Come up with TWO questions with explanations.

 

Come up with TWO questions with explanations. 

1-2 pages, double-spaced, Time New Roman 12

You are expected to come up with two questions that you think are most relevant to understanding assigned reading in relation to the issue of sacrifice.

For each question, you are also required to provide an explanation for the reason why you think it is important.

The attached file is the assigned reading.

lover more gloriously than does any other; hereafter thou cost make him blessed in thy
bosom; here thou cost enthral his eyes and his heart by the marvel of thy deed.
Venerable Father Abraham! Second Father of the human race! Thou who first wast
sensible of and didst first bear witness to that prodigious passion which disdains the
dreadful conflict with the rage of the elements and with the powers of creation in order
to strive with God; thou who first didst know that highest passion, the holy, pure and
humble expression of the divine madness16 which the pagans admired–forgive him who
would speak in praise of thee, if he does not do it fittingly. He spoke humbly, as if it
were the desire of his own heart, he spoke briefly, as it becomes him to do, but he will
never forget that thou hadst need of a hundred years to obtain a son of old age against
expectation, that thou didst have to draw the knife before retaining Isaac; he will never
forget that in a hundred and thirty years thou didst not get further than to faith.

PROBLEMATA: PRELIMINARY EXPECTORATION

An old proverb fetched from the outward and visible world says: “Only the man that
works gets the bread.” Strangely enough this proverb does not aptly apply in that world
to which it expressly belongs. For the outward world is subjected to the law of
imperfection, and again and again the experience is repeated that he too who does not
work gets the bread, and that he who sleeps gets it more abundantly than the man who
works. In the outward world everything is made payable to the bearer, this world is in
bondage to the law of indifference, and to him who has the ring, the spirit of the ring is
obedient, whether he be Noureddin or Aladdin,17 and he who has the world’s treasure,
has it, however he got it. It is different in the world of spirit. Here an eternal divine
order prevails, here it does not rain both upon the just and upon the unjust, here the
sun does not shine both upon the good and upon the evil, here it holds good that only
he who works gets the bread, only he who was in anguish finds repose, only he who
descends into the underworld rescues the beloved, only he who draws the knife gets
Isaac. He who will not work does not get the bread but remains deluded, as the gods
deluded Orpheus with an airy figure in place of the loved one, deluded him because he
was effeminate, not courageous, because he was a cithara-player, not a man. Here it is
of no use to have Abraham for one’s father, nor to have seventeen ancestors–he who
will not work must take note of what is written about the maidens of Israel,18 for he
gives birth to wind, but he who is willing to work gives birth to his own father.

There is a knowledge which would presumptuously introduce into the world of
spirit the same law of indifference under which the external world sighs. It counts it
enough to think the great–other work is not necessary. But therefore it doesn’t get the
bread, it perishes of hunger, while everything is transformed into gold. And what does it
really know? There were many thousands of Greek contemporaries, and countless
numbers in subsequent generations, who knew all the triumphs of Miltiades, but only
one19 was made sleepless by them. There were countless generations which knew by
rote, word for word, the story of Abraham–how many were made sleepless by it?

Now the story of Abraham has the remarkable property that it is always
glorious, however poorly one may understand it; yet here again the proverb applies,
that all depends upon whether one is willing to labor and be heavy laden. But they will
not labor, and yet they would understand the story. They exalt Abraham–but how? They
express the whole thing in perfectly general terms: “The great thing was that he loved
God so much that he was willing to sacrifice to Him the best.” That is very true, but “the
best” is an indefinite expression. In the course of thought, as the tongue wags on, Isaac
and “the best” are confidently identified, and he who meditates can very well smoke his
pipe during the meditation, and the auditor can very well stretch out his legs in comfort.

In case that rich young man whom Christ encountered on the road had sold all his
goods and given to the poor, we should extol him, as we do all that is great, though
without labor we would not understand him–and yet he would not have become an
Abraham, in spite of the fact that he offered his best. What they leave out of Abraham’s
history is dread;20 for to money I have no ethical obligation, but to the son the father
has the highest and most sacred obligation. Dread, however, is a perilous thing for
effeminate natures, hence they forget it, and in spite of that they want to talk about
Abraham. So they talk–in the course of the oration they use indifferently the two terms,
Isaac and “the best.” All goes famously. However, if it chanced that among the auditors
there was one who suffered from insomnia–then the most dreadful, the profoundest
tragic and comic misunderstanding lies very close. He went home, he would do as
Abraham did, for the son is indeed “the best.”

If the orator got to know of it, he perhaps went to him, he summoned all his
clerical dignity, he shouted, “O abominable man, offscouring of society, what devil
possessed thee to want to murder thy son?” And the parson, who had not been
conscious of warmth or perspiration in preaching about Abraham, is astonished at
himself, at the earnest wrath which he thundered down upon that poor man. He was
delighted with himself, for he had never spoken with such verve and unction. He said to
himself and to his wife, “I am an orator. What I lacked was the occasion. When I talked
about Abraham on Sunday I did not feel moved in the least.” In case the same orator
had a little superabundance of reason which might be lost, I think he would have lost it
if the sinner were to say calmly and with dignity, “That in fact is what you yourself
preached on Sunday.” How could the parson be able to get into his head such a
consequence? And yet it was so, and the mistake was merely that he didn’t know what
he was saying. Would there were a poet who might resolve to prefer such situations,
rather than the stuff and nonsense with which comedies and novels are filled! The comic
and the tragic here touch one another at the absolute point of infinity. The parson’s
speech was perhaps in itself ludicrous enough, but it became infinitely ludicrous by its
effect, and yet this consequence was quite natural. Or if the sinner, without raising any
objection, were to be converted by the parson’s severe lecture, if the zealous clergyman
were to go joyfully home, rejoicing in the consciousness that he not only was effective
in the pulpit, but above all by his irresistible power as a pastor of souls, who on Sunday
roused the congregation to enthusiasm, and on Monday like a cherub with a flaming
sword placed himself before the man who by his action wanted to put to shame the old
proverb, that “things don’t go on in the world as the parson preaches.”*

*In the old days they said, “What a pity things don’t go on in the world as the parson
preaches”–perhaps the time is coming, especially with the help of philosophy, when they will
say, “Fortunately things don’t go on as the parson preaches; for after all there is some sense in
life, but none at all in his preaching.”

If on the other hand the sinner was not convinced, his situation is pretty tragic.
Presumably he would be executed or sent to the lunatic asylum, in short, he would have
become unhappy in relation to so-called reality–in another sense I can well think that
Abraham made him happy, for he that labors does not perish.

How is one to explain the contradichon illustrated by that orator? Is it because
Abraham had a prescriptive right to be a great man, so that what he did is great, and
when another does the same it is sin, a heinous sin? In that case I do not wish to
participate in such thoughtless eulogy. If faith does not make it a holy act to be willing

to murder one’s son, then let the same condemnation be pronounced upon Abraham as
upon every other man. If a man perhaps lacks courage to carry his thought through,
and to say that Abraham was a murderer, then it is surely better to acquire this
courage, rather than waste time upon undeserved eulogies. The ethical expression for
what Abraham did is, that he would murder Isaac; the religious expression is, that he
would sacrifice Isaac; but precisely in this contradiction consists the dread which can
well make a man sleepless, and yet Abraham is not what he is without this dread. Or
perhaps he did not do at all what is related, but something altogether different, which is
accounted for by the circumstances of his times–then let us forget him, for it is not
worth while to remember that past which cannot become a present. Or had perhaps
that orator forgotten something which corresponds to the ethical forgetfulness of the
fact that Isaac was the son? For when faith is eliminated by becoming null or nothing,
then there only remains the crude fact that Abraham wanted to murder Isaac–which is
easy enough for anyone to imitate who has not faith, the faith, that is to say, which
makes it hard for him.

For my part I do not lack the courage to think a thought whole. Hitherto there
has been no thought I have been afraid of; if I should run across such a thought, I hope
that I have at least the sincerity to say, “I am afraid of this thought, it stirs up
something else in me, and therefore I will not think it. If in this I do wrong, the
punishment will not fail to follow.” If I had recognized that it was the verdict of truth
that Abraham was a murderer, I do not know whether I would have been able to silence
my pious veneration for him. However, if I had thought that, I presumably would have
kept silent about it, for one should not initiate others into such thoughts. But Abraham
is no dazzling illusion, he did not sleep into renown, it was not a whim of fate.

Can one then speak plainly about Abraham without incurring the danger that an
individual might in bewilderment go ahead and do likewise? If I do not dare to speak
freely, I will be completely silent about Abraham, above all I will not disparage him in
such a way that precisely thereby he becomes a pitfall for the weak. For if one makes
faith everything, that is, makes it what it is, then, according to my way of thinking, one
may speak of it without danger in our age, which hardly extravagates in the matter of
faith, and it is only by faith one attains likeness to Abraham, not by murder. If one
makes love a transitory mood, a voluptuous emotion in a man, then one only lays
pitfalls for the weak when one would talk about the exploits of love. Transient emotions
every man surely has, but if as a consequence of such emotions one would do the
terrible thing which love has sanctified as an immortal exploit, then all is lost, including
the exploit and the bewildered doer of it.

So one surely can talk about Abraham, for the great can never do harm when it
is apprehended in its greatness; it is like a two-edged sword which slays and saves. If it
should fall to my lot to talk on the subject, I would begin by showing what a pious and
God-fearing man Abraham was, worthy to be called God’s elect. Only upon such a man
is imposed such a test. But where is there such a man? Next I would describe how
Abraham loved Isaac. To this end I would pray all good spirits to come to my aid, that
my speech might be as glowing as paternal love is. I hope that I should be able to
describe it in such a way that there would not be many a father in the realms and
territories of the King who would dare to affirm that he loved his son in such a way. But
if he does not love like Abraham, then every thought of offering Isaac would be not a
trial but a base temptation [Anfechtung]. On this theme one could talk for several
Sundays, one need be in no haste. The consequence would be that, if one spoke rightly,
some few of the fathers would not require to hear more, but for the time being they
would be joyful if they really succeeded in loving their sons as Abraham loved. If there
was one who, after having heard about the greatness, but also about the dreadfulness
of Abraham’s deed, ventured to go forth upon that road, I would saddle my horse and
ride with him. At every stopping place till we came to Mount Moriah I would explain to

him that he still could turn back, could repent the misunderstanding that he was called
to be tried in such a conflict, that he could confess his lack of courage, so that God
Himself must take Isaac, if He would have him. It is my conviction that such a man is
not repudiated but may become blessed like all the others. But in time he does not
become blessed. Would they not, even in the great ages of faith, have passed this
judgment upon such a man? I knew a person who on one occasion could have saved my
life if he21 had been magnanimous. He said, “I see well enough what I could do, but I
do not dare to. I am afraid that later I might lack strength and that I should regret it.”
He was not magnanimous, but who for this cause would not continue to love him?

Having spoken thus and moved the audience so that at least they had sensed
the dialectical conflict of faith and its gigantic passion, I would not give rise to the error
on the part of the audience that “he then has faith in such a high degree that it is
enough for us to hold on to his skirts.” For I would add, “I have no faith at all, I am by
nature a shrewd pate, and every such person always has great difficulty in making the
movements of faith–not that I attach, however, in and for itself, any value to this
difficulty which through the overcoming of it brought the clever head further than the
point which the simplest and most ordinary man reaches more easily.”

After all, in the poets love has its priests, and sometimes one hears a voice
which knows how to defend it; but of faith one hears never a word. Who speaks in
honor of this passion? Philosophy goes further. Theology sits rouged at the window and
courts its favor, offering to sell her charms to philosophy. It is supposed to be difficult
to understand Hegel, but to understand Abraham is a trifle. To go beyond Hegel22 is a
miracle, but to get beyond Abraham is the easiest thing of all. I for my part have
devoted a good deal of time to the understanding of the Hegelian philosophy, I believe
also that I understand it tolerably well, but when in spite of the trouble I have taken
there are certain passages I cannot understand, I am foolhardy enough to think that he
himself has not been quite clear. All this I do easily and naturally, my head does not
suffer from it. But on the other hand when I have to think of Abraham, I am as though
annihilated. I catch sight every moment of that enormous paradox which is the
substance of Abraham’s life, every moment I am repelled, and my thought in spite of all
its passion cannot get a hairs-breadth further. I strain every muscle to get a view of
it–that very instant I am paralyzed.

I am not unacquainted with what has been admired as great and noble in the
world, my soul feels affinity with it, being convinced in all humility that it was in my
cause the hero contended, and the instant I contemplate his deed I cry out to myself,
jam tua res agitur.23 I think myself into the hero, but into Abraham I cannot think
myself; when I reach the height I fall down, for what I encounter there is the paradox. I
do not however mean in any sense to say that faith is something lowly, but on the
contrary that it is the highest thing, and that it is dishonest of philosophy to give
something else instead of it and to make light of faith. Philosophy cannot and should
not give faith, but it should understand itself and know what it has to offer and take
nothing away, and least of all should fool people out of something as if it were nothing.
I am not unacquainted with the perplexities and dangers of life, I do not fear them, and
I encounter them buoyantly. I am not unacquainted with the dreadful, my memory is a
faithful wife, and my imagination is (as I myself am not) a diligent little maiden who all
day sits quietly at her work, and in the evening knows how to chat to me about it so
prettily that I must look at it, though not always, I must say, is it landscapes, or
flowers, or pastoral idyls she paints. I have seen the dreadful before my own eyes, I do
not flee from it timorously, but I know very well that, although I advance to meet it, my
courage is not the courage of faith, nor anything comparable to it. I am unable to make
the movements of faith, I cannot shut my eyes and plunge confidently into the absurd,
for me that is an impossibility … but I do not boast of it. I am convinced that God is
love,24 this thought has for me a primitive lyrical validity. When it is present to me, I

am unspeakably blissful, when it is absent, I long for it more vehemently than does the
lover for his object; but I do not believe, this courage I lack. For me the love of God is,
both in a direct and in an inverse sense, incommensurable with the whole of reality. I
am not cowardly enough to whimper and complain, but neither am I deceitful enough to
deny that faith is something much higher. I can well endure living in my way, I am
joyful and content, but my joy is not that of faith, and in comparison with that it is
unhappy. I do not trouble God with my petty sorrows, the particular does not trouble
me, I gaze only at my love, and I keep its virginal flame pure and clear. Faith is
convinced that God is concerned about the least things. I am content in this life with
being married to the left hand, faith is humble enough to demand the right hand–for
that this is humility I do not deny and shall never deny.

But really is everyone in my generation capable of making the movements of
faith, I wonder? Unless I am very much mistaken, this generation is rather inclined to
be proud of making what they do not even believe I am capable of making, viz.
incomplete movements. It is repugnant to me to do as so often is done, namely, to
speak inhumanly about a great deed, as though some thousands of years were an
immense distance; I would rather speak humanly about it, as though it had occurred
yesterday, letting only the greatness be the distance, which either exalts or condemns.
So if (in the quality of a tragic hero, for I can get no higher) I had been summoned to
undertake such a royal progress to Mount Moriah, I know well what I would have done.
I would not have been cowardly enough to stay at home, neither would I have laid
down or sauntered along the way, nor have forgotten the knife, so that there might be
a little delay–I am pretty well convinced that I would have been there on the stroke of
the clock and would have had everything in order, perhaps I would have arrived too
early in order to get through with it sooner. But I also know what else I would have
done. The very instant I mounted the horse I would have said to myself, “Now all is
lost. God requires Isaac, I sacrifice him, and with him my joy–yet God is love and
continues to be that for me; for in the temporal world God and I cannot talk together,
we have no language in common.” Perhaps one or another in our age will be foolish
enough, or envious enough of the great, to want to make himself and me believe that if
I really had done this, I would have done even a greater deed than Abraham; for my
prodigious resignation was far more ideal and poetic than Abraham’s narrow-
mindedness. And yet this is the greatest falsehood, for my prodigious resignation was
the surrogate for faith, nor could I do more than make the infinite movement, in order
to find myself and again repose in myself. In that case I would not have loved Isaac as
Abraham loved. That I was resolute in making the movement might prove my courage,
humanly speaking; that I loved him with all my soul is the presumption apart from
which the whole thing becomes a crime, but yet I did not love like Abraham, for in that
case I would have held back even at the last minute, though not for this would I have
arrived too late at Mount Moriah. Besides, by my behavior I would have spoiled the
whole story; for if I had got Isaac back again, I would have been in embarrassment.
What Abraham found easiest, I would have found hard, namely to be joyful again with
Isaac; for he who with all the infinity of his soul, propio motu et propiis auspiciis [by his
own power and on his own responsibility], has performed the infinite movement [of
resignation] and cannot do more, only retains Isaac with pain.

But what did Abraham do? He arrived neither too soon nor too late. He mounted
the ass, he rode slowly along the way. All that time he believed–he believed that God
would not require Isaac of him, whereas he was willing nevertheless to sacrifice him if it
was required. He believed by virtue of the absurd; for there could be no question of
human calculation, and it was indeed the absurd that God who required it of him should
the next instant recall the requirement. He climbed the mountain, even at the instant
when the knife glittered he believed … that God would not require Isaac. He was indeed
astonished at the outcome, but by a double-movement he had reached his first position,
and therefore he received Isaac more gladly than the first time. Let us go further. We
let Isaac be really sacrificed. Abraham believed. He did not believe that some day he

would be blessed in the beyond, but that he would be happy here in the world. God
could give him a new Isaac, could recall to life him who had been sacrificed. He believed
by virtue of the absurd; for all human reckoning had long since ceased to function. That
sorrow can derange a man’s mind, that we see, and it is sad enough. That there is such
a thing as strength of will which is able to haul up so exceedingly close to the wind that
it saves a man’s reason, even though he remains a little queer,25 that too one sees. I
have no intention of disparaging this; but to be able to lose one’s reason, and therefore
the whole of finiteness of which reason is the broker, and then by virtue of the absurd
to gain precisely the same finiteness–that appalls my soul, but I do not for this cause
say that it is something lowly, since on the contrary it is the only prodigy. Generally
people are of the opinion that what faith produces is not a work of art, that it is coarse
and common work, only for the more clumsy natures; but in fact this is far from the
truth. The dialectic of faith is the finest and most remarkable of all; it possesses an
elevation, of which indeed I can form a conception, but nothing more. I am able to
make from the springboard the great leap whereby I pass into infinity, my back is like
that of a tight-rope dancer, having been twisted in my childhood,26 hence I find this
easy; with a one-two-three! I can walk about existence on my head; but the next thing
I cannot do, for I cannot perform the miraculous, but can only be astonished by it. Yes,
if Abraham the instant he swung his leg over the ass’s back had said to himself, “Now,
since Isaac is lost, I might just as well sacrifice him here at home, rather than ride the
long way to Moriah”–then I should have no need of Abraham, whereas now I bow seven
times before his name and seventy times before his deed. For this indeed he did not do,
as I can prove by the fact that he was glad at receiving Isaac, heartily glad, that he
needed no preparation, no time to concentrate upon the finite and its joy. If this had
not been the case with Abraham, then perhaps he might have loved God but not
believed; for he who loves God without faith reflects upon himself, he who loves God
believingly reflects upon God.

Upon this pinnacle stands Abraham. The last stage he loses sight of is the
infinite resignation. He really goes further, and reaches faith; for all these caricatures of
faith, the miserable lukewarm indolence which thinks, “There surely is no instant need,
it is not worth while sorrowing before the time,” the pitiful hope which says, “One
cannot know what is going to happen … it might possibly be after all”–these caricatures
of faith are part and parcel of life’s wretchedness, and the infinite resignation has
already consigned them to infinite contempt.

Abraham I cannot understand,27 in a certain sense there is nothing I can learn
from him but astonishment. If people fancy that by considering the outcome of this
story they might let themselves be moved to believe, they deceive themselves and
want to swindle God out of the first movement of faith, the infinite resignation. They
would suck worldly wisdom out of the paradox. Perhaps one or another may succeed in
that, for our age is not willing to stop with faith, with its miracle of turning water into
wine, it goes further, it turns wine into water.

Would it not be better to stop with faith, and is it not revolting that everybody
wants to go further? When in our age (as indeed is proclaimed in various ways) they will
not stop with love, where then are they going? To earthy wisdom, to petty calculation,
to paltriness and wretchedness, to everything which can make man’s divine origin
doubtful. Would it not be better that they should stand still at faith, and that he who
stands should take heed lest he fall? For the movements of faith must constantly be
made by virtue of the absurd, yet in such a way, be it observed, that one does not lose
the finite but gains it every inch. For my part I can well describe the movements of
faith, but I cannot make them. When one would learn to make the motions of swimming
one can let oneself be hung by a swimming-belt from the ceiling and go through the
motions (describe them, so to speak, as we speak of describing a circle), but one is not
swimming. In that way I can describe the movements of faith, but when I am thrown

into the water, I swim, it is true (for I don’t belong to the beach-waders), but I make
other movements, I make the movements of infinity, whereas faith does the opposite:
after having made the movements of infinity, it makes those of finiteness. Hail to him
who can make those movements, he performs the marvellous, and I shall never grow
tired of admiring him, whether he be Abraham or a slave in Abraham’s house; whether
he be a professor of philosophy or a servant-girl, I look only at the movements. But at
them I do look, and do not let myself be fooled, either by myself or by any other man.
The knights of the infinite resignation are easily recognized: their gait is gliding and
assured. Those on the other hand who carry the jewel of faith are likely to be delusive,
because their outward appearance bears a striking resemblance to that which both the
infinite resignation and faith profoundly despise … to Philistinism.

I candidly admit that in my practice I have not found any reliable example of the
knight of faith, though I would not therefore deny that every second man may be such
an example. I have been trying, however, for several years to get on the track of this,
and all in vain. People commonly travel around the world to see rivers and mountains,
new stars, birds of rare plumage, queerly deformed fishes, ridiculous breeds of
men–they abandon themselves to the bestial stupor which gapes at existence, and they
think they have seen something. This does not interest me. But if I knew where there
was such a knight of faith, I would make a pilgrimage to him on foot, for this prodigy
interests me absolutely. I would not let go of him for an instant, every moment I would
watch to see how he managed to make the movements, I would regard myself as
secured for life, and would divide my time between looking at him and practicing the
exercises myself, and thus would spend all my time admiring him. As was said, I have
not found any such person, but I can well think him. Here he is. Acquaintance made, I
am introduced to him. The moment I set eyes on him I instantly push him from me, I
myself leap backwards, I clasp my hands and say half aloud, “Good Lord, is this the
man? Is it really he? Why, he looks like a tax-collector!” However, it is the man after all.
I draw closer to him, watching his least movements to see whether there might not be
visible a little heterogeneous fractional telegraphic message from the infinite, a glance,
a look, a gesture, a note of sadness, a smile, which betrayed the infinite in its
heterogeneity with the finite. No! I examine his figure from tip to toe to see if there
might not be a cranny through which the infinite was peeping. No! He is solid through
and through. His tread? It is vigorous, belongingentirely to finiteness; no smartly
dressed townsman who walksout to Fresberg on a Sunday afternoon treads the ground
more firmly, he belongs entirely to the world, no Philistine more so. One can discover
nothing of that aloof and superior nature whereby one recognizes the knight of the
infinite. He takes delight in everything, and whenever one sees him taking part in a
particular pleasure, he does it with the persistence which is the mark of the earthly man
whose soul is absorbed in such things. He tends to his work. So when one looks at him
one might suppose that he was a clerk who had lost his soul in an intricate system of
book-keeping, so precise is he. He takes a holiday on Sunday. He goes to church. No
heavenly glance or any other token of the incommensurable betrays him; if one did not
know him, it would be impossible to distinguish him from the rest of the congregation,
for his healthy and vigorous hymn-singing proves at the most that he has a good chest.
In the afternoon he walks to the forest. He takes delight in everything he sees, in the
human swarm, in the new omnibuses,25 in the water of the Sound; when one meets
him on the Beach Road one might suppose he was a shopkeeper taking his fling, that’s
just the way he disports himself, for he is not a poet, and I have sought in vain to
detect in him the poetic incommensurability. Toward evening he walks home, his gait is
as indefatigable as that of the postman. On his way he reflects that his wife has surely a
special little warm dish prepared for him, e.g. a calf’s head roasted, garnished with
vegetables. If he were to meet a man like-minded, he could continue as far as East
Gate to discourse with him about that dish, with a passion befitting a hotel chef. As it
happens, he hasn’t four pence to his name, and yet he fully and firmly believes that his
wife has that dainty dish for him. If she had it, it would then be an invidious sight for
superior people and an inspiring one for the plain man, to see him eat; for his appetite

is greater than Esau’s. His wife hasn’t it–strangely enough, it is quite the same to him.
On the way he comes past a building site and runs across another man. They talk
together for a moment. In the twinkling of an eye he erects a new building, he has at
his disposition all the powers necessary for it. The stranger leaves him with the thought
that he certainly was a capitalist, while my admired knight thinks, “Yes, if the money
were needed, I dare say I could get it.” He lounges at an open window and looks out on
the square on which he lives; he is interested in everything that goes on, in a rat which
slips under the curb, in the children’s play, and this with the nonchalance of a girl of
sixteen. And yet he is no genius, for in vain I have sought in him the
incommensurability of genius. In the evening he smokes his pipe; to look at him one
would swear that it was the grocer over the way vegetating in the twilight. He lives as
carefree as a ne’er-do-well, and yet he buys up the acceptable time at the dearest
price, for he does not do the least thing except by virtue of the absurd. And yet, and
yet–actually I could become furious over it, for envy if for no other reason–this man has
made and every instant is making the movements of infinity. With infinite resignation
he has drained the cup of life’s profound sadness, he knows the bliss of the infinite, he
senses the pain of renouncing everything, the dearest things he possesses in the world,
and yet finiteness tastes to him just as good as to one who never knew anything higher,
for his continuance in the finite did not bear a trace of the cowed and fearful spirit
produced by the process of training; and yet he has this sense of security in enjoying it,
as though the finite life were the surest thing of all. And yet, and yet the whole earthly
form he exhibits is a new creation by virtue of the absurd. He resigned everything
infinitely, and then he grasped everything again by virtue of the absurd. He constantly
makes the movements of infinity, but he does this with such correctness and assurance
that he constantly gets the finite out of it, and there is not a second when one has a
notion of anything else. It is supposed to be the most difficult task for a dancer to leap
into a definite posture in such a way that there is not a second when he is grasping
after the posture, but by the leap itself he stands fixed in that posture. Perhaps no
dancer can do it–that is what this knight does. Most people live dejectedly in worldly
sorrow and joy; they are the ones who sit along the wall and do not join in the dance.
The knights of infinity are dancers and possess elevation. They make the movements
upward, and fall down again; and this too is no mean pastime, nor ungraceful to
behold. But whenever they fall down they are not able at once to assume the posture,
they vacillate an instant, and this vacillation shows that after all they are strangers in
the world. This is more or less strikingly evident in proportion to the art they possess,
but even the most artistic knights cannot altogether conceal this vacillation. One need
not look at them when they are up in the air, but only the instant they touch or have
touched the ground–then one recognizes them. But to be able to fall down in such a
way that the same second it looks as if one were standing and walking, to transform the
leap of life into a walk, absolutely to express the sublime in the pedestrian–that only the
knight of faith can do–and this is the one and only prodigy.

But since the prodigy is so likely to be delusive, I will describe the movements in
a definite instance which will serve to illustrate their relation to reality, for upon this
everything turns. A young swain falls in love with a princess,29 and the whole content of
his life consists in this love, and yet the situation is such that it is impossible for it to be
realized, impossible for it to be translated from ideality into reality.*

*Of course any other instance whatsoever in which the individual finds that for him the whole
reality of actual existence is concentrated, may, when it is seen to be unrealizable, be an
occasion for the movement of resignation. However, I have chosen a love experience to make
the movement visible, because this interest is doubtless easier to understand, and so relieves
me from the necessity of making preliminary observations which in a deeper sense could be of
interest only to a few.

The slaves of paltriness, the frogs in life’s swamp, will naturally cry out, “Such a love is
foolishness. The rich brewer’s widow is a match fully as good and respectable.” Let
them croak in the swamp undisturbed. It is not so with the knight of infinite resignation,
he does not give up his love, not for all the glory of the world. He is no fool. First he
makes sure that this really is the content of his life, and his soul is too healthy and too
proud to squander the least thing upon an inebriation. He is not cowardly, he is not
afraid of letting love creep into his most secret, his most hidden thoughts, to let it twine
in innumerable coils about every ligament of his consciousness–if the love becomes an
unhappy love, he will never be able to tear himself loose from it. He feels a blissful
rapture in letting love tingle through every nerve, and yet his soul is as solemn as that
of the man who has drained the poisoned goblet and feels how the juice permeates
every drop of blood–for this instant is life and death.30 So when he has thus sucked into
himself the whole of love and absorbed himself in it, he does not lack courage to make
trial of everything and to venture everything. He surveys the situation of his life, he
convokes the swift thoughts, which like tame doves obey his every bidding, he waves
his wand over them, and they dart off in all directions. But when they all return, all as
messengers of sorrow, and declare to him that it is an impossibility, then he becomes
quiet, he dismisses them, he remains alone, and then he performs the movements. If
what I am saying is to have any significance, it is requisite that the movement come
about normally.*

*To this end passion is necessary. Every movement of infinity comes about by passion, and no
reflection can bring a movement about. This is the continual leap in existence which explains the
movement, whereas mediation is a chimera which according to Hegel is supposed to explain
everything, and at the same time this is the only thing he has never tried to explain. Even to
make the well-known Socratic distinction between what one understands and what one does not
understand, passion is required, and of course even more to make the characteristic Socratic
movement, the movement, namely, of ignorance. What our age lacks, however, is not reflection
but passion. Hence in a sense our age is too tenacious of life to die, for dying is one of the most
remarkable leaps, and a little verse of a poet has always attracted me much, because, after
having expressed prettily and simply in five or six preceding lines his wish for good things in life,
he concludes thus:31

Ein seliger Sprung in die Ewigkeit.

So for the first thing, the knight will have power to concentrate the whole content of life
and the whole significance of reality in one single wish. If a man lacks this
concentration, this intensity, if his soul from the beginning is dispersed in the
multifarious, he never comes to the point of making the movement, he will deal
shrewdly in life like the capitalists who invest their money in all sorts of securities, so as
to gain on the one what they lose on the other–in short, he is not a knight. In the next
place the knight will have the power to concentrate the whole result of the operations of
thought in one act of consciousness. If he lacks this intensity, if his soul from the
beginning is dispersed in the multifarious, he will never get time to make the
movements, he will be constantly running errands in life, never enter into eternity, for
even at the instant when he is closest to it he will suddenly discover that he has
forgotten something for which he must go back. He will think that to enter eternity is
possible the next instant, and that also is perfectly true, but by such considerations one
never reaches the point of making the movements, but by their aid one sinks deeper
and deeper into the mire.

So the knight makes the movement–but what movement? Will he forget the
whole thing? (For in this too there is indeed a kind of concentration.) No! For the knight
does not contradict himself, and it is a contradiction to forget the whole content of one’s
life and yet remain the same man. To become another man he feels no inclination, nor
does he by any means regard this as greatness. Only the lower natures forget
themselves and become something new. Thus the butterfly has entirely forgotten that it
was a caterpillar, perhaps it may in turn so entirely forget it was a butterfly that it
becomes a fish. The deeper natures never forget themselves and never become
anything else than what they were. So the knight remembers everything, but precisely
this remembrance is pain, and yet by the infinite resignation he is reconciled with
existence. Love for that princess became for him the expression for an eternal love,
assumed a religious character, was transfigured into a love for the Eternal Being, which
did to be sure deny him the fulfilment of his love, yet reconciled him again by the
eternal consciousness of its validity in the form of eternity, which no reality can take
from him. Fools and young men prate about everything being possible for a man. That,
however, is a great error. Spiritually speaking, everything is possible, but in the world
of the finite there is much which is not possible. This impossible, however, the knight
makes possible by expressing it spiritually, but he expresses it spiritually by waiving his
claim to it. The wish which would carry him out into reality, but was wrecked upon the
impossibility, is now bent inward, but it is not therefore lost, neither is it forgotten. At
one moment it is the obscure emotion of the wish within him which awakens
recollections, at another moment he awakens them himself; for he is too proud to be
willing that what was the whole content of his life should be the thing of a fleeting
moment. He keeps this love young, and along with him it increases in years and in
beauty. On the other hand, he has no need of the intervention of the finite for the
further growth of his love. From the instant he made the movement the princess is lost
to him. He has no need of those erotic tinglings in the nerves at the sight of the beloved
etc., nor does he need to be constantly taking leave of her in a finite sense, because he
recollects her in an eternal sense,32 and he knows very well that the lovers who are so
bent upon seeing “her” yet once again, to say farefell for the last time, are right in
being bent upon it, are right in thinking that it is the last time, for they forget one
another the soonest. He has comprehended the deep secret that also in loving another
person one must be sufficicut unto oneself. He no longer takes a finite interest in what
the princess is doing, and precisely this is proof that he has made the movement
infinitely. Here one may have an opportunity to see whether the movement on the part
of a particular person is true or fictitious. There was one who also believed that he had
made the movement; but lo, time passed, the princess did something else, she
married33–a prince, let us say–then his soul lost the elasticity of resignation. Thereby
he knew that he had not made the movement rightly; for he who has made the act of
resignation infinitely is sufficient unto himself. The knight does not annul his
resignation, he preserves his love just as young as it was in its first moment, he never
lets it go from him, precisely because he makes the movements infinitely. What the
princess does, cannot disturb him, it is only the lower natures which find in other people
the law for their actions, which find the premises for their actions outside themselves. If
on the other hand the princess is like-minded, the beautiful consequence will be
apparent. She will introduce herself into that order of knighthood into which one is not
received by balloting, but of which everyone is a member who has courage to introduce
himself, that order of knighthood which proves its immortality by the fact that it makes
no distinction between man and woman. The two will preserve their love young and
sound, she also will have triumphed over her pains, even though she does not, as it is
said in the ballad, “lie every night beside her lord.” These two will to all eternity remain
in agreement with one another, with a well-timed harmonia praestabilita,34 so that if
ever the moment were to come, the moment which does not, however, concern them
finitely (for then they would be growing older), if ever the moment were to come which
offered to give love its expression in time, then they will be capable of beginning
precisely at the point where they would have begun if originally they had been united.
He who understands this, be he man or woman, can never be deceived, for it is only the
lower natures which imagine they were deceived. No girl who is not so proud really

knows how to love; but if she is so proud, then the cunning and shrewdness of all the
world cannot deceive her.

In the infinite resignation there is peace and rest; every man who wills it, who
has not abased himself by scorning himself (which is still more dreadful than being
proud), can train himself to make this movement which in its pain reconciles one with
existence. Infinite resignation is that shirt we read about in the old fable.35 The thread
is spun under tears, the cloth bleached with tears, the shirt sewn with tears; but then
too it is a better protection than iron and steel. The imperfection in the fable is that a
third party can manufacture this shirt. The secret in life is that everyone must sew it for
himself, and the astonishing thing is that a man can sew it fully as well as a woman. In
the infinite resignation there is peace and rest and comfort in sorrow–that is, if the
movement is made normally. It would not be difficult for me, however, to write a whole
book, were I to examine the various misunderstandings, the preposterous attitudes, the
deceptive movements, which I have encountered in my brief practice. People believe
very little in spirit, and yet making this movement depends upon spirit, it depends upon
whether this is or is not a one-sided result of a dira necessitas, and if this is present,
the more dubious it always is whether the movement is normal. If one means by this
that the cold, unfruitful necessity must necessarily be present, one thereby affirms that
no one can experience death before he actually dies, and that appears to me a crass
materialism. However, in our time people concern themselves rather little about making
pure movements. In case one who was about to learn to dance were to say, “For
centuries now one generation after another has been learning positions, it is high time I
drew some advantage out of this and began straightway with the French dances”–then
people would laugh at him; but in the world of spirit they find this exceedingly plausible.
What is education? I should suppose that education was the curriculum one had to run
through in order to catch up with oneself, and he who will not pass through this
curriculum is helped very little by the fact that he was born in the most enlightened
age.

The infinite resignation is the last stage prior to faith, so that one who has not
made this movement has not faith; for only in the infinite resignation do I become clear
to myself with respect to my eternal validity, and only then can there be any question of
grasping existence by virtue of faith.

Now we will let the knight of faith appear in the role just described. He makes
exactly the same movements as the other knight, infinitely renounces claim to the love
which is the content of his life, he is reconciled in pain; but then occurs the prodigy, he
makes still another movement more wonderful than all, for he says, “I believe
nevertheless that I shall get her, in virtue, that is, of the absurd, in virtue of the fact
that with God all things are possible.”36 The absurd is not one of the factors which can
be discriminated within the proper compass of the understanding: it is not identical with
the improbable, the unexpected, the unforeseen. At the moment when the knight made
the act of resignation37 he was convinced, humanly speaking, of the impossibility. This
was the result reached by the understanding, and he had sufficient energy to think it.
On the other hand, in an infinite sense it was possible, namely, by renouncing it; but
this sort of possessing is at the same time a relinquishing, and yet there is no absurdity
in this for the understanding, for the understanding continued to be in the right in
affirming that in the world of the finite where it holds sway this was and remained an
impossibility. This is quite as clear to the knight of faith, so the only thing that can save
him is the absurd, and this he grasps by faith. So he recognizes the impossibility, and
that very instant he believes the absurd; for, if without recognizing the impossibility
with all the passion of his soul and with all his heart, he should wish to imagine that he
has faith, he deceives himself, and his testimony has no bearing, since he has not even
reached the infinite resignation.

Faith therefore is not an aesthetic emotion but something far higher, precisely
because it has resignation as its presupposition; it is not an immediate instinct of the
heart, but is the paradox of life and existence. So when in spite of all difficulties a young
girl still remains convinced that her wish will surely be fulfilled, this conviction is not the
assurance of faith, even if she was brought up by Christian parents, and for a whole
year perhaps has been catechized by the parson. She is convinced in all her childish
naïveté and innocence, this conviction also ennobles her nature and imparts to her a
preternatural greatness, so that like a thaumaturge she is able to conjure the finite
powers of existence and make the very stones weep, while on the other hand in her
flurry she may just as well run to Herod as to Pilate and move the whole world by her
tears. Her convichon is very lovable, and one can learn much from her, but one thing is
not to be learned from her, one does not learn the movements, for her conviction does
not dare in the pain of resignation to face the impossibility.

So I can perceive that it requires strength and energy and freedom of spirit to
make the infinite movement of resignation, I can also perceive that it is feasible. But
the next thing astonishes me, it makes my head swim, for after having made the
movement of resignation, then by virtue of the absurd to get everything, to get the
wish whole and uncurtailed–that is beyond human power, it is a prodigy. But this I can
perceive, that the young girl’s conviction is mere levity in comparison with the firmness
faith displays notwithstanding it has perceived the impossibility. Whenever I essay to
make this movement, I turn giddy, the very instant I am admiring it absolutely a
prodigious dread grips my soul–for what is it to tempt God? And yet this movement is
the movement of faith and remains such, even though philosophy, in order to confuse
the concepts, would make us believe that it has faith, and even though theology would
sell out faith at a bargain price.

For the act of resignation faith is not required, for what I gain by resignation is
my eternal consciousness, and this is a purely philosophical movement which I dare say
I am able to make if it is required, and which I can train myself to make, for whenever
any finiteness would get the mastery over me, I starve myself until I can make the
movement, for my eternal consciousness is my love to God, and for me this is higher
than everything. For the act of resignation faith is not required, but it is needed when it
is the case of acquiring the very least thing more than my eternal consciousness, for
this is the paradoxical. The movements are frequently confounded, for it is said that one
needs faith to renounce the claim to everything, yea, a stranger thing than this may be
heard, when a man laments the loss of his faith, and when one looks at the scale to see
where he is, one sees, strangely enough, that he has only reached the point where he
should make the infinite movement of resignation. In resignation I make renunciation of
everything, this movement I make by myself, and if I do not make it, it is because I am
cowardly and effeminate and without enthusiasm and do not feel the significance of the
lofty dignity which is assigned to every man, that of being his own censor, which is a far
prouder title than that of Censor General to the whole Roman Republic. This movement
I make by myself, and what I gain is myself in my eternal consciousness, in blissful
agreement with my love for the Eternal Being. By faith I make renunciation of nothing,
on the contrary, by faith I acquire everything, precisely in the sense in which it is said
that he who has faith like a grain of mustard can remove mountains. A purely human
courage is required to renounce the whole of the temporal to gain the eternal; but this I
gain, and to all eternity I cannot renounce it–that is a self-contradiction. But a
paradoxical and humble courage is required to grasp the whole of the temporal by
virtue of the absurd, and this is the courage of faith. By faith Abraham did not renounce
his claim upon Isaac, but by faith he got Isaac. By virtue of resignation that rich young
man should have given away everything, but then when he had done that, the knight of
faith should have said to him, “By virtue of the absurd thou shalt get every penny back
again. Canst thou believe that?” And this speech ought by no means to have been
indifferent to the aforesaid rich young man, for in case he gave away his goods because
he was tired of them, his resignation was not much to boast of.

It is about the temporal, the finite, everything turns in this case. I am able by
my own strength to renounce everything, and then to find peace and repose in pain. I
can stand everything–even though that horrible demon, more dreadful than death, the
king of terrors, even though madness were to hold up before my eyes the motley of the
fool, and I understood by its look that it was I who must put it on, I still am able to save
my soul, if only it is more to me than my earthly happiness that my love to God should
triumph in me. A man may still be able at the last instant to concentrate his whole soul
in a single glance toward that heaven from which cometh every good gift, and his
glance will be intelligible to himself and also to Him whom it seeks as a sign that he
nevertheless remained true to his love. Then he will calmly put on the motley garb. He
whose soul has not this romantic enthusiasm has sold his soul, whether he got a
kingdom for it or a paltry piece of silver. But by my own strength I am not able to get
the least of the things which belong to finiteness, for I am constantly using my strength
to renounce everything. By my own strength I am able to give up the princess, and I
shall not become a grumbler, but shall find joy and repose in my pain; but by my own
strength I am not able to get her again, for I am employing all my strength to be
resigned. But by faith, says that marvellous knight, by faith I shall get her in virtue of
the absurd.

So this movement I am unable to make. As soon as I would begin to make it
everything turns around dizzily, and I flee back to the pain of resignation. I can swim in
existence, but for this mystical soaring I am too heavy. To exist in such a way that my
opposition to existence is expressed as the most beautiful and assured harmony with it,
is something I cannot do. And yet it must be glorious to get the princess, that is what I
say every instant, and the knight of resignation who does not say it is a deceiver, he
has not had one only wish, and he has not kept the wish young by his pain. Perhaps
there was one who thought it fitting enough that the wish was no longer vivid, that the
barb of pain was dulled, but such a man is no knight. A free-born soul who caught
himself entertaining such thoughts would despise himself and begin over again, above
all he would not permit his soul to be deceived by itself. And yet it must be glorious to
get the princess, and yet the knight of faith is the only happy one, the heir apparent to
the finite, whereas the knight of resignation is a stranger and a foreigner. Thus to get
the princess, to live with her joyfully and happily day in and day out (for it is also
conceivable that the knight of resignation might get the princess, but that his soul had
discerned the impossibility of their future happiness), thus to live joyfully and happily
every instant by virtue of the absurd, every instant to see the sword hanging over the
head of the beloved, and yet not to find repose in the pain of resignation, but joy by
virtue of the absurd–this is marvellous. He who does it is great, the only great man. The
thought of it stirs my soul, which never was niggardly in the admiration of greatness.

In case then everyone in my generation who will not stop at faith is really a man
who has comprehended life’s horror, who has understood what Daub38 means when he
says that a soldier who stands alone at his post with a loaded gun in a stormy night
beside a powder-magazine … will get strange thoughts into his head–in case then
everyone who will not stop at faith is a man who had strength of soul to comprehend
that the wish was an impossibility, and thereupon gave himself time to remain alone
with this thought, in case everyone who will not stop at faith is a man who is reconciled
in pain and is reconciled to pain, in case everyone who will not stop at faith is a man
who in the next place (and if he has not done all the foregoing, there is no need of his
troubling himself about faith)–in the next place did the marvellous thing, grasped the
whole of existence by virtue of the absurd … then what I write is the highest eulogy of
my contemporaries by one of the lowliest among them, who was able only to make the
movement of resignation. But why will they not stop at faith, why does one sometimes
hear that people are ashamed to acknowledge that they have faith? This I cannot
comprehend. If ever I contrive to be able to make this movement, I shall in the future

ride in a coach and four.

If it is really true that all the Philistinism I behold in life (which I do not permit
my word but my actions to condemn) is not what it seems to be–is it the miracle? That
is conceivable, for the hero of faith had in fact a striking resemblance to it–for that hero
of faith was not so much an ironist or a humorist, but something far higher. Much is
said in our age about irony and humor, especially by people who have never been
capable of engaging in the practice of these arts, but who neverthless know how to
explain everything. I am not entirely unacquainted with these two passions,39 I know a
little more about them than what is to be found in German and German-Danish
compendiums. I know therefore that these two passions are essentially different from
the passion of faith. Irony and humor reflect also upon themselves, and therefore
belong within the sphere of the infinite resignation, their elasticity is due to the fact that
the individual is incommensurable with reality.

The last movement, the paradoxical movement of faith, I cannot make (be that
a duty or whatever it may be), in spite of the fact that I would do it more than gladly.
Whether a man has a right to make this affirmation, must be left to him, it is a question
between him and the Eternal Being who is the object of faith whether in this respect he
can hit upon an amicable compromise. What every man can do is to make the
movement of infinite resignation, and I for my part would not hesitate to pronounce
everyone cowardly who wishes to make himself believe he can not do it. With faith it is
a different matter. But what every man has not a right to do, is to make others believe
that faith is something lowly, or that it is an easy thing, whereas it is the greatest and
the hardest.

People construe the story of Abraham in another way. They extol God’s grace in
bestowing Isaac upon him again–the whole thing was only a trial. A trial–that word may
say much or little, and yet the whole thing is over as quickly as it is said. One mounts a
winged horse, the same instant one is at Mount Moriah, the same instant one sees the
ram; one forgets that Abraham rode only upon an ass, which walks slowly along the
road, that he had a journey of three days, that he needed some time to cleave the
wood, to bind Isaac, and to sharpen the knife.

And yet they extol Abraham. He who is to deliver the discourse can very well
sleep till a quarter of an hour before he has to preach, the auditor can well take a nap
during the discourse, for all goes smoothly, without the least trouble from any quarter.
If there was a man present who suffered from insomnia, perhaps he then went home
and sat in a corner and thought: “It’s an affair of a moment, this whole thing; if only
you wait a minute, you see the ram, and the trial is over.” If the orator were to
encounter him in this condition, he would, I think, confront him with all his dignity and
say, “Wretched man, that thou couldst let thy soul sink into such foolishness! No
miracle occurs. The whole of life is a trial.” In proportion as the orator proceeds with his
outpouring, he would get more and more excited, would become more and more
delighted with himself, and whereas he had noticed no congestion of the blood while he
talked about Abraham, he now felt how the vein swelled in his forehead. Perhaps he
would have lost his breath as well as his tongue if the sinner had answered calmly and
with dignity, “But it was about this you preached last Sunday.”

Let us then either consign Abraham to oblivion, or let us learn to be dismayed
by the tremendous paradox which constitutes the significance of Abraham’s life, that we
may understand that our age, like every age, can be joyful if it has faith. In case
Abraham is not a nullity, a phantom, a show one employs for a pastime, then the fault
can never consist in the fact that the sinner wants to do likewise, but the point is to see
how great a thing it was that Abraham did, in order that man may judge for himself

whether he has the call and the courage to be subjected to such a test. The comic
contradiction in the behavior of the orator is that he reduced Abraham to an
insignificance, and yet would admonish the other to behave in the same way.

Should not one dare then to talk about Abraham? I think one should. If I were
to talk about him, I would first depict the pain of his trial. To that end I would like a
leech suck all the dread and distress and torture out of a father’s sufferings, so that I
might describe what Abraham suffered, whereas all the while he nevertheless believed.
I would remind the audience that the journey lasted three days and a good part of the
fourth, yea, that these three and a half days were infinitely longer than the few
thousand years which separate me from Abraham. Then I would remind them that, in
my opinion, every man dare still turn around ere he begins such an undertaking, and
every instant he can repentantly turn back. If one does this, I fear no danger, nor am I
afraid of awakening in people an inclination to be tried like Abraham. But if one would
dispose of a cheap edition of Abraham, and yet admonish everyone to do likewise, then
it is ludicrous.

It is now my intention to draw out from the story of Abraham the dialectical
consequences inherent in it, expressing them in the form of problemata, in order to see
what a tremendous paradox faith is, a paradox which is capable of transforming a
murder into a holy act well-pleasing to God, a paradox which gives Isaac back to
Abraham, which no thought can master, because faith begins precisely there where
thinking leaves off.

PROBLEM I

Is there such a thing as a teleological
suspension of the ethical?

The ethical as such is the universal, and as the universal it applies to everyone, which
may be expressed from another point of view by saying that it applies every instant. It
reposes immanently in itself, it has nothing without itself which is its telos,40 but is itself
telos for everything outside it, and when this has been incorporated by the ethical it can
go no further. Conceived immediately as physical and psychical, the particular individual
is the individual who has his telos in the universal, and his ethical task is to express
himself constantly in it, to abolish his particularity in order to become the universal. As
soon as the individual would assert himself in his particularity over against the universal
he sins, and only by recognizing this can he again reconcile himself with the universal.
Whenever the individual after he has entered the universal feels an impulse to assert
himself as the particular, he is in temptation (Anfechtung), and he can labor himself out
of this only by penitently abandoning himself as the particular in the universal. If this be
the highest thing that can be said of man and of his existence, then the ethical has the
same character as man’s eternal blessedness, which to all eternity and at every instant
is his telos, since it would be a contradiction to say that this might be abandoned (i.e.
teleologically suspended), inasmuch as this is no sooner suspended than it is forfeited,
whereas in other cases what is suspended is not forfeited but is preserved precisely in
that higher thing which is its telos.41

If such be the case, then Hegel is right when in his chapter on “The Good and
the Conscience,” 42 he characterizes man merely as the particular and regards this
character as “a moral form of evil” which is to be annulled in the teleology of the moral,
so that the individual who remains in this stage is either sinning or subjected to

• ddc.net

Kierkegaard’s Fear and Trembling