得救,来歌颂爱情的力量。只有美学才会看错并认为那姑娘是英雄人物,而人鱼不是英雄。所以人鱼不能属于艾格尼丝,除非他在做了无限运动,即悔悟运动之后,又靠荒诞之力做了更进一步的运动。他自身的力量足以做悔悟运动,但为此他用尽了所有的力量,因而他靠自己的力量回归和把握现实是不可能的。如果一个人缺乏足够的激情去做这二者中任何一种运动的话,如果他虚度人生,有些许悔悟,同时又想着剩下的一切都会很简单,那么他就已经永远地放弃了活在理想中的努力,那么他就可以很容易地达到,并帮助别人达到最高境界,即用这样的想法欺骗自己和他人:精神世界就像一种卡片游戏,人人都在其中作弊行骗。因此,我们可以通过反思以下这一点多么奇怪来自娱自乐:即正是在我们这个人人都成就最高事物,达到最高境界的时代,对灵魂不朽的怀疑竟然如此普遍,既然连仅仅,但真正地做了无限运动的人都很难说是个怀疑者。对于激情所作的结论是唯一可靠的,也就是说,是唯一令人信服的。幸运的是,这样的生活比聪明人想要的生活要更仁慈,更忠贞。这种生活不排斥任何人,即便是最卑微的人;它也不欺骗任何人,因为在精神世界里,唯一被欺骗的人是那些欺骗自己的人。如果我允许自己下判断的话,一般人认为,也是我自己认为,进修道院不是最高级最伟大的事。但是我也绝不会因此就认为,如今没有人进修道院这一事实意味着我们都比那些在修道院找到安宁的深刻而又诚挚的人要更伟大。现如今有多少人有激情去思考这一点并诚实地评判自己呢?仅仅想到花时间在良心上,让良心昼夜不停警惕地找出每一个秘密想法,以至于当一个人没有时时刻刻在靠人身上最高尚最神圣之力来做运动时,他可以痛苦恐惧地发现每个人生活中的阴暗的情感, 【16】 并靠恐惧本身,如果没有其他方式的话,来引诱出这些阴暗的情感,而与之相反的是,当一个人和其他人生活在一起,他很容易忘记,也很容易避免这一切,又以很多方式得以支撑下去,并有机会重新开始——仅仅这个想法,如果带着适当的尊重去领会,我认为这想法本身就可以磨炼我们这个自以为已获得最高成就的时代里的很多人。然而,在我们这个自认为已达到顶峰的时代,尽管实际上没有哪个时代像我们这个时代有这么多的滑稽可笑的人,人们并不担忧这些事情。的确,很难理解为什么我们这个时代还没有孕育出,没有自发地孕育出,自己的英雄,很难理解魔鬼肆无忌惮地上演着那可怕的戏剧,这戏剧使整代人发笑而他们却不知道他们在笑自己。的确,当人们在二十岁时就已达到最高点,取得最高成就,这样的存在除了可笑之外,还有什么价值呢?而自从人们不再进修道院以后,这个时代又想出什么更崇高的运动呢?坐在首座,却又胆怯地使人们认为他们已取得最高成就,甚至阴险地劝他们不要尝试任何次等的事情,难道这不是一种可鄙的世俗,可怜的谨慎与懦弱吗?一个已经在修道院做了修行运动的人只有一种运动没有做,那就是荒诞的运动。如今我们这个时代有多少人理解荒诞是什么呢?有多少人是以放弃一切或得到一切的方式生活着呢?又有多少人诚实到足以知道自己是什么,能做什么和不能做什么呢?如果有这样的人,他们最常存在于文化修养不怎么高的人群中和妇女中,难道不是这样吗?正如着魔的人总是自我显露却不理解自己一样,我们这个时代以一种透视的方式暴露出自己的缺陷,因为它总是在要求滑稽之事。如果这真是我们这个时代所需要的,也许剧院可能需要一种新的戏剧,在这种剧中,某人为爱而死被当作喜剧来处理。或者,如果那真的要发生,如果这个时代真的目睹了这样的事,如此,它可能借助发笑获得信仰精神力量的勇气,获得停止蹩脚地扼杀自己好的冲动,停止嫉妒地扼杀别人好的冲动的勇气,难道这对我们这个时代不是更好吗?这个时代真的需要一个热心者的可笑表演来作笑料吗?或者它真正需要的难道不是这样一个热诚人物来提醒它记起已忘记的东西吗?
如果因为悔悟的情感没有被唤醒,我们需要一个主题类似但更感人的故事,我们可以为此使用《托比特传》中的一个故事。年轻的托比亚斯想要娶拉贵尔和艾德娜的女儿撒拉。但是这个姑娘被一种悲剧的宿命所笼罩。她已被许给七个丈夫,他们全都死于新婚之房。从我个人的剧本视角而言,这是该故事的一个瑕疵。因为一个姑娘七次徒劳地想嫁出去,尽管她每次差点就成功了,就像一个七次期末考试都失败但差点就及格的学生一样,想到这一点就会觉得这故事有某种难以抗拒的滑稽之处。当然,《托比特传》的重点在别处,而这使七那个大数字很重要,而且在某种意义上甚至有助于达到悲剧效果。它使年轻的托比亚斯显得更加高尚,部分原因是他是他父母的独生子(6.14),另一部分原因是阻碍物是如此的惊人。所以必须省略这个特点。而撒拉,则是一个从未恋爱过的女孩,她依然怀有一个年轻姑娘对幸福的念想,拥有巨大的以生活作抵押的冒险精神,拥有追求幸福的权力,即全心全意地爱一个男人。然而她却是最不幸福的人,因为她知道那爱着她的邪恶的魔鬼总会在新婚之夜杀死新郎。我已读到过很多悲伤的故事,但我怀疑还能否找到我们在这个姑娘生命中所发现的如此深重的悲伤。不过,当不幸来自于外部事物时,人终究是可以找到一定的安慰的。如果生活没能带给一个人使他幸福的事物,想到他本可以得到它依然是一种慰藉。但是时间也驱散不了、治愈不了的深不可测的悲伤,是意识到即便在一生中做了一切也无济于事。一个希腊作家在说到“……因为可以肯定,还没有人完全逃过爱情,也没有人可以逃过爱情,只要有美存在,只要有发现美的眼睛”[Pantos gar oudeis Erota epfugen i feuksetai mechri an kallos i kal ofthalmoi Bleposin[参看朗格的《田园诗集》(cf. Longi Pastoralia)]这些话时,以他的单纯幼稚隐藏掩盖了无比多的东西。有很多女孩在爱情中变得不幸福,但她们是从幸福变得不幸福的;撒拉则是在变得不幸福之前就已经是处于不幸福状态了。一个人找不到可以献身的人就够痛苦了,而找到这样的人又不能献身则是难以言状的痛苦。一个女孩将自己交付给某人后,人们说她就不再是自由的了,但撒拉从未自由过却也从未将自己交给任何人。一个女孩将自己交给爱人却被爱人欺骗了是够悲惨的了,但撒拉在交出自己之前就已受骗。当托比亚斯终于要娶撒拉时,后面会隐含着多少悲伤之事啊!会有多么令人激动的婚礼仪式,多么多的准备啊!没有哪个姑娘受过撒拉那样的欺骗。因为她被骗去了那最圣洁的东西,那即便是最贫穷的姑娘也拥有的绝对财富,她被骗去了那种无忧的、无穷的、恣意的、无拘无束的、自我奉献的爱情。所以,首先得有一个净化涤罪的过程,即把鱼的心脏和肝脏放在炽热的余烬上烘烤的过程。想想这母亲如何与女儿告别啊,这女儿自己被骗走了一切,接下来也要骗走自己母亲的最美丽的财产。我们就读读那故事吧。艾德娜准备好了新房,把撒拉叫进来,然后悲伤地哭了,女儿也流泪了,她对女儿说:“我的孩子,不要灰心。主宰天地的主会用欢乐换去你的悲苦。女儿,不要灰心,要振作起来。”现在,婚礼时刻到了。如果我们能够忍受接下来故事里的悲伤,就让我们继续读下去。“但是当门被关上,他们单独在一起时,托比亚斯从床上站起来,他说:‘妹妹,起来,让我们祈祷主怜悯我们。’”(8.4)
如果一个诗人读了这个故事要写它,我敢打赌他百分之九十九会把重点放在年轻的托比亚斯身上。这种在如此明显的危险中还甘愿冒生命危险所体现出的英雄主义——那个故事在另一处又提醒我们那明显的危险,因为在婚礼的第二天早上,拉贵尔对艾德娜说:“派个女仆去看看他是否还活着,如果他死了,我们好埋了他,这样别人也不会知道。”(参看8.13)——这种英雄主义一定会是那个诗人要强调的主题。但是,我要冒昧地提出另一个主题。的确,托比拉斯表现得很勇敢,很坚决,也很有骑士风范,但是任何没有勇气做那件事的男人都是懦夫,他既不知道爱是什么,也不知道怎样做男子汉,更不知道什么是值得为之活着的。这样的人甚至还没有领会给予比接受更好这个小秘密,更是一点也不懂那个大秘密,即接受要远比给予困难,也就是说,如果一个人有勇气在没有某必需品的情况下也可以将就继续生活,那么在需要帮助的时刻也不会是懦夫。不,撒拉才是英雄!我渴望走近她,就像我从未走近过任何别的姑娘一样,或者说,就像我很想从思想上走近我所读到过的任何人一样。因为,想想当一个人没有任何过错却从一开始就残疾了,从一出生就是人类失败的样品时,他得要有对上帝怎样的爱才会想要被治愈啊!允许爱人如此的冒险行为却还要自己承担责任,这样的人在伦理上得要有怎样的成熟啊!得要有怎样的谦恭才能面对又一个为自己这样冒险的爱人啊!得要有对上帝怎样的信仰才能在随后的时刻不怨恨被自己所亏欠了一切的丈夫啊!
让撒拉做个男人,那样魔性的一面就容易出来。骄傲高尚的本性可以忍受一切,就是忍受不了一样东西,它忍受不了同情。因为同情暗示着一种侮辱,他只能忍受由一种更高的力量所施加的同情,他自己绝不能成为同情的对象。如果他有罪,他可以忍受惩罚而不感到绝望,但是他不能忍受的是,从娘胎里一生出来就被选作同情的对象,被当作同情喜欢闻的芳香。同情有个奇怪的辩证法:这一刻它要求内疚,下一刻它又想要赶走内疚。所以说,一个人的不幸越是精神方面的,那么命中注定被同情就越可怕。但是撒拉没有内疚,她是被扔给所有不幸的猎物,除此之外,还要承受同情的折磨,因为即便是我,这个对她的钦佩多于托比亚斯对她的爱的人,即便是我在提到她的名字时也总是要说“可怜的姑娘!”让一个男人取代撒拉的位置吧,让他知道,如果他要爱一个女孩,地狱的幽灵就会在新婚之夜到来并杀掉她,那么他很可能会选择魔性的一面,他会自我封闭起来,用一种魔鬼的方式在心里说:“谢谢,我可不喜欢仪式和大惊小怪的忙乱,我也不是绝对需要爱的欢愉,我不妨做个喜欢看姑娘在新婚之夜死去的蓝胡子鬼怪。”人们一般很少听到人性中的魔性一面,尽管这个领域,尤其是在我们这个时代,是一个很需要探索的领域,尽管一个观察者,一旦他和魔鬼建立一定的和谐关系,就可以,至少在某些方面,用几乎任何人作为例子。对于这方面的探索,莎士比亚是个而且会永远是个英雄。那个可怕的魔鬼,莎士比亚所塑造的最具魔性的人物,而且是塑造得无与伦比的成功的人物,格罗斯特(后来又叫理查德三世),是什么东西使他成为魔鬼的?显而易见,是他不能忍受从小就堆积在他身上的同情这个事实使他成了魔鬼。他在《理查德三世》第一幕中的独白比所有道德体系都有价值,因为没有哪个道德体系暗示了存在的种种恐怖及这些恐怖的性质。
我,是上天随意制造的劣质品,
没有可以在漂亮的女子面前昂首阔步的外表,
我,被骗走了好看的身体和面容,甚至没有正常的比例,
我是畸形的,未发育好的,早产的,
我一瘸一拐如此难看,
以至于在我停下不走时,旁边的狗都对我吠叫……
像格罗斯特这样性格的人是不能靠使他们与社会观念相和谐来拯救的。伦理学实际上只会嘲笑他们,这正如,如果伦理学对撒拉说:“为什么你不表现出普遍性,像大家一样去结婚?”这是它在取笑她一样。这种本性的人从最初就处于悖论中,而且他们绝非不如他人完美;只是他们要么会在这魔性的悖论中受尽诅咒,要么会在神性的悖论中得到救赎。而从很久远的时候人们就喜欢认为,女巫、侏儒、妖怪等等都是畸形的,而且不可否认,当我们看到一个丑陋畸形的人时,会倾向于把他的外表和道德败坏联系起来。但这是多么巨大的不公正啊!因为情况实际上应该正相反。是生活本身毁坏了他们,这就像继母使继子女堕落一样。从一开始就被置于普遍性之外,不管是先天的还是历史条件使然,这就是人的魔性的起源,而个体本身在这方面是无可责备的。所以,那个坎伯兰郡的犹太人,尽管他做善事,也是个身负魔性的人。因而,人性中的魔性一面也可以以对人的蔑视这种形式表现出来,请注意,这种蔑视,并不使一个人表现得很蔑视人;相反,他的长处在于他知道自己比所有评判自己的人要好。——在所有这类事情上,诗人们应该是第一个作出反应,发出警报的人。只有上帝知道现在年轻一代的拙劣诗人在读些什么!毫无疑问他们的研究是局限于死记硬背那些韵文。只有老天知道他们存在的价值是什么!此刻我真不知道他们除了有教化意味地给我们提供关于灵魂不朽的证据以外,还有什么用处,以至于我们可以像巴格森说我们城里的诗人科德维一样安全地对他们作同样的评论:“如果他都可以永垂不朽的话,那么我们就都可以不朽。”——以上所述的关于撒拉的一切,几乎是带着创造诗歌的风格而写的,因此实际上对人们只是有想象方面的吸引力,但是如果一个人出于对心理学的兴趣来探索以下这句古语的意思,就会明白上述关于撒拉的描述的全部意义:“没有一点疯狂,就没有伟大的天才。 【17】 ”因为这儿的癫痴就是天才在生活中所要承受的痛苦,是神灵嫉妒的表现,如果我可以这么说的话,而天才的天赋则是神灵宠爱的表现。因而,天才从一开始就是找不到普遍性的方向的,从一开始就被置于悖论中,不论是他在对自己局限性的绝望中——在他看来,这局限性使他从全能变成无能——试图寻求一种魔性带来的自信,因此不会在上帝或人们面前承认这种局限性,还是通过对神灵的爱从宗教方面给自己以自信,他都处于这悖论中。在这里,有些心理学话题,在我看来,似乎可以供人开心地研究一辈子,然而我们却很少听到关于它们的讨论。比如说,疯狂和天才有什么关系?我们能从这二者中的一个构建出另一个吗?在何种意义和到何种程度上,天才能够控制自己的疯狂呢?因为不用说,在一定程度上他的确是自己疯狂状态的主人,否则的话他就真的是个疯子。但是,要作这样的评论需要有高度的独创性和爱心,因为要对优秀人物作评论是很困难的。如果一个人在对这种困难给予适当注意的情况下,去浏览某个极富盛名的天才作家的作品,可以想象得到,尽管需要很多努力,他可能会偶尔发现些什么。
关于个体想要通过隐藏和沉默来保全普遍性这一点,我想再探讨一个例子。为此,我将利用《浮士德》的传说来作研究。浮士德是一个怀疑者, 【18】 一个走向死亡的精神方面的变节者。这就是诗人们如何看待这个传说的,而且,尽管每个时代都有自己的浮士德这一点被一再重复,诗人们依然一个接一个固执地沿着相同的老路走下去。让我们做一点小改变吧。浮士德是一个杰出的怀疑者;但是他有同情的本性。即便在歌德对浮士德的诠释中,我也找不到对怀疑与自己进行秘密对话的心理学角度的更深的见解。在我们这个时代,当每个人都确实经历过怀疑时,却还没有哪个诗人往此方向迈出一步。所以我想我愿意给他们提供皇家证券,让他们在上面写下他们在此方面的“所有”经历——因为他们所写的不可能超过左页边的空白那么点地方。
只有当人们这样把浮士德转向他自身时,那时怀疑才能显得有诗意,也只有那时他自己才真正地发现怀疑的所有痛苦。那么,他就知道了是精神在支撑着生活,但他也知道了人们生活中的安全感和快乐并不是由精神的力量所支持的,而是可以很容易地被解释为不思考的幸福。作为一个怀疑者,他是超越这一切的,如果有人想骗他,使他认为自己已经过了怀疑这一课程,已经超越了怀疑,他会很容易看穿这欺骗。一个已经在精神世界做修行运动的人,因而也是做了无限运动修行的人,他可以从言辞立即判断出说话者是一个经历丰富的人还是个擅长讲故事的闵希豪生。帖木尔能够用他的匈奴人所做的事,浮士德可以用他的怀疑做到——吓得人们惊慌失措,使他们脚下的世界摇晃颤抖,惊得人们四散逃跑,引得四面八方都传来惊恐的尖叫。如果他那样做了,他依然不是帖木尔,因为有思想的授权,他在某种意义上有权这样做。但是浮士德有同情的本性,他热爱生活,他的灵魂不懂得妒忌,他看到自己无法控制那无疑已引发的山崩似的愤怒,他并不渴望赫洛斯特拉托斯 【19】 式的荣誉——他保持沉默,他比那隐藏腹中有罪的爱情之果的姑娘更小心翼翼地把怀疑在灵魂中隐藏着,他竭尽全力与别的人步伐一致,但是他内心里所发生的事则自己在内心把它毁灭掉,这样,他就把自己变成了普遍性的牺牲品。
有时,当有些古怪反常之人掀起怀疑的旋风,我们会听到这样的抱怨:“要是他保持沉默多好。”浮士德也代表了这一想法。任何了解靠精神生活意味着什么的人也明白对怀疑的饥饿意味着什么,明白怀疑者对精神食粮的饥饿就像对每天要吃的面包的渴望一样强烈。尽管浮士德所承受的所有痛苦都可能很好地证明了他并不受骄傲的控制,但我仍然要采用一个我很容易想出的预防策略。正如里米尼的格里高利因为支持对婴儿的诅咒而被叫作婴儿折磨者一样,我也很想叫我自己为英雄折磨者,因为当涉及到折磨英雄时,我是很有发明创造性的。浮士德看见玛格丽特——不是在他已选择了人生的欢愉之后,因为我的浮士德绝不选择欢愉——他不是在靡菲斯特那个魔鬼的凹面镜中见到玛格丽特,而是在她最纯真可爱最冰清玉洁的时候,因为他的心中保持着对人类的爱,所以他可以很轻易地就爱上了她。但是他是个怀疑者,他的怀疑已经毁了他的现实。因为我的浮士德是如此理想化的一个人,他不是那种科学的怀疑者;这些科学的怀疑者每学期在讲台上进行一个小时的怀疑,但是在其他时间可以做任何别的事情,而当他们的确在怀疑时,也没有靠精神的帮助或靠精神的力量。他是一个怀疑者,而怀疑者对精神营养的渴望和对每天的面包的渴望是一样的。但是他仍然忠于自己的决定,保持沉默,他不对任何人说起自己的怀疑,甚至也没有对玛格丽特说起他对她的爱。
不用说,浮士德是一个太过于理想化的人,以致于不能满足于下述的这种闲聊,即,如果他发言的时候,仅仅引起了一场普通的讨论,或者整件事毫无结果,不了了之,等等诸如此类的闲聊。(这里,显而易见,任何诗人都会看出,我们的剧情里潜藏着滑稽成分,这滑稽成分就是把浮士德与我们这个时代的那些追求怀疑的低俗小丑相提并论所体现的讽刺性。那些低俗小丑往往追求怀疑,却用的是表面论据。比如,一个医生的学历证书这样一个事物,为了证明他们真的怀疑了,或者为了发誓他们已怀疑了一切,或者为了通过他们在路上碰见了一个怀疑者这个事实来证明它——这些精神世界的快递员和短跑能手匆忙地从这个人这儿得来一点关于怀疑的暗示,又从那个人那儿搜集到一些关于信仰的线索,然后就根据会众想要细沙还是爱好粗沙去尽力发挥利用那些信息。)浮士德太理想化了,而不能穿着拖鞋四处走动。任何缺乏无限激情的人,都不是追求理想主义的人,而任何真正怀有无限激情的人早已将灵魂脱离了这样的垃圾废话。他保持沉默以牺牲自己——否则他就开口谈论,同时很清楚自己的谈论会将一切都变成困惑。
他保持沉默,因此伦理学谴责他。它说:“你必须承认普遍性,而且你必须把你承认普遍性这一点说出来,你不准同情普遍性。”当我们有时严厉地评判一个怀疑者的言辞时,不应该忘了这一点。我自己并不倾向于宽和地评判这种行为,但像所有情况一样,这儿一切取决于那些运动是否正常进行。如果事情出了差错,那么怀疑者,尽管因说出怀疑而给世界带来各种不幸,依然比这些可怜的喜好甜食之士要好得多,这些人每样都尝试,但每样都浅尝辄止,他们还没有弄懂怀疑就已打消怀疑,因此他们通常是无法驾驭无法管理的怀疑之所以爆发的直接原因。——如果怀疑者一旦说话,他就使人对一切迷惑,把一切抛入混乱状态,因为如果这并没有发生,他也只是事后才发现,而后果在一个人行动时或在其责任问题上并没有什么用。
如果他在自担风险的情况下保持沉默,他可能真的会高尚地行事,但是,他同时又给他的其他痛苦增加了一些诱惑考验。普遍性会永远在折磨他,永远在对他说:“你本应该说出来的,你怎么能确定终究不是某种隐秘的骄傲促使你作出保持沉默的决定?”
但是,如果怀疑者可以作为特别的单一个体与绝对者处于绝对关系中,那么,他就获得了保持沉默的授权。但是那样的话,他就必须把怀疑转变成内疚。因此他就处于悖论中。但是那样,他就治愈了怀疑,尽管他可能又会有另一个怀疑。
就连《新约全书》也赞同这样的沉默。该书中有些篇章甚至赞美讽刺,只要讽刺是被用于隐藏好的一面。然而,这只是一种讽刺活动,它和其他一些活动一样,都是以主观性高于现实为基础的。如今没有人想知道这一点;关于讽刺,人们一般只想知道黑格尔所说的,尽管奇怪的是,黑格尔对此所知甚少,甚至还带有一点怨恨地反对它,但这一点,我们这个时代有理由不放弃,因为它最好要警惕讽刺。在登山宝训里有这样的话:“当你禁食的时候,要往头上涂油梳头,要洗脸,不要让人看出来你在禁食。”这段话清楚地表明了这样的真理,即,主观性与现实是不可通约不可比较的,甚至表明了主观性有欺骗的权利。如今那些四处游荡含糊不清地谈论教会思想的人,只要读一读《新约全书》,就可能会产生别的思想。
但是,现在让我们再回到亚伯拉罕身上讨论——他是如何做的?因为我还没有忘记,读者也许也乐意记起,这就是我前面所有讨论的意图所在。不是为了借此使亚伯拉罕更令人容易理解,而是为了使他的令人费解显得更全面。因为,正如我前面所说的,我无法理解亚伯拉罕,我只能崇拜他。我也提到过,我所描述的所有阶段没有一个含有对亚伯拉罕的类比,我之所以详细论述它们,只是为了从它们自己领域的角度表明,它们与亚伯拉罕情况的差异之处就如同未知陆地的界限。它们和亚伯拉罕的情况之间如果有类比的话,那一定是在关于罪的悖论中,但这又属于另一个领域,因而不能解释亚伯拉罕,而且,解释它本身比解释亚伯拉罕要容易得多。
因此,亚伯拉罕没有说出隐情,他既没有对撒拉和以利亚撒说,也没有对以撒说,他越过了这三个伦理权威,因为,对亚伯拉罕而言,对伦理的表达并不高于对家庭生活的表达。
然而,在一个人知道自己靠保持沉默可以救助另一个人的情况下,美学是允许,实际上是要求这个人保持沉默的,这就已足以证明亚伯拉罕不处于美学的范围内。他的沉默绝不是表示他有救以撒的意图,从总体而言,他为了自己和上帝而牺牲以撒的整项任务就是对美学的冒犯,因为美学可以轻易理解我牺牲自己,但理解不了我为了自己而牺牲另一个人。美学意义上的英雄是沉默的英雄。然而,伦理学则谴责他,因为他是靠偶然的个性来保持沉默的。是他作为人的预知先见使他决定自己应该保持沉默。这却是伦理学所不能原谅的。因为人的所有这样的知识都只是一种幻觉。而伦理学要求一种无限运动,即要求显露自我,要求公开。所以,美学意义上的英雄可以说出隐情但不会这样做。
真正的悲剧英雄为了普遍性牺牲自己和自己的一切,他的行为和所有情感都属于普遍性,他是显露的,公开的,在这种自我开示中他是伦理学的宠儿。而这并不符合亚伯拉罕的情况:他不为普遍性做任何事,而且他是隐蔽自我的。
现在,我们该说说这悖论了。要么个人作为个体能与绝对者处于绝对关系中(那样的话,伦理的东西就不是至高无上的),要么亚伯拉罕就输了——他既不是一个悲剧英雄,也不是个美学英雄。
这里,悖论可能看起来是一切中最容易最方便的事了。但是,我必须重申,任何对此深信不疑的人都不是信仰骑士,因为不幸和痛苦是唯一可以想象得到的合理理由,而且不能从一般意义上去想象它们,因为如果那样的话,悖论就不存在了 。
亚伯拉罕保持沉默,但是他不能说出来,这沉默中存在着不幸与痛苦。因为如果我开口说了,却不能使自己被理解,那么即便我日夜不停地说,也等于我没说。这就是亚伯拉罕的处境。他可以说他想说的任何事情,但是有一件事他不能说,而既然他不能说,也就是说,不能以一种别人能理解的方式来说,那么他就不说。讲话带给人的慰籍就是它可以把我转变成合乎普遍性的人。现在亚伯拉罕可以说任何语言所能表达的关于他如何爱以撒的话。但是这不是他脑子里所想的事,他所想的是更深刻的事,即他要献祭以撒,因为那是个考验。没有人可以理解后者,因此每个人只能误解前者。这种悲痛是悲剧英雄根本不知道的。因为首先,悲剧英雄有这样的慰籍:一切反对观点都得到了适当的考虑,他也给了每个人反驳他的机会,这些包括克吕泰墨斯特拉、依菲琴尼亚、阿基里斯、合唱团、每个活着的生命,每种发自内心的声音,每种聪明的、惊慌的、控诉的、同情的人的想法。他可以确定每种可以说出来反对他的话都已经被说出来了,都已被严厉无情地说出来了——相比之下,与整个世界抗争是一种舒服的事,与自己作斗争才是可怕的事。他不必担心自己忽视了什么,以致事后会像爱德华四世在得知克拉伦斯的死讯时那样惊呼:
谁向我替他求情?谁在我盛怒之时,
跪在我脚下,请我听从建议?
谁说到了兄弟之情?谁说到了爱?
悲剧英雄不知道孤独的可怕责任。其次,他还有可以与克吕泰墨斯特拉、依菲琴尼亚一同哭泣和哀悼的慰籍——眼泪和哭泣有平息缓和的作用,但是,无可言说的叹息才是折磨。阿伽门农可以快速地集中精神,确定自己要行动,而且他有时间去安慰和宽慰别人。亚伯拉罕却是不能这样做的。当他的心被打动了,当他的话可以对全世界表达宽慰的时候,他却不敢提供宽慰,因为难道撒拉、以利亚撒和以撒不会对他说:“你为什么想要这么做?你毕竟是可以克制自己,不那样做的呀。”如果他在悲痛之中,在他迈出最后一步之前,他想释放情感的重压,拥抱他所珍爱的一切,那么这可能会产生最可怕的后果,即撒拉、以利亚撒和以撒会生他的气,并认为他是个伪君子。他不能说什么,人类的语言无以表达他的思想和情绪。尽管他自己懂得世上所有的语言,尽管他所爱之人也理解这些语言,他依然不能说什么,他说的是一种神圣的语言——他“用不止一个舌头说”。
我非常理解这种痛苦。我钦佩亚伯拉罕。我不担心有人会受这个故事诱惑而不负责任地想要成为那种独一无二的个体。但我也坦率承认,我自己缺乏那样做的勇气,而且,尽管不管在多晚的后来,我要是有可能走那么远,我都乐意放弃更进一步的可能。亚伯拉罕时刻都可以阻止自己,他可以为这作为诱惑的整件事感到后悔。那样,他就可以说了,那样,每个人都会理解他了,但那样他就不再是亚伯拉罕了。
亚伯拉罕不能说。本可以解释一切的话,即它是一场考验——不过,请注意,一场以伦理为诱惑的考验——却是他不能说的话(即无法以一种能使自己被理解的方式来说)。任何身处此境的人都是出自普遍性领域的移民。然而,下一步的事是他更加不能言说的。因为,正如前面已说的很清楚的那样,亚伯拉罕做的是两种运动。他做无限弃绝的运动,并放弃了以撒,因为这是一件私事,所以没有人可以理解。但接着他做的,而且每时每刻都在做的是,信仰运动。这是他的欣慰之处。因为他说:“不过它不会发生,或者如果它发生的话,主会凭借荒诞赐予我一个新的以撒的。”悲剧英雄至少最终知道故事的结尾。依菲琴尼亚听从父亲的决定,她自己做了无限弃绝运动,然后他们达成了一种相互理解。她能理解阿伽门农,因为他所做的事表现普遍性。而如果阿伽门农对她说“尽管神要求把你作为祭品献祭,但凭借荒诞我认为,他也可能并没有索要你”,那么他会立即变得令她无法理解。如果他能靠人的正常推算这样说,那么依菲琴尼亚肯定会理解他。但那就会意味着阿伽门农并没有做无限弃绝运动,那么他就不是一个英雄,而那预言家的话也就不过是一个旅行家的奇闻,整件事情也就变成了一场轻松的歌舞剧。
所以亚伯拉罕没有说什么。他所说的唯一一句话被保留了下来,即他对以撒的唯一回答,这也足以证明他先前没有说什么。以撒问亚伯拉罕供燔祭的羔羊在哪里。“亚伯拉罕说:我的儿子,上帝会为自己提供燔祭的羔羊的。”
这里我要更仔细地思考亚伯拉罕这最后的话。如果没有这句话,整件事就会缺点什么。而如果这句话有所不同,一切就可能陷入混乱。
我经常思考这样一个问题,不管一个悲剧英雄的最终是痛苦还是行动,他是否应该有一句最终的结语呢?在我看来,这取决于他属于哪个生活领域,取决于他的生活有何等程度的思想意义,取决于他的痛苦或行为在多大程度上与精神相关。
不用说,在最后高潮时刻,悲剧英雄,像别人一样,是能够说一些话的,甚至是一些恰当的话。但问题是,他说这些话这个行为是否适宜。如果他生活的意义在于一种外在的行为,那么,他没有什么可说的,因为他所说的一切都只是闲谈,它只能削弱他所产生的影响力,而相反,悲剧的仪式则要求他不管是在行动方面,还是在痛苦方面,都要在沉默中完成他的任务。为了不扯远离题,我干脆用我们最直接最贴切的例子。如果阿伽门农他自己,而不是卡尔克斯那个随军预言家,不得不对依菲琴尼亚拔刀相向,他若在最后时刻想说出一些话,只会降低自己的人格,贬损自己的形象。每个人都知道他的行为的意义,虔诚、同情、情感,以及流泪等整个过程也完成了,而且,他的生活与精神无关,即,他既非精神导师,也不是精神见证者。然而,如果悲剧英雄生活的意义在于精神方面,那么最终话语的缺乏则会削弱他的影响力。他最后应该说的不是某种适宜的话,不是一点雄辩的华丽言辞,而是某种能够传达这样的信息的话:在关键时刻,他圆满完成了自己。这种知性的悲剧英雄应该允许自己有可笑的人们经常追求的东西,即应当有最后的话并且保留下来。我们期待他有任何其他悲剧英雄所有的同样的高贵举止,但此外,我们还期待某句话。所以,如果一位知性的悲剧英雄在痛苦(死亡)中完成了他的英雄主义,那么靠他所说的最后话语将使他在死亡之前就已经永垂不朽,而普通悲剧英雄则只有在死后才永垂不朽。
我们可以用苏格拉底来作一个例子。他就是一位智慧的知性的悲剧英雄。他听说了自己的死刑。听到的那一刻他死了。如果你不能领会死亡需要所有的精神力量来完成,不能理解英雄总是在死亡之前就已死去,你在对人生的认识方面就不会走得很深远。因此,作为英雄,苏格拉底被要求保持镇定自若,但是作为有知识的英雄,他则被要求在最后时刻有足够的精神力量去圆满地实现自我。所以,他不能像普通悲剧英雄那样,在最后时刻专注于使自己直面死亡;他必须非常迅速地做此运动,以至于在同一时刻,他已经有意识地超越了这种斗争,转而去继续展示自我。要是苏格拉底在死亡的危机时刻沉默不语,他就会削弱自己人生的影响,而且使人疑心讽刺的弹力在他身上并不是一种原本自然的宇宙性的力量,而只是一种游戏,该游戏的弹性是他在关键时刻要根据相反标准来利用的,以使他悲惨寒酸地支撑下去。 【20】
如果有人认为可以通过类比为亚伯拉罕找到适宜的话来在最后时刻说,那么其实我在前面所简短讨论的并不适用于亚伯拉罕;但如果有人认为,鉴于亚伯拉罕作为信仰之父在精神方面有着绝对的意义,他有必要在最后时刻通过说点什么,而不是通过对以撒拔刀,来展示自我的信仰,那么,我上述的讨论还是适用的。至于他说什么,我是无法预先有什么概念的。但他说了之后,我肯定会理解它,不过只是在某种意义上从他的话理解他,我并不能借此比先前更接近他。如果我们没有从苏格拉底那儿得到最后之言,我可能可以设身处地为他编一句,而要是我自己做不到这一点,诗人也会做到的。但是没有哪个诗人可以跟上亚伯拉罕,解读亚伯拉罕。
在我继续仔细思考亚伯拉罕的最后之语之前,我必须请大家注意到亚伯拉罕说这最后之语的困难。如前所述,这悖论里的不幸与痛苦就在于这沉默——亚伯拉罕不能说什么。 【21】 鉴于这一点,要求他说话就是一种自我矛盾,除非我们想让他又脱离那个悖论,即在最后时刻,他中止悖论,因此他也不再是亚伯拉罕,而且会前功尽弃。要是亚伯拉罕在关键时刻对以撒说“是你将被献祭”,这就只会是个弱点。因为如果他可以说的话,他早就应该说了,这种情况的缺点在于他缺乏将整个过程的痛苦都想全想透的精神上的成熟度和专注力,而且他将其中的某些痛苦搁置一边,以致他实际上经历的痛苦超过了他想到的痛苦。而且,他这样的言辞会使他脱离悖论,如果他真想对以撒说的话,他必须得把自己的处境转变成精神诱惑那种处境。否则,他终究是什么也不能说,而如果他那样做的话,他就会连悲剧英雄也不是了。
然而,不管怎样,亚伯拉罕最后的话被保留了下来,只要我能理解那悖论,我就也可以理解亚伯拉罕的整个存在在那句话里的体现。首先,他什么也没有说,他就是以这种方式来说自己不得不说的话。他对以撒的回答具有讽刺的形式,因为说了某些话而又什么也没说,总是一种具有讽刺性的事。以撒问亚伯拉罕是因为他推测亚伯拉罕知道。所以如果亚伯拉罕回答说“我什么也不知道”,他说的就不是真话。他不能说什么,因为他所知道的他不能说。所以他回答说:“我的儿子,上帝自己会准备羔羊作烧祭品。”这里,我们看到了前面所描述的亚伯拉罕灵魂中所进行的双重运动。要是亚伯拉罕仅仅是放弃了以撒,不再做什么,他就会在这最后的话中不说真话。因为他知道是上帝要求献祭以撒,而且他知道就在此刻自己准备好了献祭他。所以我们可以看出,亚伯拉罕在做了这一运动之后,就已时刻不停地进行下一运动了,即依靠荒诞做信仰运动。因此他没有讲假话,因为凭借荒诞,上帝毕竟还是有可能做出相当不同的事来的。尽管他没有说假话,但他也没说什么,因为他说的是外国话。当我们考虑到是亚伯拉罕自己将献祭以撒,这一点就更加显而易见。要是任务有所不同,要是主命令亚伯拉罕将以撒带到摩利亚山,以便用自己的闪电击中以撒,用那种方式收他作祭品,那么,就亚伯拉罕所说的话的直接意义上来说,他那样神秘莫测地说话就可能是对的,因为,在那种情况下,他自己也不会知道会发生什么事情。但是,因为那任务是派给亚伯拉罕的,是他自己必须行动,所以他必须知道在关键时刻他将做什么,因而也必须知道以撒将要被献祭。如果他并不是清楚确定地知道这一切,他就没有做那无限弃绝运动,这样的话,他说的话就的确不是假的。但同时他也就远非真正的亚伯拉罕,他都不如悲剧英雄伟大,实际上,他就成了一个不能对任何事作决定的优柔寡断的人,因此也就会永远说话跟打谜语一样令人费解。但这样的踌躇犹豫者纯粹是对信仰骑士的拙劣模仿,犹如东施效颦一般。
显然,人们又似乎理解了亚伯拉罕,但只能以理解那个悖论的方式理解他。至于我个人,我在某种程度上可以理解亚伯拉罕,但同时我也清楚地意识到我缺乏说的勇气,同样也缺乏像他那样行动的勇气。但我绝不是据此说他所做的是微不足道的,因为正相反,他所做的是绝无仅有的奇迹。
那么,悲剧英雄的同时代人怎么看悲剧英雄?他们认为他是伟大的,他们钦佩他,景仰他。而那可敬的高尚者的集合体,即每代人指派的对上一代人作评判的陪审团,也都达成了相同的裁决。但是没有人可以理解亚伯拉罕。可是想想他的成就!他坚持忠实于他之所爱。但是热爱上帝的人不需要眼泪,也不需要景仰,他在爱中忘记了苦难,而且忘记得非常彻底,以至于事后倘若上帝自己没有记起它,他的痛苦就没有一点儿痕迹了。而上帝是秘密看着的,他知道亚伯拉罕所受的苦痛,数着他流过的泪滴,而且什么也不会忘记。
所以说,要么存在着这样一个悖论,即作为独特个体的个人与绝对者处于一种绝对关系中,要么亚伯拉罕丧失了(他的伟大)。
注释
【1】 过去人们说:“可惜的是,世上事并不像传教士所布道宣讲的那样。”但是有一天我们能够说:“世间事不像传教士所讲的那样是多么幸运啊,因为生活中至少有些意义,而说教布道里则毫无意义。”我们说这样的话的那一刻可能会到来,尤其是在哲学的帮助下。
【2】 即献祭以撒之事。——译者注
【3】 当然,任何其他的个人倾注了全部身心想要实现却不能实现的兴趣点都可以引起无限弃绝运动。但我选择了恋爱故事来作例子,是因为这样的兴趣无疑很容易理解,因而我就不必说些很少有人会切实感兴趣的介绍性的话了。
【4】 这要求激情。一切具有无限性的运动都是靠激情发生的。反思不能产生运动。是生活中持续不断的跳跃解释了什么是运动,而中间调停不过是一种虚拟的幻想,它是黑格尔认为可以解释一切的东西,同时又是黑格尔唯一从不曾解释的东西。甚至要明白人们所熟知的苏格拉底做的理解和不理解之间的划分也需要激情;自然,要做真正的苏格拉底似的运动,即无知的运动,则更需要激情。我们今天所缺乏的正是激情,而不是反思。因此,从某种意义上讲,我们这个时代的人太固执于生命而不愿死去,因为去死是最非凡的跳跃之一。有一段诗文总是很吸引我,作者在用五六句诗表达了自己对生活中所有简单而美好的事物的愿望后,以这样一句作了结尾:跳入永恒是一种幸福。
【5】 即,做了此类解释还指望别人钦佩的人也不算是最糟糕的自以为是者。——译者注
【6】 莱辛曾在某文章中从纯美学的视角说过类似的话。在该文章中,他实际上想表明悲伤也能通过智慧的话语来表达。为此,莱辛引用了不幸的英国国王爱德华二世在某个特别场合所说的话。作为对比,他还引用了狄德罗写的一个农妇的故事和该农妇所说的话。他接着写道:“那也是机智,而且还是农妇的机智,当然,那是情势所迫产生的。因此人们不应该从说话者是优秀的人,是受过良好教育的、智商高的和风趣的这样的事实中为那痛苦和悲伤的机智的表达找借口,因为激情使人人再次平等……对此我们可以找到的解释是,在同样的情况下,很可能人人都会说出同样的话来。那个农妇的思想很可能是王后在那情境下也会说的,正如那国王在那个场合所说的话,一个农民当时也能并且无疑也会说出来。”
【7】 这儿我要再次解释悲剧英雄和信仰骑士所遇到的冲突的区别。悲剧英雄可以凭借他把伦理义务转变成一个愿望这一事实来确信自己身上还完全存有(对儿子,女儿等等的)伦理义务。因而阿伽门农可以说:这就是我没有违反我作为父亲的义务的证据,也就是,我(对依菲琴尼亚)的义务是我唯一的愿望。那么,这里,我们看到愿望和义务彼此相一致。如果我的愿望正好与我的义务一致,或者我的义务和我的愿望相符合,我的命运该多好啊;大多数人的生活使命就是完全忠实于自己的义务,并且凭激情把义务转换成自己的愿望。悲剧英雄为了履行义务而放弃愿望。对信仰骑士而言,义务和愿望也是完全相同的,但是却被要求两者都放弃。所以当他顺从地放弃愿望时,他找不到安宁,因为他放弃的毕竟是他的义务。如果他既忠实于义务,又忠实于愿望,那他就不会变成信仰骑士,因为绝对的义务恰恰要求他放弃二者(他的愿望和义务相同)。悲剧英雄获得的是对义务,但不是绝对的义务,的更高等的表达。——原注
【8】 即上帝。——译者注
【9】 公开透露被隐藏的秘密。——译者注
【10】 这些运动和立场也是可以从美学的角度处理的话题。但是从美学角度对信仰和追求信仰的生活进行讨论可以达到何种程度,我暂且不下结论。因为我总是喜欢感谢那些对我有帮助的人,在此我谨表达一下我对莱辛的感激,因为我从他在《汉堡剧评》中写的一个基督教戏剧里得到了一些启示。但是他着重写的是那种生活的纯神性的一面(完美胜利),因此他感到绝望。如果他更关注那种生活的人性的一面,也许他会得出不同的结论(旅人神学)。的确,他所说的很简要,有些部分还有些含糊难以捉摸,但是我见到莱辛的作品总是很开心,所以我立即抓住这机会好好研读。莱辛不仅是德国最博学的智者之一,他治学严谨准确,这样我们在引用他的作品时,可以很放心,不用担心用了不可靠汇编里不准确或捏造的引用,一知半解的语句,或者担心宣传他写的什么新颖的东西而又发现那其实是古人早已描述得更好的东西,因此感到吃惊和受到愚弄;此外,他还有一种非凡的天赋,就是善于解释他所理解的东西。而且仅此而已,他不会解释自己不理解的东西。现在的人们经常更进一步,还要解释自己不懂的东西。
【11】 根据亚里士多德所说,该灾难的经过如下:为了复仇,新娘家人把一个神庙花瓶放置到新郎家里的家庭用品中,这样新郎就被谴责为神庙强盗。但这并不重要,因为这儿的问题不是新娘家人在报复时所采用的方法是聪明还是愚蠢,这娘家人的存在只是因其对英雄的辩证学有影响才有了理论上的意义。而且,尽管新郎想通过不结婚来避免危险,结果却反而正好陷入到危险中,这一事实就够宿命的;而他的生活从两重意义上与神圣者形成了联系,一重是通过占卜师所说的话,另一重是通过被谴责为神庙盗贼,这一事实也是很宿命的。
【12】 在此,我们可以从另一个方向来进行辩证分析运动。上天预言了一场因婚姻而起的个人灾难,所以他不妨放弃婚姻但不必因此放弃那姑娘,他可以和她处于一种浪漫关系中,这也会很令恋人们满意的。然而,这样做对那姑娘是一种侮辱,因为他没有用普遍性(即婚姻。——译者注)来表达他对她的爱,而诗人和伦理学家的任务都是捍卫婚姻。从整体而言,如果诗歌要注意分析它的人物角色的宗教方面和内在情感,它可以驾驭比它现在所忙于的主题更重大的主题。以下就是诗歌反复给我们讲述的故事:一男子为他曾爱过的或者从未真正爱过的女孩所困,因为他现在已经视另一个女孩为理想爱人。人在生活中犯错误,这街道是对的,但房屋错了,因为理想爱人就住在街对面二楼——这就是人们所认为的合适的诗歌话题。一个恋人犯了错误,他借着烛光看见了喜爱之人,以为她长着黑色头发,但是瞧,仔细看,她是金发——然而,她的姐姐才是理想爱人。这就是人们所认为的诗歌的主题。在我看来,任何这样的人在现实生活中是令人无法忍受的无礼蠢人,他一旦试图摆诗歌的架子就应该立即被嘘下舞台。只有激情与激情的碰撞才构成诗歌里的冲突,而同一激情里的关于细节琐事的喧闹则不能形成诗意的碰撞。举个例子,在中世纪,当一个女孩坠入情网,但接着被说服,认为世俗爱情是一种罪,因而喜欢天国爱情,这样我们就有了诗意的冲突;而这女孩也是富于诗意的,因为她生活在理想之中。
【13】 其实,还有探讨这个传说的另一种方式。那人鱼不想引诱艾格尼丝,尽管之前他已引诱了很多姑娘。他不再是个人鱼,或者,如果你愿意叫他为人鱼的话,他是个可怜的人鱼,已经悲伤地坐在海底有一段时间了。不过,他知道(正如传说里讲的)一个纯真姑娘的爱可以拯救自己。但是他对姑娘们感到良心不安,不敢接近她们。后来,他看见了艾格尼丝。当他隐身于芦苇中时,他已多次看到她在海滩上行走。她的美,她的安静与泰然自若征服了他;但是他的灵魂充满了悲伤,心中没有了汹涌的欲望。当人鱼的叹息和芦苇的飒飒声融为一体时,她侧耳倾听,然后她一动不动,陷入幻想梦境之中。她比任何女人都迷人,而且像一个美丽的拯救天使一样给了他信心。人鱼鼓起勇气,走近艾格尼丝,赢得了她的爱,他希望因此得到救赎。但是,艾格尼丝可不是个安静的姑娘,实际上她很喜欢大海的咆哮,当时海边的悲叹声之所以使她喜欢是因为这悲叹声使她心中的咆哮更加猛烈。她愿意和她所爱的人鱼远走他乡,狂野地奔向那无穷无限之处,所以她故意怂恿煽动人鱼。她蔑视他的谦恭,于是他的骄傲自尊醒了。大海咆哮着,浪涛澎湃,人鱼抱住艾格尼丝跳进大海深处。他从未如此狂野,也从未如此满怀欲望,因为他希望借助这个姑娘得到解救。不久,他厌倦了艾格尼丝,但是她的尸体从未被发现,因为她已变成了一条美人鱼,她用她的歌声引诱男人。
【14】 有时美学用它通常的卖弄方式来探讨类似的主题。那人鱼通过艾格尼丝得救,他们结婚了,一切皆大欢喜。那是个幸福的婚姻!确实,这样处理十分方便容易。但是,如果要伦理学来发表婚礼致辞的话,我想,就会是不同的情形了。美学给人鱼披上爱的外衣,这样一切都被忘记了。认为婚礼上的事就像拍卖,一切都按它在落锤时的样子来决定,那也是够轻率鲁莽的。美学所关心的是恋人们得到彼此,其余的都无关紧要。要是它能够看到事后会发生什么就好了!但是它没有时间关心那个,它立马又全力以赴在撮合另一对恋人了。在所有科学分支中,美学是最没有信仰的。任何真正爱美学的人在某种意义上都变得不快乐;而任何从未爱过美学的人是而且永远是个牲畜(或傻子)。
【15】 到目前为止,我一直小心地避免讨论罪及其现实问题。一切讨论都以亚伯拉罕为中心,而对他我们仍然可以在直接的范畴里进行讨论,至少在我自己可以对他进行理解的范围内讨论。但是一旦罪这个因素出现,伦理学就因悔悟这个问题而遭受挫败。悔悟是伦理的最高表现形式,但正因为此原因,它也是伦理最深刻的自我矛盾之处。
【16】 我们这个严肃的时代不相信这个,然而,值得注意的是,即便是在异教信仰中,更随和的和不那么沉溺于反思的,这两个作为希腊存在概念里“了解自己”的典型代表,都用自己的方式暗示,如果一个人探索自己的内心深处,他首先发现的是邪恶的性情。我几乎不用说我说的是毕达哥拉斯和苏格拉底。
【17】 所有伟大的天才都有一点疯狂癫痴。——译者注
【18】 如果我们不愿用一个怀疑者来作例子,一个类似的人物也可以。比如说,一个讽刺家,他锐利的眼光看透了生活的滑稽可笑,他通过像轮胎一样势不可挡的神秘理解力探知病人的需求。他知道他掌控笑的力量;如果他动用这种力量,他肯定会胜利,而且,他也确信自己会幸福。他不仅知道会有某种声音反对自己,还知道他自己比那声音更强大;他知道还可以使人们暂时显得严肃,但也知道,秘密地,他们渴望和他一同欢笑;他知道使一个女士说话时暂时将扇子举到眼睛前面依然是可能的,但他也知道扇子后面她在发笑,他知道那扇子不是完全不透明的,他知道人们可以在它上面做隐形的题字,他知道当一个女士用扇子打他,那是因为她已理解了他,他绝无错误地知道笑意如何悄悄溜进一个人的心里并秘密地住下来,知道它一旦留下来会如何埋伏等待。让我们想象一下稍做改变后的这样一个阿里斯多芬尼斯,这样的一个伏尔泰,因为他也是富有同情心的人,他热爱生活,热爱人们,并且知道,即便年轻、得到拯救的一代人可能从对笑的遣责中获得教益,然而在他自己这个时代,对笑的遣责对很多人来说会意味着毁灭。所以他保持沉默并尽可能地忘记如何去笑。但是他敢保持沉默吗?也许很多人不明白我所指的困难。他们会很可能认为他保持沉默是很高尚很令人钦佩的。那根本不是我所想的。我认为如果任何这样的人没有保持沉默的高尚大度,那他就是生活的变节者。所以我要求他有这样的慷慨大度。但是如果他有的话,他就敢保持沉默。伦理学是一种危险的科学,而且阿里斯多芬尼斯很可能纯粹是出于伦理的考虑才决定让笑声来评判他这个被误导的时代。美学上的高尚大度对于解决人是否应保持沉默这个问题是无济于事的。它的账户没有冒此类风险的信用栏目。如果他保持沉默,他必定会陷入悖论。——但是还有一种故事方案:比如,假设某人拥有一种对一个公众英雄的生活的解释,但是这种解释是一种令人悲叹的解释,然而整个一代人都对这个英雄充满信赖,根本不疑心会有任何这样的事。
【19】 赫洛斯特拉托斯:古希腊人,他为了出名,在公元前356年纵火烧毁了著名的亚尔德米斯神庙。——译者注
【20】 关于苏格拉底的哪一句话可以被视为最后关键性的话,人们有不同意见,因为苏格拉底已经被柏拉图以多种方式诗意地发挥美化了。我对此作如下建议:当他被判处死刑的那一刻,他死了,并用那句著名的回答完成了自我实现,他的回答是,他对自己被法庭以三票的微弱多数票判处死刑感到惊讶。在他对轻率的市井之语或蠢人之语的评论中也找不到他对自己被判死刑的评论中所体现出的莫大的讽刺性玩笑语气了。
【21】 如果此处有任何类比的问题,毕达哥拉斯死亡的情形可以提供一个类比的例子。在他的最后时刻,他必须将他一直保持的沉默贯彻到底,使之圆满结束,所以他说:“被杀死也比说出来要好。”参见《戴奥真尼斯》第8卷,第39段。
后 记
从前,在荷兰,调味品香料市场价格一度低迷,商人们为了抬高价格让人把几船货物倒入海中。那是一种可以原谅的,也许是必要的欺骗策略。在精神世界是否也需要类似这样的策略?我们真的如此深信我们已经达到了最高点,以至于除了虔诚地相信我们还没有走那么远,还没有达到那高度,以便我们至少有可以消磨时间的东西以外,就没有剩下可以做的事了吗?这是否是现代人所需要的一种自我欺骗?这代人是否应该在自我欺骗的精湛技巧方面受到教育和培训?又或者,难道说这个时代在自我欺骗之术上不是已然精于此道了?又或者说难道它最需要的不是那种无畏而又刚正廉洁地唤起人们注意任务的诚挚精神——这种诚挚精神小心地保护着任务,它不是把人们吓得想要仓促冲向那最高的任务要去完成它,而是使任务令所有人看起来年轻美丽而迷人,但同时又很难,对高尚之人是一种激励,既然本性高尚之人的热情只会受到困难的激励?不管一代人会从另一代人那里学到什么,他们绝无法从前辈身上学到那种真正的人性因素。在这一方面,每一代人都重新开始,和前一代人有着相同的任务,但也不会超越前一代人,如果后一代人没有躲避自己的任务,自欺欺人的话。这种真正的人性因素就是激情,在这种激情中,一代人完全理解另一代人,也理解自己。因而没有哪代人从另一代人那儿学会了如何去爱,每一代人都要从头开始,后代的任务绝不比前一代的少,而如果某个人不愿意像前辈们那样止步于爱,而想要更进一步,走得更远,那么那纯粹是愚蠢无聊之谈。
但是,一个人的最高激情是信仰。在这方面,没有哪代人和前一代人有什么不同的起点。每代人都完全重新开始,而后代也不会超越前代,如果后者忠于自己的使命而没有背叛它。这听起来让人觉得厌倦是这代人不能说的话,因为的确是这代人要完成这任务,而这与前一代人有相同的任务这一事实是无关的,除非某个特别的一代或这一代人里某些特别的个人极为自大,以至于占据了只属于统治万物的神灵的位置,而神灵又有足够的忍耐心不厌烦此事。如果这代人开始做这类的事情,那就是反常错误的,那么,对此而言一切存在都是颠倒的,这就不足为奇了,因为肯定谁也没有童话故事里的那个裁缝所看到的世界更颠倒了——那裁缝在他一生中曾来到天堂,从天堂的位置俯瞰这世界。如果这一代人只关注自己的任务使命,一代人所能追求的至高无上的使命,那么他们就不会感到厌倦,因为这任务对一个人一辈子总是足够了。当假日里的孩子在中午之前玩遍了所有游戏,然后不耐烦地问:“没有人能想出新的游戏吗?”这是否说明他们比同时代或前一代的能持续一整天玩自己熟悉的游戏的孩子们要更成熟更先进呢?又或者这恰恰证明这些孩子缺乏我想称之为玩游戏时本来应有的认真精神?
信仰是一个人身上至高无上的激情。每一代人中的很多人可能都走不到信仰那么高那么远的境界,但没有一个人走得更远,没有人超越信仰。在我们这个时代是否有很多人没有发现这一点,对此我暂不作出结论。我只能参考我自己的经历,我不隐瞒自己在信任方面还有很长的路要走这一事实,但也不因此想要通过把信仰描述得很平凡很没有意义,描述得像人们希望尽快结束的童年的一场小病那样,来自欺欺人或背叛信仰这伟大之事。但是即便是对那没有达到信仰境界的人而言,生活也有足够的任务,而当他热爱这些任务时,生活也绝不会被虚度,尽管这样的生活与那种理解和抓住了最伟大的事的生活是不可比拟的。但是任何到达信仰的人(不管是天赋非凡者还是头脑简单者都一样)都不会停在那儿原地不动。要是有人说他止步于信仰,他甚至会大为惊讶,就像若有人说一个恋人在爱情上停滞不前,那个恋人会感到义愤一样,因为那恋人会回答说:“我绝不是在我的爱情中静止不动,我的整个生命都在这爱情中。”然而他也是不会走得更远,也不会走向别处。因为当他发现这一点时,他对此会有另一个不同的解释。
“人必须更进一步,人必须更进一步。”这种继续向前的需要和冲动是自古以来就有的。以“晦涩”闻名的希腊哲学家赫拉克利特把他的思想保存于他的著作中,把他的著作存放于戴安娜神庙中(因为他的思想是他生命的盔甲,因此他将它们悬挂于女神之庙中),晦涩的赫拉克利特说:“人绝不可能两次踏入同一条河流。” 【1】 赫拉克利特有一个弟子,他没有止步于此,而是更进一步说:“人甚至一次也不能踏进同一条河流。” 【2】 可怜的赫拉克利特竟有这样的一个弟子!该弟子这一改进把赫拉克利特的原理变成了否定运动的埃利亚学派的论点,而那弟子想要做的只是做一个走得更远的赫拉克利特的徒弟,而不是回到赫拉克利特已经抛弃的观点上。
注释
【1】 他比较一条河流中的存在,说:“人不能两次走进同一条河流。”参见柏拉图的《克拉图鲁斯》第402节,《柏拉图全集》第3卷,第158页。
【2】 参见泰尼曼的《哲学史》第1卷,第220页。
Søren Kierkegaard
Fear and Trembling
TRANSLATED BY ALASTAIR HANNAY
PENGUIN BOOKS — GREAT IDEAS
Fear and Trembling
What Tarquin the Proud said in his garden with the poppy blooms was understood by the son but not by the messenger.
HAMANN
Preface
Not just in commerce but in the world of ideas too our age is putting on a veritable clearance sale. Everything can be had so dirt cheap that one begins to wonder whether in the end anyone will want to make a bid. Every speculative score-keeper who conscientiously marks up the momentous march of modern philosophy, every lecturer, crammer, student, everyone on the outskirts of philosophy or at its centre is unwilling to stop with doubting everything. They all go further. It would perhaps be malapropos to inquire where they think they are going, though surely we may in all politeness and respect take it for granted that they have indeed doubted everything, otherwise it would be odd to talk of going further. This preliminary step is one they have all of them taken, and presumably with so little effort as to feel no need to drop some word about how; for not even someone genuinely anxious for a little enlightenment on this will find such. Not a gesture that might point him in the right direction, no small dietary prescription for how to go about such a huge task. 'But Descartes did it, didn't he?' A venerable, humble, honest thinker whose writings surely no one can read without being most deeply stirred — Descartes must have done what he has said and said what he has done. A rare enough occurrence in our own time! Descartes, as he himself repeatedly insists, was no doubter in matters of faith. ('[B]ut we must keep in mind what has been said, that we must trust to this natural light only so long as nothing contrary to it is revealed by God himself ... Above all we should impress on our memory as an infallible rule that what God has revealed to us is incomparably more certain than anything else; and that we ought to submit to the Divine authority rather than to our own judgement even though the light of reason may seem to us to suggest, with the utmost clearness and evidence, something opposite' [from Principles 28 and 76 of Prin-ciples of Philosophy].) Descartes has not cried 'Fire!' and made it everyone's duty to doubt, for Descartes was a quiet and lonely thinker, not a bellowing streetwatch; he was modest enough to allow that his method was important only for himself and sprang partly from his own earlier bungling with knowledge. ('Thus my design here is not to teach the Method which everyone should follow in order to promote the good conduct of Reason, but only to show in what manner I have endeavoured to conduct my own ... But so soon as I had achieved the entire course of study [that is, of his youth — Johannes de silentio's interpolation] at the close of which one is usually received into the ranks of the learned, I entirely changed my opinion. For I found myself embarrassed with so many doubts and errors that it seemed to me that the effort to instruct myself had no effect other than the increasing discovery of my own ignorance' [Discourse on the Method of Rightly Conducting the Reason and Seeking the Truth in the Sciences].) — What those old Greeks, whom one must also credit with a little knowledge of philosophy, took to be the task of a whole lifetime, doubt not being a skill one acquires in days and weeks; what the old veteran warrior achieved after keeping the balance of doubt in the face of all inveiglements, fearlessly rejecting the certainties of sense and thought, incorruptibly defying selfish anxieties and the wheedling of sympathies — that is where nowadays everyone begins.
Today nobody will stop with faith; they all go further. It would perhaps be rash to inquire where to, but surely a mark of urbanity and good breeding on my part to assume that in fact everyone does indeed have faith, otherwise it would be odd to talk of going further. In those old days it was different. For then faith was a task for a whole lifetime, not a skill thought to be acquired in either days or weeks. When the old campaigner approached the end, had fought the good fight, and kept his faith, his heart was still young enough not to have forgotten the fear and trembling that disciplined his youth and which, although the grown man mastered it, no man altogether outgrows — unless he somehow manages at the earliest possible opportunity to go further. Where these venerable figures arrived our own age begins, in order to go further.
The present author is no philosopher, he has not understood the System, nor does he know if there really is one, or if it has been completed. As far as his own weak head is concerned the thought of what huge heads everyone must have in order to have such huge thoughts is already enough. Even if one were able to render the whole of the content of faith into conceptual form, it would not follow that one had grasped faith, grasped how one came to it, or how it came to one. The present author is no philosopher, he is poetice et eleganter [to put it in poetic and well-chosen terms], an occasional copyist who neither writes the System nor makes any promises about it, who pledges neither anything about the System nor himself to it. He writes because for him doing so is a luxury, the more agreeable and conspicuous the fewer who buy and read what he writes. In an age where passion has been done away with for the sake of science he easily foresees his fate — in an age when an author who wants readers must be careful to write in a way that he can be comfortably leafed through during the after-dinner nap, and be sure to present himself to the world like the polite gardener's boy in the Advertiser who, hat in hand and with good references from his previous place of employment, recommends himself to a much-esteemed public. He foresees his fate will be to be completely ignored; has a dreadful foreboding that the scourge of zealous criticism will more than once make itself felt; and shudders at what terrifies him even more, that some enterprising recorder, a paragraph swallower who to rescue learning is always willing to do to others' writings what, to 'preserve good taste', Trop nobly did to The Destruction of the Human Race, will slice him into sections as ruthlessly as the man who, in the service of the science of punctuation, divided up his speech by counting the words and putting a full-stop after every fifty and a semi-colon after every thirty-five. No, I prostrate myself before any systematic bag-searcher; this is not the System, it hasn't the slightest thing to do with the System. I wish all good on the System and on the Danish shareholders in that omnibus; for it will hardly become a tower. I wish them good luck and prosperity one and all.
Respectfully
Johannes de silentio
Attunement
There was once a man; he had learned as a child that beautiful tale of how God tried Abraham, how he withstood the test, kept his faith and for the second time received a son against every expectation. When he became older he read the same story with even greater admiration, for life had divided what had been united in the child's pious simplicity. The older he became the more often his thoughts turned to that tale, his enthusiasm became stronger and stronger, and yet less and less could he understand it. Finally it put everything else out of his mind; his soul had but one wish, actually to see Abraham, and one longing, to have been witness to those events. It was not the beautiful regions of the East, nor the earthly splendour of the Promised Land, he longed to see, not the God-fearing couple whose old age God had blessed, not the venerable figure of the patriarch stricken in years, not the youthful vigour God gave to Isaac — it would have been the same if it had taken place on a barren heath. What he yearned for was to accompany them on the three-day journey, when Abraham rode with grief before him and Isaac by his side. He wanted to be there at that' moment when Abraham raised his eyes and saw in the distance the mountain in Moriah, the moment he left the asses behind and went on up the mountain alone with Isaac. For what occupied him was not the finely wrought fabric of imagination, but the shudder of thought.
This man was no thinker, he felt no need to go further than faith. To be remembered as its father seemed to him to be surely the greatest glory of all, and to have it a lot to be envied even if no one else knew.
This man was no learned exegete, he knew no Hebrew; had he known Hebrew then perhaps it might have been easy for him to understand the story of Abraham.
Ⅰ
And it came to pass after these things, that God did tempt Abraham, and said unto him ... Take now thy son, 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.
It was early morning. Abraham rose in good time, had the asses saddled and left his tent, taking Isaac with him, but Sarah watched them from the window as they went down the valley until she could see them no more. They rode in silence for three days; on the morning of the fourth Abraham still said not a word, but raised his eyes and saw afar the mountain in Moriah. He left the servants behind and went on alone up the mountain with Isaac beside him. But Abraham said to himself: 'I won't conceal from Isaac where this way is leading him.'He stood still, laid his hand on Isaac's head to give him his blessing, and Isaac bent down to receive it. And Abraham's expression was fatherly, his gaze gentle, his speech encouraging. But Isaac could not understand him, his soul could not be uplifted; he clung to Abraham's knees, pleaded at his feet, begged for his young life, for his fair promise; he called to mind the joy in Abraham's house, reminded him of the sorrow and loneliness. Then Abraham lifted the boy up and walked with him, taking him by the hand, and his words were full of comfort and exhortation. But Isaac could not understand him. Abraham climbed the mountain in Moriah, but Isaac did not understand him. Then he turned away from Isaac for a moment, but when Isaac saw his face a second time it was changed, his gaze was wild, his mien one of horror. He caught Isaac by the chest, threw him to the ground and said: 'Foolish boy, do you believe I am your father? I am an idolater. Do you believe this is God's command? No, it is my own desire.' Then Isaac trembled and in his anguish cried: 'God in heaven have mercy on me, God of Abraham have mercy on me; if I have no father on earth, then be Thou my father!' But below his breath Abraham said to himself: 'Lord in heaven I thank Thee; it is after all better that he believe I am a monster than that he lose faith in Thee.'
*
When the child is to be weaned the mother blackens her breast, for it would be a shame were the breast to look pleasing when the child is not to have it. So the child believes that the breast has changed but the mother is the same, her look loving and tender as ever. Lucky the one that needed no more terrible means to wean the child!
Ⅱ
It was early morning. Abraham rose in good time, embraced Sarah, the bride of his old age, and Sarah kissed Isaac, who had taken her disgrace from her, was her pride and hope for all generations. So they rode on in silence and Abraham's eyes were fixed on the ground, until the fourth day when he looked up and saw afar the mountain in Moriah, but he turned his gaze once again to the ground. Silently he arranged the fire-wood, bound Isaac; silently he drew the knife. Then he saw the ram that God had appointed. He sacrificed that and returned home ... From that day on, Abraham became old, he Could not forget that God had demanded this of him. Isaac throve as before; but Abraham's eye was darkened, he saw joy no more.
*
When the child has grown and is to be weaned the mother virginally covers her breast, so the child no more has a mother. Lucky the child that lost its mother in no other way!
Ⅲ
It was early morning. Abraham rose in good time, kissed Sarah the young mother, and Sarah kissed Isaac, her delight, her joy for ever. And Abraham rode thoughtfully on. He thought of Hagar and of the son whom he had driven out into the desert. He climbed the mountain in Moriah, he drew the knife.
It was a tranquil evening when Abraham rode out alone, and he rode to the mountain in Moriah: he threw himself on his face, he begged God to forgive his sin at having been willing to sacrifice Isaac, at the father's having forgotten his duty to his son. He rode more frequently on his lonely way, but found no peace. He could not comprehend that it was a sin to have been willing to sacrifice to God the best he owned; that for which he would many a time have gladly laid down his own life; and if it was a sin, if he had not so loved Isaac, then he could not understand that it could be forgiven; for what sin was more terrible?
*
When the child is to be weaned the mother too is not without sorrow, that she and the child grow more and more apart; that the child which first lay beneath her heart, yet later rested at her breast, should no longer be so close. Thus together they suffer this brief sorrow. Lucky the one who kept the child so close and had no need to sorrow more!
Ⅳ
It was early morning. Everything had been made ready for the journey in Abraham's house. Abraham took leave of Sarah, and the faithful servant Eleazar followed him out on the way until he had to turn back. They rode together in accord, Abraham and Isaac, until they came to the mountain in Moriah. Yet Abraham made everything ready for the sacrifice, calmly and quietly, but as he turned away Isaac saw that Abraham's left hand was clenched in anguish, that a shudder went through his body — but Abraham drew the knife.
Then they turned home again and Sarah ran to meet them, but Isaac had lost his faith. Never a word in the whole world is spoken of this, and Isaac told no one what he had seen, and Abraham never suspected that anyone had seen it.
*
When the child is to be weaned the mother has more solid food at hand, so that the child will not perish. Lucky the one who has more solid food at hand!
In these and similar ways this man of whom we speak thought about those events. Every time he came home from a journey to the mountain in Moriah he collapsed in weariness, clasped his hands, and said: 'Yet no one was as great as Abraham; who is able to understand him?'
Speech in Praise of Abraham
If there were no eternal consciousness in a man, if at the bottom of everything there were only a wild ferment, a power that twisting in dark passions produced everything great or inconsequential; if an unfathomable, insatiable emptiness lay hid beneath everything, what would life be but despair? If it were thus, if there were no sacred bond uniting mankind, if one generation rose up after another like the leaves of the forest, if one generation succeeded the other as the songs of birds in the woods, if the human race passed through the world as a ship through the sea or the wind through the desert, a thoughtless and fruitless whim, if an eternal oblivion always lurked hungrily for its prey and there were no power strong enough to wrest it from its clutches — how empty and devoid of comfort would life be! But for that reason it is not so, and as God created man and woman, so too he shaped the hero and the poet or speech-maker. The latter has none of the skills of the former, he can only admire, love, take pleasure in the hero. Yet he, too, no less than the hero, is happy; for the hero is so to speak that better nature of his in which he is enamoured, though happy that it is not himself, that his love can indeed be admiration. He is the spirit of remembrance, can only bring to mind what has been done, do nothing but admire what has been done. He takes nothing of himself, but is jealous of his charge. He follows his heart's desire, but having found what he sought he wanders round to everyone's door with his song and his speech, so that all can admire the hero as he does, be proud of the hero as he is. That is his achievement, his humble task, this his faithful service in the hero's house. If he remains thus true to his love, if he struggles night and day against the wiles of oblivion, which would cheat him of his hero, then he has fulfilled his task, he is united with the hero who in his turn has loved him just as faithfully, for the poet is so to speak the hero's better nature, ineffectual certainly as a memory is, but also transfigured as a memory is. Therefore no one who was great will be forgotten: and however long it takes, even if a cloud of misunderstanding should take the hero away, his lover still comes, and the more time goes by the more faithfully he sticks by him.
No! No one shall be forgotten who was great in this world; but everyone was great in his own way, and everyone in proportion to the greatness of what he loved. For he who loved himself became great in himself, and he who loved others became great through his devotion, but he who loved God became greater than all. They shall all be remembered, but everyone became great in proportion to his expectancy. One became great through expecting the possible, another by expecting the eternal; but he who expected the impossible became greater than all. They shall all be remembered, but everyone was great in proportion to the magnitude of what he strove with. For he who strove with the world became great by conquering the world, and he who strove with himself became greater by conquering himself; but he who strove with God became greater than all. Thus there was strife in the world, man against man, one against thousands, but he who strove with God was greater than all. Thus there was strife upon earth: there was he who conquered everything by his own strength, and he who conquered God by his powerlessness, There was one relied upon himself and gained everything, and one who, secure in his own strength, sacrificed everything; but greater than all was the one who believed God. There was one who was great in his strength, and one who was great in his wisdom, and one who was great in hope, and one who was great in love; but greater than all was Abraham, great with that power whose strength is powerlessness, great in that wisdom whose secret is folly, great in that hope whose outward form is insanity, great in that love which is hatred of self.
It was by his faith that Abraham could leave the land of his fathers to become a stranger in the land of promise. He left one thing behind, took another with him. He left behind his worldly understanding and took with him his faith. Otherwise he would surely not have gone; certainly it would have been senseless to do so. It was by his faith that he could be a stranger in the promised land; there was nothing to remind him of what was dear, but the novelty of everything tempted his soul to sad longing. And yet he was God's chosen, in whom the Lord was well pleased! Yes, indeed! If only he had been disowned, cast out from God's grace, he would have understood it better. As it was it looked more like a mockery of himself and his faith. There was once another who lived in exile from the beloved land of his fathers. He is not forgotten, nor his songs of lament in which in sorrow he sought and found what he had lost. From Abraham we have no song of lament. It is human to complain, human to weep with one who weeps, but it is greater to have faith and more blessed to behold the believer.
It was faith that made Abraham accept the promise that all nations of the earth should be blessed in his seed. Time went by, the possibility was still there, and Abraham had faith; time went by, it became unlikely, and Abraham had faith. There was once another who held out an expectation. Time went by, the evening drew near, he was not so pitiful as to forget his expectation; therefore he too should not be forgotten. Then he sorrowed, and the sorrow did not deceive him as life had done; it did all it could for him and in the sweetness of sorrow he possessed his disappointed expectation. It is human to sorrow with the sorrower, but greater to have faith and more blessed to behold the believer. From Abraham we have no song of sorrow. As time went by he did not mournfully count the days, he did not cast suspicious glances at Sarah, fearing she was growing old; he did not stay the march of the sun, so that Sarah should not grow old and with her his expectation; he did not soothingly sing to Sarah his mournful lay. Abraham became old and Sarah was mocked in the land, and still he was God's chosen and heir to the promise that in his seed all nations of the earth would be blessed. Would it not be better, then, were he not God's chosen? What is it to be God's chosen? Is it to be denied in youth one's youthful desire in order to have it fulfilled in great travail in old age? But Abraham believed and held firm to the promise. Had Abraham wavered he would have renounced it. He would have said to God: 'So perhaps after all it is not your will that it should happen; then I will give up my desire, it was my only desire, my blessed joy. My soul is upright, I bear no secret grudge because you refused it.' He would not have been forgotten, he would have saved many by his example, yet he would not have become the father of faith; for it is great to give up one's desire, but greater to stick to it after having given it up; it is great to grasp hold of the eternal but greater to stick to the temporal after having given it up. But then came the fullness of time. Had Abraham not had faith, then Sarah would surely have died of sorrow, and Abraham, dull with grief, instead of understanding the fulfilment, would have smiled at it as at a youthful dream. But Abraham believed, and therefore he was young; for he who always hopes for the best becomes old, deceived by life, and he who is always prepared for the worst becomes old prematurely; but he who has faith, retains eternal youth. All praise then to that tale! For Sarah, though stricken in years, was young enough to covet the pleasure of motherhood; and Abraham, though grey of head, was young enough to want to be a father. Outwardly the wonder of faith is in Abraham and Sarah's being young enough for it to happen according to their expectations; in a deeper sense the wonder of faith lies in Abraham and Sarah's being young enough to wish, and in faith's having preserved their wish and through it their youthfulness. He accepted the fulfilment of the promise, he accepted it in faith, and it happened according to expectation and according to faith; for Moses struck the rock with his rod but he did not believe.
So there was rejoicing in Abraham's house when Sarah was bride on their golden-wedding day.
But it was not to remain so; Abraham was to be tried once more. He had fought with that subtle power that invents everything, with that watchful opponent that never takes a nap, with that old man who outlives everything — time itself. He had fought with it and kept his faith. Now all the horrors of the struggle were to be concentrated in one moment. 'And God did tempt Abraham, and said unto him ... Take now thy son, 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.'
So all was lost, more terrible than if it had never been! So the Lord was only making sport of Abraham! Through a miracle he had made the preposterous come true, now he would see it again brought to nothing. Foolery indeed! But Abraham did not laugh at it, as Sarah had laughed when the promise had first been proclaimed. All was lost! Seventy years' faithful expectation, the brief joy at faith's fulfilment. Who is it then that snatches the staff from the old man, who is it that demands that the old man himself should break it? Who is it that makes a man's grey hairs forlorn, who is it that demands that he himself should make them so? Is there no compassion for this venerable greybeard, none for the innocent child? And yet Abraham was God's chosen, and it was the Lord who put him to this test. All was now surely lost! The glorious memory of the human race, the promise in Abraham's seed, it was only a whim, a fleeting thought of the Lord's, which Abraham himself must now eradicate. That glorious treasure, as old as the faith in Abraham's heart, many many years older than Isaac, the fruit of Abraham's life, hallowed with prayers, ripened in struggle — the blessing on Abraham's lips, this fruit was now to be plucked out of season and have no meaning; for what meaning could there be in it if Isaac was to be sacrificed! That sad yet still blessed hour when Abraham should take leave of everything he held dear, when he should raise his venerable head one time more, when his countenance should be radiant as the Lord's, when he should concentrate his whole soul in a blessing with the power to give Isaac joy all his days — that moment was not to come! For, yes, Abraham would indeed take leave of Isaac, but it was he that was to remain; death would divide them, but Isaac was to be its victim. The old man was not to lay his hand upon Isaac in blessing, but weary of life was to lay it upon him in violence. And it was God who tried him. Yes. Woe, woe to the messenger who came before Abraham with such tidings! Who would have dared be the emissary of such sorrow? Yet it was God who tried Abraham.
But Abraham had faith, and had faith for this life. Yes, had his faith only been for a future life it would indeed have been easier to cast everything aside in order to hasten out of this world to which he did not belong. But Abraham's faith was not of that kind, if there is such, for a faith like that is not really faith but only its remotest possibility, a faith that has some inkling of its object at the very edge of the field of vision but remains separated from it by a yawning abyss in which despair plays its pranks. But it was for this life that Abraham believed, he believed he would become old in his land, honoured among his people, blessed in his kin, eternally remembered in Isaac, the dearest in his life, whom he embraced with a love for which it was but a poor expression to say that he faithfully fulfilled the father's duty to love the son, as indeed the summons put it: 'the son whom thou lovest.' Jacob had twelve sons and he loved one; Abraham had just one, the son he loved.
But Abraham had faith and did not doubt. He believed the ridiculous. If Abraham had doubted — then he would have done something else, something great and glorious; for how could Abraham have done other than what is great and glorious? He would have marched out to the mountain in Moriah, chopped the firewood, set light to the fire, drawn the knife — he would have cried out to God: 'Do not scorn this sacrifice, it is not the best I possess, that I well know; for what is an old man compared with the child of promise, but it is the best I can give. Let Isaac never come to know, that he may comfort himself in his young years.' He would have thrust the knife into his own breast. He would have been admired in the world and his name never forgotten; but it is one thing to be admired, another to be a guiding star that saves the anguished.
But Abraham had faith. He did not beg for himself in hope of moving the Lord; it was only that time when the just punishment had been proclaimed upon Sodom and Gomorrah that Abraham came forward with his prayers.
We read in those Holy Scriptures: 'And God did tempt Abraham, and said unto him, Abraham: Abraham, where are you? but Abraham answered: here I am.' You, to whom my speech is addressed, was that the case with you? When you saw, far off, the heavy fate approaching, did you not say to the mountains, 'hide me', to the hills, fall on me'? Or if you were stronger, did your feet nevertheless not drag along the way? Did they not hanker, as it were, to get back into the old tracks? When you were called, did you answer, or did you not? Perhaps softly and in a whisper? Not so Abraham, gladly, boldly, trustingly he answered out loud 'here I am'. We read further: 'And Abraham rose up early in the morning.' He hurried as though to some celebration, and he was at the appointed place, the mountain in Moriah, early in the morning. He said nothing to Sarah, nothing to Eleazar. After all, who could have understood him? Hadn't the test by its very nature exacted an oath of silence from him? 'And [he] clave the wood, he bound Isaac, he kindled the fire, he drew the knife.' My hearer! Many a father has felt the loss of his child as the loss of the dearest thing he has in the world, to be bereft of every hope for the future; yet no son was the child of promise in the sense that Isaac was for Abraham. Many a father has lost his child, but then it was God, the unchangeable and inscrutable will of the Almighty, it was his hand that took it. Not so with Abraham. For him a harder trial was reserved; along with the knife the fate of Isaac was put into Abraham's own hand. And he stood there, the old man with his only hope! But he did not doubt, he did not look in anguish to left or right, he did not challenge heaven with his prayers. He knew it was God the Almighty that tried him, he knew it was the hardest sacrifice that could be demanded of him; but he also knew that no sacrifice was too hard when God demanded it — and he drew the knife.
Who gave strength to Abraham's arm, who kept his right arm raised so that it did not fall helplessly down! Anyone who saw this would be paralysed. Who gave strength to Abraham's soul, so that his eye did not become too clouded to see either Isaac or the ram! Anyone who saw this would become blind. And yet rare enough though they may be, those who are both paralysed and blind, still more rare is he who can tell the story and give it its due. We know it, all of us — it was only a trial.
Had Abraham doubted as he stood on the mountain in Moriah, had he looked about in indecision, if before drawing the knife he had accidentally caught sight of the ram and God had allowed him to offer it in place of Isaac — then he would have gone home, everything would have been as before, he would have had Sarah, he would have kept Isaac, and yet how changed! For his withdrawal would have been a flight, his deliverance an accident, his reward dishonour, his future perhaps damnation. Then he would have borne witness, not to his faith or to God's mercy, but to how dreadful was the journey to the mountain in Moriah. Abraham would not be forgotten, nor the mountain. Yet it would not be mentioned like Ararat, where the Ark came to land, but as a horror, for it was here that Abraham doubted.
Venerable Father Abraham! When you journeyed home from the mountain in Moriah you needed no speech of praise to console you for what was lost; for in fact you gained everything and kept Isaac. Was it not so? The Lord never again took him from you, you sat happily at table with him in your tent, as you do in the hereafter in all eternity. Venerable Father Abraham! Thousands of years have slipped by since those days, but you need no late-coming lover to snatch your memory from the power of oblivion; for every mothertongue commemorates you — and still you reward your lover more gloriously than anyone. You make him blessed hereafter in your bosom, you captivate his eye and his heart in the here and now with the marvel of your deed. Venerable Father Abraham! Second father to the human race! You who first saw and bore witness to that tremendous passion that scorns the fearful struggle with the raging elements and the forces of creation in order to struggle with God instead, you who first knew that supreme passion, the sacred, pure, and humble expression of the divine madness which the pagans admired — forgive him who would speak in your praise if he did not do it correctly. He spoke humbly, seeing it is his heart's desire; he spoke briefly, as is fitting; but he will never forget that you needed a hundred years to get the son of your old age, against every expectation, that you had to draw the knife before keeping Isaac; he will never forget that in one hundred and thirty years you got no further than faith.
Problemata
Preamble from the Heart
An old proverb pertaining to the outward and visible world says: 'Only one who works gets bread.' Oddly enough, the saying doesn't apply in the world to which it most properly belongs, for the outward world is subject to the law of imperfection; there it happens time and again that one who gets bread is one who does not work, that one who sleeps gets it in greater abundance than one who labours. In the outward world everything belongs to whoever has it, the outward world is subject to the law of indifference and the genie of the ring obeys the one who wears it, whether he be a Noureddin or an Aladdin, and whoever holds the world's treasures does so however he came by them. It is otherwise in the world of spirit. Here there prevails an eternal divine order, here it does not rain on the just and the unjust alike, here the sun does not shine on both good and evil, here only one who works gets bread, and only one who knows anguish finds rest, only one who descends to the underworld saves the loved one, only one who draws the knife gets Isaac. He who will not work does not get bread, but will be deluded, as the gods deluded Orpheus with an airy figure in place of the beloved, deluded him because he was tender-hearted, not courageous, deluded him because he was a lyre-player, not a man.
Here it is no help to have Abraham as one's father, or seventeen centuries of noble ancestry; of anyone who will not work here one can say what is written about Israel's virgins, he gives birth to wind — while the one who works will give birth to his own father.
Conventional wisdom aims presumptuously to introduce into the world of spirit that same law of indifference under which the outside world groans. It believes it is enough to have knowledge of large truths. No other work is necessary. But then it does not get bread, it starves to death while everything is transformed into gold. And what else does it know? There were many thousands in the Greece of the time, countless others in later generations, who knew all the victories of Miltiades, but there was only one who lost sleep over them. There were countless generations that knew the story of Abraham by heart, word for word. How many did it make sleepless?
Now the story of Abraham has the remarkable quality that it will always be glorious no matter how impoverished our understanding of it, but only — for it is true here too — if we are willing to 'labour and be heavy laden'. But labour they will not, and yet they still want to understand the story. One speaks in Abraham's honour, but how? By making it a commonplace: 'his greatness was that he so loved God that he was willing to offer him the best he had.' That is very true, but 'best' is a vague expression. In word and thought one can quite safely identify Isaac with the best, and the man who so thinks can very well puff at his pipe as he does so, and the listener can very well leisurely stretch out his legs. If the rich young man whom Christ met on the road had sold all his possessions and given them to the poor, we would praise him as we praise all great deeds, but we would not understand even him without some labour. Yet he would not have become an Abraham even had he given away the best he had. What is left out of the Abraham story is the anguish; for while I am under no obligation to money, to a son the father has the highest and most sacred of obligations. Yet anguish is a dangerous affair for the squeamish, so people forget it, notwithstanding they want to talk about Abraham. So they talk and in the course of conversation they interchange the words 'Isaac' and 'best'. Everything goes excellently. Should someone in the audience be suffering from insomnia, however, there is likely to be the most appalling, most profound, tragi-comic misunderstanding. He goes home, he wants to do just like Abraham; for the son is certainly the best thing he has. Should that speaker hear word of this, he might go to the man, summon all his clerical authority, and shout: 'Loathsome man, dregs of society, what devil has so possessed you that you wanted to murder your own son?' And this priest, who had felt no signs of heat or perspiration while preaching about Abraham, would be surprised at the righteous wrath with which he fulminates against that poor man; he would be pleased with himself, for never had he spoken with such pungency and fervour before. He would say to himself, and his wife: 'I'm an orator, all I've needed was the opportunity; when I spoke about Abraham on Sunday I didn't feel at all carried away.' If the same speaker still had some slight excess of wit to spare he would surely lose it were the sinner to reply coolly and with dignity: 'It was in fact what you yourself preached on Sunday.' How could a priest get such an idea into his head? And yet he did so, and the mistake was only that he hadn't known what he was saying. Why doesn't some poet take up situations like these instead of the stuff and nonsense that fills comedies and novels? The comic and the tragic converge on each other here in absolute infinity. The priest's speech was no doubt laughable enough in itself, but became infinitely more so in its consequence, and yet that was quite natural. Or suppose the sinner had acceded without protest to the priest's reprimand; or that zealous cleric had gone happily home, happy in the knowledge that his effectiveness was not confined to the pulpit but was above all evident in the irresistible power of his ministry to souls, inspiring the congregation on Sunday while on Monday, like a cherub with flaming sword, confronting him who by his deed would put that old proverb to shame which says that the world never practises what the priest preaches. 【1】
Should the sinner, on the other hand, not be convinced, his situation would be tragic enough. He would no doubt be executed or sent to the madhouse; in short he would have come into an unhappy relation to socalled reality, though in another sense I should think that Abraham made him happy: for he who labours does not perish.
What explains a contradiction like this speaker's? Is it because Abraham has acquired proprietary rights to the title of great man, so that whatever he does is great, and if anyone else does the same it is a sin, a crying sin? If so, I have no wish to take part in such mindless praise. If faith cannot make it into a holy deed to murder one's own son, then let the judgement fall on Abraham as on anyone else. If one hasn't the courage to think this thought through, to say that Abraham was a murderer, then surely it is better to acquire that courage than to waste time on undeserved speeches in his praise. The ethical expression for what Abraham did is that he was willing to murder Isaac; the religious expression is that he was willing to sacrifice Isaac; but in this contradiction lies the very anguish that can indeed make one sleepless; and yet without that anguish Abraham is not the one he is. Or perhaps Abraham simply didn't do what the story says, perhaps in the context of his times what he did was something quite different. Then let's forget him, for why bother remembering a past that cannot be made into a present? Or perhaps something to do with the ethical aspect slipped that speaker's mind, the fact that Isaac was the son. For if you simply remove faith as a nix and nought there remains only the raw fact that Abraham was willing to murder Isaac, which is easy enough for anyone without faith to imitate; without the faith, that is, which makes it hard.
For my own part I don't lack the courage to think a thought whole. No thought has frightened me so far. Should I ever come across one I hope I will at least have the honesty to say: 'This thought scares me, it stirs up something else in me so that I don't want to think it.' If that is wrong of me I'll no doubt get my punishment. If I had conceded the truth of the judgement that Abraham was a murderer, I am not sure that I would have been able to silence my reverence of him. But if that is what I myself thought, then I would presumably keep quiet, for thoughts like that are not to be intimated to others. However, Abraham is no illusion; he hasn't slept himself to fame; he does not owe his celebrity to any whim of fate.
Can one speak unreservedly of Abraham, then, without risking that someone will go off the rails and do likewise? Unless I dare to speak quite openly I will simply keep quiet about Abraham, and above all not diminish him so that by that very fact he becomes a snare for the weak. If one makes faith the main thing — that is, makes it what it is — then I imagine one might dare speak of it without that risk in this day of ours which can hardly be said to outdo itself in faith, and it is only in respect of faith that one achieves resemblance to Abraham, not murder. If one makes love into a fleeting mood, into a pleasurable agitation in a person, then one lays traps for the weak when talking of the achievements of love. Of course everyone has momentary feelings, but if those were to be used as reasons for doing the terrible things that love has hallowed as immortal deeds everything would be lost, both the achievement and those misled in this way.
It should be all right, then, to speak about Abraham. The great can never do harm when grasped in their greatness. It is like a two-edged sword, bringing death and salvation. If it should fall to my lot to speak of him, I would begin by showing what a devout and God-fearing man Abraham was, deserving to be called God's chosen. Only such a person is subjected to such a trial; but who is such a person? Next I would describe how Abraham loved Isaac. To that end I would beg the support of all good spirits in making my speech as fervent as is the love of a father for his son. I would hope to describe it in such a way that not many a father in the realm would dare maintain that he loved his son thus. Yet if he did not love as Abraham, all thought of offering Isaac would be a temptation. Here we already have plenty to speak of for several Sundays, so there is no need to rush. The result, if the speech does justice to the theme, will be that some fathers will simply not want to hear more, but be happy for the time being if they have really succeeded in loving as Abraham did. Should one of them after having caught the greatness of Abraham's deed, but also the appallingness of it, venture out on the road, I would saddle my horse and ride along with him. At every stop before we came to the mountain in Moriah I would explain to him that he could still turn back, could rue the misunderstanding that he was called to be tried in a conflict of this nature, could confess that he lacked the courage, so that if God wanted Isaac God must take him himself. It is my conviction that such a person will not be disavowed, but can be blessed along with all others, though not in time. Even in times of faith would such a person not be judged in this way? I knew someone who once could have saved my life had he possessed magnanimity. He said plainly: 'I see well enough what I could do, but I don't dare. I'm afraid that later I shall lack strength, that I shall regret it.' He was not magnanimous, but would anyone cease to love him on that account?
Having spoken thus, and moved my audience so that they appreciated at least something of the dialectical struggle of faith and its gigantic passion, I would not be guilty of the error they might impute to me by thinking: 'Well, he has faith in such a high degree it's enough for us just to hold on to his coat-tails.' For I would add: 'By no means have I faith. I am a shrewd fellow by nature, such as always have great difficulty making the movement of faith, though I wouldn't attach any importance in itself to a difficulty which, by overcoming it, brings a shrewd fellow no further than the most ordinary and simple-minded person has already reached without the difficulty.'
Love, after all, has its priests in the poets, and occasionally one hears a voice that knows how to keep it in shape; but about faith one hears not a word, who speaks in this passion's praises? Philosophy goes further. Theology sits all painted at the window courting philosophy's favour, offering philosophy its delights. It is said to be hard to understand Hegel, while understanding Abraham, why, that's a bagatelle. To go beyond Hegel, that is a miracle, but to go beyond Abraham is the simplest of all. I for my part have devoted considerable time to understanding the Hegelian philosophy, believe also that I have more or less understood it, am rash enough to believe that at those points where, despite the trouble taken, I cannot understand it, the reason is that Hegel himself hasn't been altogether clear. All this I do easily, naturally, without it causing me any mental strain. But when I have to think about Abraham I am virtually annihilated. I am all the time aware of that monstrous paradox that is the content of Abraham's life. I am constantly repulsed, and my thought, for all its passion, is unable to enter into it, cannot come one hairbreadth further. I strain every muscle to catch sight of it, but the same instant I become paralysed.
I am not unacquainted with what has been admired as great and magnanimous in the world; my soul feels an affinity with it, and is in all humility convinced that it was in my cause too that the hero strove; as I contemplate his striving I exclaim to myself: 'Jam tua res agitur' [Now it's your affair that's at stake]. The hero I can think myself into, but not Abraham; when I reach that height I fall down since what I'm offered is a paradox. Yet I by no means think that faith is therefore something inferior, on the contrary that it is the highest, at the same time believing it dishonest of philosophy to offer something else instead and to slight faith. Philosophy cannot and should not give us an account of faith, but should understand itself and know just what it has indeed to offer, without taking anything away, least of all cheating people out of something by making them think it is nothing. I am not unacquainted with life's needs and dangers, I do not fear them, and I go to meet them undaunted. I am not unfamiliar with horror, my memory is a faithful wife and my imagination, unlike myself, a diligent maid who sits quietly all day at her work and in the evening can speak so prettily for me that I just have to look at it even if it isn't always landscapes or flowers or pastoral idylls she paints. I have seen horror face to face, I do not flee it in fear but know very well that, however bravely I face it, my courage is not that of faith and not at all to be compared with it. I cannot close my eyes and hurl myself trustingly into the absurd, for me it is impossible, but I do not praise myself on that account. I am convinced that God is love; this thought has for me a pristine lyrical validity. When it is present to me I am unspeakably happy, when it is absent I yearn for it more intensely than the lover for the beloved; but I do not have faith; this courage I lack. God's love is for me, both in a direct and inverse sense, incommensurable with the whole of reality. I am not coward enough to whimper and moan on that account, but neither am I underhand enough to deny that faith is something far higher. I can very well carry on living in my manner, I am happy and satisfied, but my happiness is not that of faith and compared with that is indeed unhappy. I do not burden God with my petty cares, details don't concern me, I gaze only upon my love and keep its virginal flame pure and clear; faith is convinced that God troubles himself about the smallest thing. In this life I am content to be wedded to the left hand, faith is humble enough to demand the right; and that it is indeed humility I don't, and shall never, deny.
But I wonder whether all my contemporaries really are capable of making the movement of faith? Unless I am much mistaken they are more inclined to pride themselves for doing what they don't even think me capable of, i. e. the imperfect. It is against my nature to do what people so often do, talk inhumanly about the great as though some thousands of years were a huge distance; I prefer to talk about it humanly as though it happened yesterday and let only the greatness itself be the distance that either exalts or condemns. If — in the guise of tragic hero, for higher than that I cannot come — I were summoned to such an extraordinary royal progress as that to the mountain in Moriah I know very well what I would have done. I would not have been coward enough to stay at home, nor would I have rested on the way or dawdled, or forgotten the knife to create some delay; I am fairly certain I would have been there on the dot, with everything arranged — I might even have come too early instead, so as to have done with it quickly. But I also know what else I would have done. The moment I mounted the horse I would have said to myself: 'Now everything is lost, God demands Isaac, I sacrifice him, and with him all my joy — yet God is love and for me continues to be so.' For in the temporal world God and I cannot talk together, we have no common language. Perhaps someone or other in our time would be foolish enough, envious enough of the great, to want to suppose, and have me suppose, that had I actually done this I would have done something even greater than Abraham, for wouldn't my immense resignation be far more idealistic and poetic than Abraham's narrow-mindedness? And yet this is the greatest falsehood, for my immense resignation would be a substitute for faith. Nor could I have made more than the infinite movement in order to find myself again and rest once more in myself. Neither would I have loved Isaac as Abraham did. The fact that I made the movement resolutely might demonstrate my courage humanly speaking, that I loved him with all my soul is a precondition without which the whole affair becomes an act of wickedness, and yet I would not have loved as Abraham loved; for then I would have held back at the very last minute, though without this meaning that I'd arrive late at the mountain in Moriah. Further-more my behaviour would have vitiated the whole story, for I would have been at a loss had I got Isaac back again. What Abraham found the easiest of all would for me be hard, to find joy again in Isaac! For he who with all the infinity of his soul, proprio motu et propriis auspiciis [on his own accord and on his own responsibility], has made the infinite movement and can do no more, that person only keeps Isaac with pain.
But what did Abraham do? He came neither too early nor too late. He mounted the ass, he rode slowly down the path. All along he had faith, he believed that God would not demand Isaac of him, while still he was willing to offer him if that was indeed what was demanded. He believed on the strength of the absurd, for there could be no question of human calculation, and it was indeed absurd that God who demanded this of him should in the next instant withdraw the demand. He climbed the mountain, even in that moment when the knife gleamed he believed — that God would not demand Isaac. Certainly he was surprised by the outcome, but by means of a double movement he had come back to his original position and therefore received Isaac more joyfully than the first time. Let us go further. We let Isaac actually be sacrificed. Abraham had faith. His faith was not that he should be happy sometime in the hereafter, but that he should find blessed happiness here in this world. God could give him a new Isaac, bring the sacrificial offer back to life. He believed on the strength of the absurd, for all human calculation had long since been suspended. That sorrow can make one demented may be granted and is hard enough; that there is a strength of will that hauls close enough to the wind to save the understanding, even if the strain turns one slightly odd, that too may be granted. I don't mean to decry that. But to be able to lose one's understanding and with it the whole of the finite world whose stockbroker it is, and then on the strength of the absurd get exactly the same finitude back again, that leaves me aghast. But I don't say on that account that it is of little worth; on the contrary it is the one and only marvel. It is commonly supposed that what faith produces is no work of art but a crude and vulgar effort only for clumsier natures; yet the truth is quite otherwise. The dialectic of faith is the most refined and most remarkable of all dialectics, it has an elevation that I can form a conception of but no more. I can make the great trampoline leap in which I pass over into infinitude, my back is like the tight-rope walker's, twisted in my childhood, and so it is easy for me. One, two, three, I can go upside down in existence, but the next is beyond me, for the marvel I cannot perform but only be amazed at. Yes, if only Abraham, the instant he swung his leg over the ass's back, had said to himself: 'Now Isaac is lost, I could just as well sacrifice him here at home as journey the long road to Moriah' — then I wouldn't need Abraham, whereas now I bow to his name seven times and to his deed seventy. For that is not what he did, as I can prove by the fact that he received Isaac back with joy, really heartfelt joy, that he needed no preparation, no time to adjust himself to finitude and its joy. Had it not been thus with Abraham he may well have loved God, but he would not have had faith; for he who loves God without faith reflects on himself, while the person who loves God reflects on God.
At this extremity stands Abraham. The last stage he loses sight of is infinite resignation. He really does go further and comes to faith, for all these caricatures of faith, the pitiable, lukewarm apathy that thinks 'There's surely no need, it's not worth worrying before the time', the miserable hope that says 'Who knows what may happen, it's possible certainly' — these distortions belong to life's wretchedness, and these infinite resignation has already infinitely scorned.
Abraham I cannot understand; in a way all I can learn from him is to be amazed. If one imagines one can be moved to faith by considering the outcome of this story, one deceives oneself, and is out to cheat God of faith's first movement, one is out to suck the life-wisdom out of the paradox. One or another may succeed, for our age does not stop with faith, with its miracle of turning water into wine; it goes further, it turns wine into water.
Would it not be best all the same to stop with faith, and is it not disturbing that everyone wants to go further? When people nowadays — as is in fact variously announced — will not stop with love, where is it they are going? To worldly wisdom, petty calculation, to paltriness and misery, to all that can put man's divine origin in doubt? Would it not be better to remain standing at faith, and for the one who stands there to take care not to fall? For the movement of faith must be made continually on the strength of the absurd, though in such a way, be it noted, that one does not lose finitude but gains it all of a piece. I for my part can indeed describe the movements of faith, but I cannot perform them. When learning how to make swimming movements, one can hang in a belt from the ceiling; one may be said to describe the movements all fight but one isn't swimming; likewise I can describe the movements of faith but when I am thrown into the water, although I may be said to be swimming (for I'm not among the waders), I make other movements, I make the movements of infinity, while faith does the opposite, having performed the movements of infinity it makes those of finitude. Lucky the one who can make those movements, he performs a marvel, and I shall never tire of admiring him. Whether it is Abraham or the servant in Abraham's house, whether a professor of philosophy or a poor serving-maid is for me absolutely immaterial, I look only at the movements. But those I do indeed look at and let myself be fooled neither by myself nor by anyone else. The knights of infinite resignation are readily recognizable, their gait is gliding, bold. But those who wear the jewel of faith can easily disappoint, for their exterior bears a remarkable similarity to what infinite resignation itself as much as faith scorns, namely the bourgeois philistine.
In my own experience I frankly admit to having found no reliable examples, though I would not deny on that ground that possibly every other person is one. Still, I have tried now in vain for several years to track one down. People commonly travel the world over to see rivers and mountains, new stars, garish birds, freak fish, grotesque breeds of human; they fall into an animal stupor that gapes at existence and they think they have seen something. I am not concerned with this. But if I knew where such a knight of faith lived I would journey to him on foot, for this marvel concerns me absolutely. I would not let him slip one instant, but watch every minute how he makes the movements; I would consider myself maintained for life and divide my time between looking at him and practising the movements myself, thus devoting all my time to admiring him. As I said, I haven't found such a one; still, I can very well imagine him. Here he is. The acquaintance is struck, I am introduced. The moment I first set eyes on him I thrust him away, jump back, clasp my hands together and say half aloud: 'Good God! Is this the person, is it really him? He looks just like a tax-gatherer.' Yet it is indeed him. I come a little closer, watch the least movement in case some small, incongruous optical telegraphic message from the infinite should appear, a glance, expression, gesture, a sadness, a smile betraying the infinite by its incongruity with the finite. No! I examine him from top to toe, in case there should be some crack through which the infinite peeped out. No! He is solid through and through. His stance? Vigorous, it belongs altogether to finitude, no smartly turned-out townsman taking a stroll out to Fresberg on a Sunday afternoon treads the ground with surer foot; he belongs altogether to the world, no petit bourgeois belongs to it more. One detects nothing of the strangeness and superiority that mark the knight of the infinite. This man takes pleasure, takes part, in everything, and whenever one catches him occupied with something his engagement has the persistence of the worldly person whose soul is wrapped up in such things. He minds his affairs. To see him at them you would think he was some pen-pusher who had lost his soul to Italian book-keeping, so attentive to detail is he. He takes a holiday on Sundays. He goes to church. No heavenly glance or any other sign of the incommensurable betrays him; if one didn't know him it would be impossible to set him apart from the rest of the crowd; for at most his hearty, lusty psalm-singing proves that he has a good set of lungs. In the afternoon he takes a walk in the woods. He delights in everything he sees, in the thronging humanity, the new omnibuses, the Sound — to run across him on Strandveien you would think he was a shop-keeper having his fling, such is his way of taking pleasure; for he is not a poet and I have sought in vain to prise out of him the secret of any poetic incommensurability. Towards evening he goes home, his step tireless as a postman's. On the way it occurs to him that his wife will surely have some special little warm dish for his return, for example roast head of lamb with vegetables. If he were to meet a kindred spirit, he could continue as far as Østerport so as to converse with him about this dish with a passion befitting a restaurateur. As it happens he hasn't a penny and yet he firmly believes his wife has that delicacy waiting for him. If she has, to see him eat it would be a sight for superior people to envy and for plain folk to be inspired by, for his appetite is greater than Esau's. If his wife doesn't have the dish, curiously enough he is exactly the same. On the road he passes a buildingsite and meets another man. They talk together for a moment, he has a building raised in a jiffy, having all that's needed for that. The stranger leaves him thinking: 'That must have been a capitalist,' while my admirable knight thinks: 'Yes, if it came to that I could surely manage it.' He takes his ease at an open window and looks down on the square where he lives, at everything that goes on — a rat slipping under a board over the gutter, the children at play — with a composure befitting a sixteen-year-old girl. And yet he is no genius; I have tried in vain to spy out in him the incommensurability of the genius. He smokes his pipe in the evening: to see him you would swear it was the cheesemonger opposite vegetating in the dusk. Carefree as a devil-may-care good-for-nothing, he hasn't a worry in the world, and yet he purchases every moment that he lives, 'redeeming the seasonable time' at the dearest price; not the least thing does he do except on the strength of the absurd. And yet, and yet — yes, it could drive me to fury, out of envy if for no other reason — and yet this man has made and is at every moment making the movement of infinity. He drains in infinite resignation the deep sorrow of existence, he knows the bliss of infinity, he has felt the pain of renouncing everything, whatever is most precious in the world, and yet to him finitude tastes just as good as to one Who has never known anything higher, for his remaining in the finite bore no trace of a stunted, anxious training, and still he has this sense of being secure to take pleasure in it, as though it were the most certain thing of all. And yet, and yet the whole earthly form he presents is a new creation on the strength of the absurd. He resigned everything infinitely, and then took everything back on the strength of the absurd. He is continually making the movement of infinity, but he makes it with such accuracy and poise that he is continually getting finitude out of it, and not for a second would one suspect anything else. It is said that the dancer's hardest task is to leap straight into a definite position, so that not for a second does he have to catch at the position but stands there in it in the leap itself. Perhaps no dancer can do it — but that knight does it. The mass of humans live disheartened lives of earthly sorrow and joy, these are the sitters-out who will not join in the dance. The knights of infinity are dancers too and they have elevation. They make the upward movement and fall down again, and this too is no unhappy pastime, nor ungracious to behold. But when they come down they cannot assume the position straightaway, they waver an instant and the wavering shows they are nevertheless strangers in the world. This may be more or less evident, depending on their skill, but even the most skilled of these knights cannot hide the vacillation. One doesn't need to see them in the air, one only has to see them the moment they come and have come to earth to recognize them. But to be able to land in just that way, and in the same second to look as though one was up and walking, to transform the leap in life to a gait, to express the sublime in the pedestrian absolutely — that is something only the knight of faith can do — and it is the one and only marvel.
Yet this marvel can so easily deceive. I will therefore describe the movements in a particular case which can illustrate the respective relationships to reality, for it is these that everything turns on. A young lad falls in love with a princess, the content of his whole life lies in this love, and yet the relationship is one that cannot possibly be brought to fruition, be translated from ideality into reality. 【2】 The slaves of misery, the frogs in life's swamp, naturally exclaim: 'Such love is foolishness; the rich brewer's widow is just as good and sound a match.' Let them croak away undisturbed in the swamp. This is not the manner of the knight of infinite resignation, he does not renounce the love, not for all the glory in the world. He is no trifler. He first makes sure that this really is the content of his life, and his soul is too healthy and proud to squander the least thing on getting drunk. He is not cowardly, he is not afraid to let his love steal in upon his most secret, most hidden thoughts, to let it twine itself in countless coils around every ligament of his consciousness — if the love becomes unhappy he will never be able to wrench himself out of it. He feels a blissful rapture when he lets it tingle through every nerve, and yet his soul is as solemn as his who has emptied the cup of poison and feels the juice penetrate to every drop of blood — for this moment is life and death. Having thus imbibed all the love and absorbed himself in it, he does not lack the courage to attempt and risk everything. He reflects over his life's circumstances, he summons the swift thoughts that like trained doves obey his every signal, he waves his rod over them, and they rush off in all directions. But now when they all return as messengers of sorrow and explain to him that it is an impossibility, he becomes quiet, he dismisses them, he remains alone, and he performs the movement. If what I say here has any meaning the movement must take place properly. 【3】 For the knight will then, in the first place, have the strength to concentrate the whole of his life's content and the meaning of reality in a single wish. If a person lacks this concentration, this focus, his soul is disintegrated from the start, and then he will never come to make the movement, he will act prudently in life like those capitalists who invest their capital in every kind of security so as to gain on the one what they lose on the other — in short, he is not a knight. Secondly, the knight will have the strength to concentrate the whole of the result of his reflection into one act of consciousness. If he lacks this focus his soul is disintegrated from the start and he will then never have time to make the movement, he will be forever running errands in life, never enter the eternal; for at the very moment he is almost there he will suddenly discover that he has forgotten something and so must go back. The next moment he will think it possible, and that is also quite correct; but through such considerations one never comes to make the movement; rather with their help one sinks ever deeper into the mire.
So the knight makes the movement, but what movement? Does he want to forget the whole thing? Because in that too there is a kind of concentration. No! for the knight does not contradict himself, and it is a contradiction to forget the whole of one's life's content and still be the same. He has no inclination to become another, seeing nothing at all great in that prospect. Only lower natures forget themselves and become something new. Thus the butterfly has altogether forgotten that it was a caterpillar, perhaps it can so completely forget in turn that it was a butterfly that it can become a fish. Deeper natures never forget themselves and never become something other than they were. So the knight will remember everything; but the memory is precisely the pain, and yet in his infinite resignation he is reconciled with existence. His love for the princess would take on for him the expression of an eternal love, would acquire a religious character, be transfigured into a love for the eternal being which, although it denied fulfilment, still reconciled him once more in the eternal consciousness of his love's validity in an eternal form that no reality can take from him. Fools and young people talk about everything being possible for a human being. But that is a great mistake. Everything is possible spiritually speaking, but in the finite world there is much that is not possible. This impossibility the knight nevertheless makes possible by his expressing it spiritually, but he expresses it spiritually by renouncing it. The desire which would convey him out into reality, but came to grief on an impossibility, now bends inwards but is not lost thereby nor forgotten. At times it is the unconscious workings of the desire in him which awaken the memory, at others it is he himself that awakens it, for he is too proud to want to let the whole content of his life seem to have been but a fleeting affair of the moment. He keeps this love young, and it grows with him in years and beauty. On the other hand, he needs no finite occasion for its growth. From the moment he made the movement the princess is lost. He needs none of this erotic titillation of the nerves at the sight of the loved one, etc., nor does he need in a finite sense to be continually making his farewell, for his memory of her is an eternal one, and he knows very well that those lovers who are so eager to see one another one more time to say farewell are right to be eager, right to think it will be the last time; for as soon as may be they will have forgotten one another. He has grasped the deep secret that even in loving another one should be sufficient unto oneself. He pays no further finite attention to what the princess does, and just this proves that he has made the movement infinitely. Here we have the opportunity to see whether the movement in the individual is proper or not. There was a person who also believed he had made the movement, but time went by, the princess did something else, she married, say, a prince, and his soul lost the resilience of resignation. He knew then that he had not made the movement correctly; for one who has infinitely resigned is enough unto himself. The knight does not cancel his resignation, he keeps it, just as young as in the first instance, he never lets it go, simply because he has made the movement infinitely. What the princess does cannot disturb him, it is only lower natures who have the law for their actions in someone else, the premisses for their actions outside themselves. If, on the other hand, the princess is similarly disposed there will be a beautiful development. She will then introduce herself into that order of knighthood whose members are not admitted by ballot but which anyone can join who has the courage to admit him- or herself, that order of knighthood which proves its immortality by making no distinction between man and woman. She too will keep her love young and sound, she too will have overcome her agony, even though she does not, as the song says, 'lie by her lord's side'. These two will then be suited to each other in all eternity, with such a strict-tempoed harmonia praestabilita [pre-established harmony] that were some moment to come, a moment with which they were nevertheless not concerned finitely, for in the finite world they would grow old — were such a moment to come which allowed their love its expression in time, then they would be in a position to begin precisely where they would have begun had they been united from the beginning. The one, whether man or woman, who understands this can never be deceived, for it is only lower natures who imagine they are deceived. No girl who lacks this pride really knows what it is to love, but if she is so proud, then all the world's stratagems and ingenuity cannot deceive her.
In infinite resignation there is peace and repose; anyone who wants it, who has not debased himself by — what is still worse than being too proud — belittling himself, can discipline himself into making this movement, which in its pain reconciles one to existence. Infinite resignation is that shirt in the old fable. The thread is spun with tears, bleached by tears, the shirt sewn in tears, but then it also gives better protection than iron and steel. A defect of the fable is that a third party is able to make the material. The secret in life is that everyone must sew it for himself; and the remarkable thing is that a man can sew it just as well as a woman. In infinite resignation there is peace and repose and consolation in the pain, that is if the movement is made properly. I could easily fill a whole book with the various misunderstandings, awkward positions, and slovenly movements I have encountered in just my own slight experience. People believe very little in spirit, yet it is precisely spirit that is needed to make this movement; what matters is its not being a one-sided result of dira necessitas; the more it is that the more doubtful it always is that the movement is proper. To insist that a frigid, sterile necessity is necessarily present is to say that no one may experience death before actually dying, which strikes me as crass materialism. Yet in our time people are less concerned with making pure movements. Suppose someone wanting to learn to dance said: 'For hundreds of years now one generation after another has been learning dance steps, it's high time I took advantage of this and began straight off with a set of quadrilles.' One would surely laugh a little at him; but in the world of spirit such an attitude is considered utterly plausible. What then is education? I had thought it was the curriculum the individual ran through in order to catch up with himself; and anyone who does not want to go through this curriculum will be little helped by being born into the most enlightened age.
Infinite resignation is the last stage before faith, so that anyone who has not made this movement does not have faith; for only in infinite resignation does my eternal validity become transparent to me, and only then can there be talk of grasping existence on the strength of faith.
Let us now have the knight of faith make his appearance in the case discussed. He does exactly the same as the other knight, he infinitely renounces the claim to the love which is the content of his life; he is reconciled in pain; but then comes the marvel, he makes one more movement, more wonderful than anything else, for he says: 'I nevertheless believe that I shall get her, namely on the strength of the absurd, on the strength of the fact that for God all things are possible.' The absurd is not one distinction among others embraced by understanding. It is not the same as the improbable, the unexpected, the unforeseen. The moment the knight resigned he was convinced of the impossibility, humanly speaking; that was a conclusion of the understanding, and he had energy enough to think it. In an infinite sense, however, it was possible, through renouncing it [as a finite possibility]; but then accepting that [possibility] is at the same time to have given it up, yet for the understanding there is no absurdity in possessing it, for it is only in the finite world that understanding rules and there it was and remains an impossibility. On this the knight of faith is just as clear; all that can save him is the absurd; and this he grasps by faith. Accordingly he admits the impossibility and at the same time believes the absurd; for were he to suppose that he had faith without recognizing the impossibility with all the passion of his soul and with all his heart, he would be deceiving himself, and his testimony would carry weight nowhere, since he would not even have come as far as infinite resignation.
Faith is therefore no aesthetic emotion, but something far higher, exactly because it presupposes resignation; it is not the immediate inclination of the heart but the paradox of existence. Thus that a young girl in the face of all difficulties rests assured that her desire will be fulfilled in no way means that her certainty is that of faith, even if she has been brought up by Christian parents and perhaps gone for a whole year to the pastor. She is convinced in all her childlike simplicity and innocence. This assurance too ennobles her nature and gives her a preternatural dimension, so that like a worker of wonders she can charm the finite powers of existence and make even stones weep, while on the other hand in her distraction she can just as well run to Herod as to Pilate and move the whole world with her pleas. Her conviction is ever so lovable, and one can learn much from her, but one thing one does not learn from her, how to make movements. Her certainty does not dare look the impossibility in the eye in the pain of resignation.
I can see then that it requires strength and energy and freedom of spirit to make the infinite movement of resignation; I can also see that it can be done. The next step dumbfounds me, my brain reels; for having made the movement of resignation, now on the strength of the absurd to get everything, to get one's desire, whole, in full, that requires more-than-human powers, it is a marvel. But at least I can see this, that the young girl's conviction is mere frivolity compared with a faith that is unshakeable even when it sees the impossibility. Whenever I want to make this movement I turn giddy, at the same moment I admire it absolutely and yet in that same instant an immense anxiety seizes my soul, for what is it to test God? And yet this is the movement of faith and remains that, however much philosophy, in order to confuse concepts, will have us suppose that it has faith, however much theology wants to sell it at a bargain price.
Resignation does not require faith, for what I win in resignation is my eternal consciousness, and that is a purely philosophical movement, which I venture upon when necessary, and which I can discipline myself into doing, for every time something finite out-distances me I starve myself until I make the movement; for my eternal consciousness is my love of God, and for me that is higher than anything. Resignation does not require faith, but it requires faith to get the slightest more than my eternal consciousness, for that [more] is the paradox. The movements are often confused. It is said that faith is needed in order to renounce everything; yes, even more strangely one hears people complain that they have lost faith and on consulting the scale to see where they are, we find curiously enough that they have come no further than the point where they should be making the infinite movement of resignation. Through resignation I renounce everything, this movement is one I do by myself, and when I do not do it that is because I am cowardly and weak and lack the enthusiasm and have no sense of the importance of the high dignity afforded to every human being, to be his own censor, a dignity greater by far than to be Censor General for the whole Roman Republic. This movement is one that I make by myself, so what I win is myself in my eternal consciousness, in a blessed compliance with my love for the eternal being. Through faith I don't renounce anything, on the contrary in faith I receive everything, exactly in the way it is said what one whose faith is like a mustard seed can move mountains. It takes a purely human courage to renounce the whole of temporality in order to win eternity, but I do indeed win it and cannot in all eternity renounce that, for that would be a self-contradiction; but it takes a paradoxical and humble courage then to grasp the whole of temporality on the strength of the absurd, and that courage is the courage of faith. Through faith Abraham did not renounce his claim on Isaac, through his faith he received Isaac. That rich young man, by virtue of his resignation, should have given everything away, but once he had done so the knight of faith would have to say to him: 'On the strength of the absurd you shall get every penny back, believe that!' And these words should by no means be a matter of indifference to the once rich young man; for if he gave his possessions away because he was bored with them, then his resignation was in a sorry state.
Temporality, finitude is what it all turns on. I am able by my own strength to renounce everything, and then find peace and repose in the pain; I can put up with everything even if that demon, more horrifying than the skull and bones that put terror into men's hearts — even if madness itself were to hold up the fool's costume before my eyes and I could tell from its look that it was I who was to put it on; I can still save my soul so long as it is more important for me that my love of God should triumph in me than my worldly happiness. A man can still, in that last moment, concentrate his whole soul in a single glance towards the heaven from which all good gifts come, and this glance is something both he and the one he seeks understand; it means he has nevertheless remained true to his love. Then he will calmly put on the costume. He who lacks this romanticism has sold his soul, whether he received a kingdom for it or a paltry piece of silver. But by my own strength I cannot get the least little thing of what belongs to finitude; for I am continually using my energy to renounce everything. By my own strength I can give up the princess, and I shall be no sulker but find joy and peace and repose in my pain, but with my own strength I cannot get her back again, for all that strength is precisely what I use to renounce my claim on her. But by faith, says that marvellous knight, by faith you will get her on the strength of the absurd.
Alas, this movement is one I cannot make! As soon as I want to begin it everything turns around and I flee back to the pain of resignation. I can swim in life, but for this mysterious floating I am too heavy. To exist in such a way that my opposition to existence expresses itself every instant as the most beautiful and safest harmony, that I cannot. And yet it must be glorious to get the princess, I say so every instant and the knight of resignation who doesn't say it is a deceiver, he has not had just one desire and he has not kept his desire young in its pain. Some might find it convenient enough that the desire is no longer alive, that the smart of pain has dulled; but such people are no knights. A free-born soul who caught himself at this would despise himself and make a fresh start, and above all not allow himself to be deceived in his soul. And yet it must be wonderful to get the princess, and yet it is only the knight of faith who is happy, only he is heir apparent to the finite, whereas the knight of resignation is a stranger, a foreigner. To get the princess in this way, to live in joy and happiness, in her company day in and day out — we have to allow, of course, that the knight of resignation, too, may get the princess, even though he has clearly perceived the impossibility of their future happiness — thus to live joyfully and happily in this way every moment on the strength of the absurd, every moment to see the sword hanging over the loved one's head and yet find, not repose in the pain of resignation, but joy on the strength of the absurd — that is wonderful. The one who does that, he is great, the only great one, the thought of it stirs my soul, which was never sparing in its admiration of greatness.
Now if everyone in my generation unwilling to stop at faith is really someone who has understood life's horror, has grasped Daub's meaning when he says that a soldier standing guard alone with a loaded gun by a powder magazine on a stormy night gets strange thoughts; if all those unwilling to stop at faith really are people who possess the strength of soul to grasp, and give themselves time to be alone with, the thought that what they wished was impossible; if all who are unwilling to stop at faith have really reconciled themselves in pain and been reconciled by pain; if all those unwilling to stop at faith have in addition (and unless they have done all this other they need not trouble themselves in matters of faith) performed that marvel, grasped the whole of existence on the strength of the absurd — then what I am writing is a speech in the highest praise of my generation by the least in it, by the one who could only make the movement of resignation. But why will they not stop at faith, why do we sometimes hear of people blushing to admit they have faith? That I cannot grasp. Should I ever come so far as to manage this movement, I'd drive thereafter with a coach-and-four.
Is it really the case, can all the bourgeois philistinism I see in life, and which I allow only my deeds and not my words to condemn, really be not what it seems? Is it really this marvel? That is certainly conceivable, for our hero of faith did indeed bear a striking resemblance to it, for our hero of faith was not even an ironist and humorist but something still higher. A lot is said in our time about irony and humour, particularly by people who have never succeeded in practising them but who nevertheless know how to explain everything. I am not altogether unfamiliar with these two passions, I know a little more about them than is to be found in German and German-Danish compendia. Therefore I know that these two passions differ essentially from the passion of faith. Irony and humour reflect also upon themselves and so belong in the sphere of infinite resignation, they owe their resilience to the individual's incommensurability with reality.
The last movement, the paradoxical movement of faith I cannot perform, be it a duty or whatever — though in fact I would be most willing to do it. Whether anyone has the right to say this must be up to him; it is a matter between him and the eternal being who is the object of faith whether he can reach an amicable agreement in this respect. What everyone can do, on the other hand, is perform the infinite movement of resignation, and I for my part would not think twice about pronouncing anyone a coward who thinks he can't. With faith it is another matter. But what no one has the right to do is let others suppose that faith is something inferior or that it is an easy matter, when in fact it is the greatest and most difficult of all.
Some understand the story of Abraham in another way. They praise God's mercy for giving him Isaac once again, the whole thing was just a trial. A trial — that can say a lot or little, yet the whole thing is as quickly done with as said. One mounts a winged horse, that very instant one is on the mountain in Moriah, the same instant one sees the ram. One forgets that Abraham rode on an ass, which can keep up no more than a leisurely pace, that he had a three-day journey, that he needed time to chop the firewood, bind Isaac, and sharpen the knife.
And yet one praises Abraham! The speaker might just as well sleep until fifteen minutes before speaking, his hearer might just as well sleep throughout the speech, since it all goes so smoothly, without trouble from either side. Should someone present be suffering from insomnia, that person might go home, sit down in a corner, and think: 'It's all over in a second, if you'll just wait a minute you'll see the ram and the trial is over.' Were the speaker to meet him in that state then I imagine he would advance on him in all his dignity and say: 'Wretch, that you can let your soul sink into such folly; there is no miracle, and all life is a trial.' The more effusive the speaker became the more heated he would grow and the better pleased with himself, and while he had noticed no congestion of the blood when speaking about Abraham, he could now feel the vein swelling on his forehead. He might perhaps be struck dumb were the sinner, calmly and with dignity, to reply: 'But that's what you preached last Sunday.'
So let us either forget all about Abraham or learn how to be horrified at the monstrous paradox which is the significance of his life, so that we can understand that our time like any other can be glad. if it has faith. If Abraham is not a nonentity, a ghost, a piece of pomp one uses to pass time away, the mistake can never lie in the sinner's wanting to do like him; rather it is a question of seeing the greatness of Abraham's deed, so that the person may judge for himself whether he has the inclination and courage to be tried in such a thing. The comic contradiction in the speaker's behaviour was that he made Abraham into something insignificant and yet would forbid the other from carrying on in the same manner.
Should one perhaps not dare to speak about Abraham? I think one should. If I myself were to talk about him I would first depict the pain of the trial. For that I would suck all the fear, distress, and torment out of the father's suffering, like a leech, in order to be able to describe all that Abraham suffered while still believing. I would remind people that the journey lasted three days and well into the fourth; yes, those three-and-a-half days should be infinitely longer than the two thousand years separating me from Abraham. Then I would remind them that everyone, as I believe, should feel able to change their mind before beginning on such a thing, that it is possible at every moment to retract and turn back. If one does this I see no danger; nor am I afraid of arousing a desire in people to be put to the test like Abraham. But if one wants to market a cut-price version of Abraham and then still admonish people not to do what Abraham did, then that's just laughable.
What I intend now is to extract from the story of Abraham its dialectical element, in the form of problemata, in order to see how monstrous a paradox faith is, a paradox capable of making a murder into a holy act well pleasing to God, a paradox which gives Isaac back to Abraham, which no thought can grasp because faith begins precisely where thinking leaves off.
Problema Ⅰ
Is There a Teleological Suspension of the Ethical?
The ethical as such is the universal, and as the universal it applies to everyone, which can be put from another point of view by saying that it applies at every moment. It rests immanently in itself, has nothing outside itself that is its telos [end, purpose] but is itself the telos for everything outside, and when that is taken up into it, it has no further to go. Seen as an immediate, no more than sensate and psychic, being, the single individual is the particular that has its telos in the universal, and the individual's ethical task is always to express himself in this, to abrogate his particularity so as to become the universal. As Soon as the single individual wants to assert himself in his particularity, in direct opposition to the universal, he sins, and only by recognizing this can he again reconcile himself with the universal. Whenever, having entered the universal, the single individual feels an urge to assert his particularity, he is in a state of temptation, from which he can extricate himself only by surrendering his particularity to the universal in repentance. If that is the highest that can be said of man and his existence, then the ethical and a person's eternal blessedness, which is his telos in all eternity and at every moment, are identical; for in that case it would be a contradiction to say that one surrendered that telos (i. e. suspended it teleologically) since by suspending the telos one would be forfeiting it, while what is said to be suspended in this sense is not forfeited but preserved in something higher, the latter being precisely its telos.
If that is the case, then Hegel is fight in his 'Good and Conscience' where he discusses man seen merely as the single individual and regards this way of seeing him as a 'moral form of evil" to be annulled in the teleology of the ethical life, so that the individual who stays at this stage is either in sin or in a state of temptation. Where Hegel goes wrong, on the other hand, is in talking about faith, in not protesting loudly and clearly against the honour and glory enjoyed by Abraham as the father of faith when he should really be remitted to some lower court for trial and exposed as a murderer.
For faith is just this paradox, that the single individual is higher than the universal, though in such a way, be it noted, that the movement is repeated, that is, that, having been in the universal, the single individual now sets himself apart as the particular above the universal. If that is not faith, then Abraham is done for and faith has never existed in the world, just because it has always existed. For if the ethical life is the highest and nothing incommensurable is left over in man, except in the sense of what is evil, i.e. the single individual who is to be expressed in the universal, then one needs no other categories than those of the Greek philosophers, or whatever can be logically deduced from them. This is something Hegel, who has after all made some study of the Greeks, ought not to have kept quiet about.
One not infrequently hears people who prefer to lose themselves in clichés rather than studies say that light shines over the Christian world, while paganism is shrouded in darkness. This kind of talk has always struck me as strange, since any reasonably deep thinker, any reasonably serious artist will still seek rejuvenation in the eternal youth of the Greeks. The explanation may be that they know not what to say, only that they have to say something. There is nothing wrong with saying that paganism did not have faith, but if this is to mean anything one must be a little clearer what one means by faith, otherwise one falls back into those clichés. It is easy to explain the whole of existence, faith included, and he is not the worst reckoner in life who counts on being admired for having such an explanation: for it is as Boileau says: 'un sot trouve toujours un plus sot, qui l'admire' ['a fool can always find a greater fool who admires him'].
Faith is just this paradox, that the single individual as the particular is higher than the universal, is justified before the latter, not as subordinate but superior, though in such a way, be it noted, that it is the single individual who, having been subordinate to the universal as the particular, now by means of the universal becomes that individual who, as the particular, stands in an absolute relation to the absolute. This position cannot be mediated, for all mediation occurs precisely by virtue of the universal; it is and remains in all eternity a paradox, inaccessible to thought. And yet faith is this paradox. Or else (these are implications which I would ask the reader always to bear in mind, though it would be too complicated for me to spell them out each time) — or else faith has never existed just because it has always existed. And Abraham is done for.
That the individual can easily take this paradox for a temptation is true enough. But one should not keep it quiet on that account. True enough, too, that many people may have a natural aversion to the paradox, but that is no reason for making faith into something else so that they too can have it; while those who do have faith should be prepared to offer some criterion for distinguishing the paradox from a temptation.
Now the story of Abraham contains just such a teleological suspension of the ethical. There has been no want of sharp intellects and sound scholars who have found analogies to it. Their wisdom amounts to the splendid principle that basically everything is the same. If one looks a little closer I doubt very much whether one will find in the whole world a single analogy, except a later one that proves nothing, for the fact remains that Abraham represents faith, and that faith finds its proper expression in him whose life is not only the most paradoxical conceivable, but so paradoxical that it simply cannot be thought. He acts on the strength of the absurd; for it is precisely the absurd that as the single individual he is higher than the universal. This paradox cannot be mediated; for as soon as he tries Abraham will have to admit that he is in a state of temptation, and in that case he will never sacrifice Isaac, or if he has done so he must return repentantly to the universal. On the strength of the absurd he got Isaac back. Abraham is therefore at no instant the tragic hero, but something quite different, either a murderer or a man of faith. The middle-term that saves the tragic hero is something Abraham lacks. That is why I can understand a tragic hero, but not Abraham, even though in a certain lunatic sense I admire him more than all others.
Abraham's relation to Isaac, ethically speaking, is quite simply this, that the father should love the son more than himself. Yet within its own compass the ethical has several rankings; let us see whether this story contains any such higher expression of the ethical which might explain his behaviour ethically, justify him ethically for suspending the ethical duty to the son, yet without thereby exceeding the ethical's own teleology.
When an enterprise involving a whole nation is prevented, when such an enterprise is brought to a halt by heaven's disfavour, when divine wrath sends a dead calm which mocks every effort, when the soothsayer performs his sad task and proclaims that the deity demands a young girl as a sacrifice — then it is with heroism that the father has to make that sacrifice. Nobly will he hide his grief though he could wish he were 'the lowly man who dares to weep' and not the king who must bear himself as befits a king. And however solitarily the pain enters his breast, for he has only three confidants among his people, soon the entire population will be privy to his pain, but also to his deed, to the fact that for the well-being of the whole he was willing to offer that girl, his daughter, this lovely young maiden. Oh, what bosom! What fair cheeks! What flaxen hair! And the daughter will touch him with her tears, and the father avert his face, but the hero will raise the knife. And when the news of this reaches the ancestral home all the beauteous maidens of Greece will blush with animation, and were the daughter a bride the betrothed would not be angered but proud to have been party to the father's deed, because the maiden belonged to him more tenderly than to the father.
When that bold judge, who saved Israel in the hour of need binds God and himself in one breath with the same promise, then it is with heroism that he is to transform the young girl's jubilation, the beloved daughter's joy, to sorrow, and all Israel will grieve with her maidenly youth; but every free-born man will understand Jephthah, every stout-hearted woman admire him, and every maiden in Israel will want to do as his daughter; for what good would it be for Jephthah to triumph by making his promise but fail to keep it? Would the victory not be taken once more from the people?
When a son forgets his duty, when the State entrusts the father with the sword of judgement, when the laws demand punishment at the father's hand, then it is with heroism that the father must forget that the guilty one is his son. Nobly will he hide his pain, but in the nation there will be not one, not even the son, who fails to admire the father, and every time the laws of Rome are interpreted it will be recalled that many interpreted them more learnedly but none more gloriously than Brutus.
On the other hand, if it had been while his fleet was being borne by wind under full sail to its destination that Agamemnon had sent that messenger who brought Iphigenia to the sacrifice; if unbound by any promise that would decide the fate of his people Jephthah had said to his daughter: 'Sorrow now for two months henceforth over the short day of your youth, for I shall sacrifice you'; if Brutus had had a righteous son and still called upon the lictors to execute him — who would understand them? If to the question, why did you do it?, these three had replied: 'It is a trial in which we are being tested', would one then have understood them better?
When at the decisive moment Agamemnon, Jephthah, and Brutus heroically overcome their pain, have heroically given up the loved one, and have only the outward deed to perform, then never a noble soul in the world will there be but sheds tears of sympathy for their pain, tears of admiration for their deed. But if at that decisive moment these three men had added to the heroism with which they bore their pain the little words 'It won't happen', who then would understand them? If in explanation they added: 'We believe it on the strength of the absurd', who then would understand them better? For who would not readily understand that it was absurd? But who would understand that for that reason one could believe it?
The difference between the tragic hero and Abraham is obvious enough. The tragic hero stays within the ethical. He lets an expression of the ethical have its telos in a higher expression of the ethical; he reduces the ethical relation between father and son, or daughter and father, to a sentiment that has its dialectic in its relation to the idea of the ethical life. Here, then, there can be no question of a teleological suspension of the ethical itself.
With Abraham it is different. In his action he overstepped the ethical altogether, and had a higher telos outside it, in relation to which he suspended it. For how could one ever bring Abraham's action into relationship with the universal? How could any point of contact ever be discovered between what Abraham did and the universal other than that Abraham overstepped it? It is not to save a nation, not to uphold the idea of the State, that Abraham did it, not to appease angry gods. If there was any question of the deity's being angry, it could only have been Abraham he was angry with, and Abraham's whole action stands in no relation to the universal, it is a purely private undertaking. While, then, the tragic hero is great through his deed's being an expression of the ethical life, Abraham is great through an act of purely personal virtue. There is no higher expression of the ethical in Abraham's life than that the father shall love the son. The ethical in the sense of the ethical life is quite out of the question. In so far as the universal was there at all it was latent in Isaac, concealed as it were in his loins, and it would have to cry out with Isaac's mouth: 'Don't do it, you are destroying everything.'
Then why does Abraham do it? For God's sake, and what is exactly the same, for his own. He does it for the sake of God because God demands this proof of his faith; he does it for his own sake in order to be able to produce the proof. The unity here is quite properly expressed in the saying in which this relationship has always been described: it is a trial, a temptation. A temptation, but what does that mean? What we usually call a temptation is something that keeps a person from carrying out a duty, but here the temptation is the ethical itself which would keep him from doing God's will. But then what is the duty? For the duty is precisely the expression of God's will.
Here we see the need for a new category for understanding Abraham. Such a relationship to the divine is unknown to paganism. The tragic hero enters into no private relationship with God, but the ethical is the divine and therefore the paradox in the divine can be mediated in the universal.
Abraham cannot be mediated, which can also be put by saying he cannot speak. The moment I speak I express the universal, and when I do not no one can understand me. So the moment Abraham wants to express himself in the universal, he has to say that his situation is one of temptation, for he has no higher expression of the universal that overrides the universal he transgresses.
Thus while Abraham arouses my admiration, he also appals me. The person who denies himself and sacrifices himself for duty gives up the finite in order to grasp on to the infinite; he is secure enough. The tragic hero gives up what is certain for what is still more certain, and the eye of the beholder rests confidently upon him. But the person who gives up the universal to grasp something still higher that is not the universal, what does he do? Can this be anything but temptation? And if it were something else but the individual were mistaken, what salvation is there for him? He suffers all the pain of the tragic hero, he brings all his joy in the world to nothing, he abandons everything, and perhaps the same instant debars himself from that exalted joy so precious to him that he would buy it at any price. That person the beholder cannot at all understand, nor let his eye rest upon him with confidence. Perhaps what the believer intends just cannot be done, after all it is unthinkable. Or if it could be done and the individual had misunderstood the deity, what salvation would there be for him? The tragic hero, he needs tears and he claims them; yes, where was that envious eye so barren as not to weep with Agamemnon, but where was he whose soul was so confused as to presume to weep for Abraham? The tragic hero has done with his deed at a definite moment in time, but in the course of time he achieves something no less important, he seeks out the one whose soul is beset with sorrow, whose breast cannot draw air for its stifled sighs, whose thoughts, weighed down with tears, hang heavy upon him; he appears before him, he breaks the spell of grief, loosens the corset, coaxes forth the tear by making the sufferer forget his own suffering in his. Abraham one cannot weep over. One approaches him with a horror religiosus [holy terror] like that in which Israel approached Mount Sinai. What if the lonely man who climbs the mountain in Moriah, whose peak soars heaven-high over the plains of Aulis, is not a sleepwalker who treads surefootedly over the abyss, while someone standing at the foot of the mountain, seeing him there, trembles with anxiety and out of respect and fear dares not even shout to him — what if he should be distracted, what if he has made a mistake? — Thanks! And thanks again, to whoever holds out to one who has been assaulted and left naked by life's sorrows, holds out to him the leaf of the word with which to hide his misery. Thanks to you, great Shakespeare!, you who can say everything, everything, everything exactly as it is — and yet why was this torment one you never gave voice to? Was it perhaps that you kept it to yourself, like the beloved whose name one still cannot bear the world to mention? For a poet buys this power of words to utter all the grim secrets of others at the cost of a little secret he himself cannot utter, and a poet is not an apostle, he casts devils out only by the power of the devil.
But now when the ethical is thus teleologically suspended, how does the single individual in whom it is suspended exist? He exists as the particular in opposition to the universal. Does this mean he sins? For this is the form of sin looked at ideally, just as the fact that the child does not sin because it is not conscious of its own existence as such does not mean that, looked at ideally, its existence is not that of sin or that the ethical does not make its demands of the child at every moment. If this form cannot be said to repeat itself in a way other than that of sin, then judgement has been delivered upon Abraham. Then how did Abraham exist? He had faith. That is the paradox that keeps him at the extremity and which he cannot make clear to anyone else, for the paradox is that he puts himself as the single individual in an absolute relation to the absolute. Is he justified? His justification is, once again, the paradox; for if he is the paradox it is not by virtue of being anything universal, but of being the particular.
How does the single individual assure himself that he is justified? It is a simple enough matter to level the whole of existence down to the idea of the State or to a concept of society. If one does that one can no doubt also mediate; for in this way one does not come to the paradox at all, to the single individual's as such being higher than the universal, which I can also put pointedly in a proposition of Pythagoras's, that the odd numbers are more perfect than the even. Should one happen to catch word of an answer in the direction of the paradox in our time, it will no doubt go like this: 'That's to be judged by the outcome.' A hero who has become the scandal of his generation, aware that he is a paradox that cannot be understood, cries undaunted to his contemporaries: 'The future will show I was right!' This cry is heard less frequently nowadays, for as our age to its detriment produces no heroes, so it has the advantage that it also produces few caricatures. Whenever nowadays we hear the words 'That's to be judged by the outcome' we know immediately with whom we have the honour of conversing. Those who speak thus are a populous tribe which, to give them a common name, I shall call the 'lecturers'. They live in their thoughts, secure in life, they have a permanent position and sure prospects in a well-organized State; they are separated by centuries, even millennia, from the convulsions of existence; they have no fear that such things could happen again; what would the police and the newspapers say? Their lifework is to judge the great, to judge them according to the outcome. Such conduct in respect of greatness betrays a strange mixture of arrogance and pitifulness, arrogance because they feel called to pass judgement, pitifulness because they feel their lives unrelated in even the remotest manner to those of the great. Surely anyone with a speck of erectior ingenii [nobility of mind] cannot become so completely the cold and clammy mollusc as to lose sight altogether, in approaching the great, of the fact that ever since the Creation it has been accepted practice for the outcome to come last, and that if one is really to learn something from the great it is precisely the beginning one must attend to. If anyone on the verge of action should judge himself according to the outcome, he would never begin. Even though the result may gladden the whole world, that cannot help the hero; for he knows the result only when the whole thing is over, and that is not how he becomes a hero, but by virtue of the fact that he began.
But in any case the outcome in its dialectic (in so far as it is finitude's answer to the infinite question) is totally incompatible with the existence of the hero. Or are we to take it that Abraham was justified in relating himself as the single individual to the universal by the fact that he got Isaac by a marvel? Had Abraham actually sacrificed Isaac, would that have meant he was less justified?
But it is the outcome that arouses our curiosity, as with the conclusion of a book; one wants nothing of the fear, the distress, the paradox. One flirts with the outcome aesthetically; it comes as unexpectedly and yet as effortlessly as a prize in the lottery; and having heard the outcome one is improved. And yet no robber of temples hard-labouring in chains is so base a criminal as he who plunders the holy in this way, and not even Judas, who sold his master for thirty pieces of silver, is more contemptible than the person who would thus offer greatness for sale.
It goes against my nature to speak inhumanly of greatness, to let its grandeur fade into an indistinct outline at an immense distance, or represent it as great without the human element in it coming to the fore — whence it ceases to be the great; for it is not what happens to me that makes me great, but what I do, and there is surely no one who thinks that anyone became great by winning the big lottery prize. Even of a person born in humble circumstances I ask that he should not be so inhuman towards himself as to be unable to think of the king's castle except at a distance and by dreaming of its grandeur indistinctly, wanting to exalt it and simultaneously destroying its grandeur by exalting it in such a debasing way. I ask that he be human enough to approach and bear himself with confidence and dignity there too. He should not be so inhuman as shamelessly to want to violate every rule of respect by storming into the king's salon straight from the street — he loses more by doing that than the king; on the contrary he should find pleasure in observing every rule of decorum with a glad and confident enthusiasm, which is just what will make him frank and open-hearted. This is only an analogy, for the difference here is only a very imperfect expression of the spiritual distance. I ask everyone not to think so inhumanly of himself as to dare not set foot in those palaces where not just the memory of the chosen lives on but the chosen themselves. He should not push himself shamelessly forward and thrust upon them his kinship with them, he should feel happy every time he bows before them, but be frank and confident and always something more than a cleaning woman; for unless he wants to be more than that he will never come in there. And what will help him are exactly the fear and distress in which the great are tried, for otherwise, at least if there is a drop of red blood in him, they will merely arouse his righteous envy. And whatever can only be great at a distance, whatever people want to exalt with empty and hollow phrases, that they themselves reduce to nothing.
Was there ever in the world anyone as great as that blessed woman, the mother of God, the Virgin Mary? And yet how do people speak of her? To say she was favoured among women doesn't make her great, and if it were not for the odd fact that those who listen can think as inhumanly as those who speak, surely every young girl would ask, why am I not favoured too? And had I nothing more to say I should by no means dismiss such a question as stupid; for as regards favours, abstractly considered, everyone is equally entitled. What is left out is the distress, the fear, the paradox. My thought is as pure as the next man's and surely the thought of anyone able to think in this way will be pure; if not, something dreadful is in store; for a person who has once called these images to mind cannot be rid of them again, and if he sins against them, then in their quiet wrath, more terrifying than the clamour often voracious critics, they will wreak their awful vengeance on him. No doubt Mary bore the child miraculously, but it went with Mary 'after the manner of women', and such a time is one of fear, distress, and paradox. No doubt the angel was a ministering spirit, but he was not an obliging one who went round to all the other young girls in Israel and said: 'Do not despise Mary, something out of the ordinary is happening to her.' The angel came only to Mary, and no one could understand her. Yet what woman was done greater indignity than Mary, and isn't it true here too that those whom God blesses he damns in the same breath? This is the spirit's understanding of Mary, and she is not at all — as it offends me to say, though even more so that people have mindlessly and irresponsibly thought of her thus — she is not at all the fine lady sitting in her finery and playing with a divine child. Yet for saying notwithstanding, 'Behold the handmaid of the Lord', she is great, and it seems to me that it should not be difficult to explain why she became the mother of God. She needs no worldly admiration, as little as Abraham needs our tears, for she was no heroine and he no hero, but both of them became greater than that, not by any means by being relieved of the distress, the agony, and the paradox, but because of these.
Great indeed it is when the poet presents his tragic hero for popular admiration and dares to say: 'Weep for him, for he deserves it'; for there is greatness in meriting the tears of those who deserve to shed them; great indeed for the poet to dare hold the crowd in check, dare discipline people into testing their own worthiness to weep for the hero, for the waste-water of snivellers is a degradation of the holy. But greater than all these is that the knight of faith dares to say even to the noble person who would weep for him: 'Do not weep for me, but weep for yourself.'
One is stirred, one harks back to those beautiful times, sweet tender longings lead one to the goal of one's desire, to see Christ walking about in the promised land. One forgets the fear, the distress, the paradox. Was it so easy a matter not to be mistaken? Was it not a fearful thought that this man who walked among the others was God? Was it not terrifying to sit down to eat with him? Was it so easy a matter to become an apostle? But the outcome, eighteen centuries, that helps; it helps that shabby deception wherein one deceives oneself and others. I do not feel brave enough to wish to be contemporary with such events, but for that reason I do not judge harshly of those who were mistaken, nor think meanly of those who saw the truth.
But now I return to Abraham. In the time before the outcome either Abraham was a murderer every minute or we stay with the paradox which is higher than all mediation.
So Abraham's story contains a teleological suspension of the ethical. He has, as the single individual, become higher than the universal. This is the paradox which cannot be mediated. How he got into it is just as inexplicable as how he stayed in it. If this is not how it is with Abraham, then he is not even a tragic hero but a murderer. To want to go on calling him the father of faith, to talk of this to those who are only concerned with words, is thoughtless. A tragic hero can become a human being by his own strength, but not the knight of faith. When a person sets out on the tragic hero's admittedly hard path there are many who could lend him advice; but he who walks the narrow path of faith no one can advise, no one understand. Faith is a marvel, and yet no human being is excluded from it; for that in which all human life is united is passion, 【4】 and faith is a passion.