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But the relation itself was created; it owes itself to a transcendent source. To step into the religious sphere is possible only insofar as the self relates to God. God was there before ante everything. The self achieves itself in this relation and thus it is free to be itself. To remain in despair is to forgo this possibility. Despair happens when the self does not relate to itself properly as a self.

Only the religious sphere is without misrelation. Misrelation, then, is irresoluteness: the inability to decide, to leap ahead. But what if one cannot become a self through an act of resolve? What if the resolve itself fails, or meets with no help from above? What if the self itself dissolves in an experience of the infinite? Then the relation which would allow one to leap out of despair is subject to an indefinite detour and it is as if God has a demonic double.

Flaming Water, Frozen Earth

This, perhaps, is the 'doubling' that only the doubter the despairer experiences: the bifurcation which makes the leap of faith, the saltus mortale is this how you spell it? For the Christian, one might die to one's old life and be reborn - dying is a passageway. But for the non-Christian? February 29, Permalink. A blog for Saturday night? But I'm too tired.

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There are various kinds of melancholy in Kierkegaard. Do not translate Tungsind as depression. There are various distancing effects — the diary itself is said to date from , and to have been disovered in a trunk at the bottom of a lake. Just as with Repetition , this is a book about love, about the failure of love.

But the failure, according to Quidam, arises out his religiosity. Quidam, the Diarist, wonders whether or not he is guilty of torturing himself for the sake of a religious vocation from which marriage would have debarred him. But does he ever become religious? He wavers; he indulges himself; he does not struggle to reach the actuality of the religious life.

A crucial expression: Indesluttedhed , inclosing reserve. This is what characterises the Diary itself — it leads nowhere; Quidam despairs, but despair does not carry him forward. It is as though he remains in the thunderstorm of Repetition — a thunderstorm which never ends even as it appears to bestow the future. Some would argue that the Diary is boring; I do not find it so.

There is little drama here — or at least the drama is unresolved. But I like reading these pages in the same way as I enjoy the pages of the unexpurgated diaries of Anais Nin — a strange taste, I know, but like many of the books and films I like its turmoil, its movement in itself is such that it does not permit resolution. The same with the book translated as Waiting for Oblivion , although the small typeface makes it much less pleasurable to read. Think of some of the Calder editions of later Beckett — remember how marvellous those pages look, with a typeface so enormous that a piece of words is stretched over 20 pages.

To remain in possibility: what Quidam evades is his guilt, which he cannot, according to Taciturnus, grasp through comprehension. His inclosing reserve has led him too far, but it has not yet led him far enough.

yoke the bound trilogy Manual

He is suspended — he has not decided. Here I remember what Heidegger calls the Nothing which is encountered, if that is the right word, only in a kind of hovering or indecisiveness. You are unable to decide; you hover, exposed. Who are you?

Bound By Fate

No one at all, or no one yet. I love the books where one finds this shifting locus, this opening which has not coalesced into a self. I love the books in which an event does not happening — does not round itself off into an ending. For a long time, I kept a record of the books I read I used to read a great deal. I am not writing this to retrace my autobiography how boring! I remember going to Denmark that year, and taking several volumes of Kierkegaard with me. Was it to prepare to apply for postgraduate study?

It must have been then that I encountered Bataille and Blanchot for the first time, authors I have been rereading ever since. Where was I? Quidam, Frater Taciturnus writes, is a fiction — a venture in experimental psychology. The young man of Repetition was also said to be a fiction C.

Then Quidam, like the young man, is the fiction of a fiction — an experiment conducted by a heteronym. Why did this become necessary to Kierkegaard? Behind all this, there is the story of his own broken engagement which should be explored in detail it remains mysterious, however. Last night, I ended by writing of a repetition through which nothing is given back.

Now I know that this repetition is there in Kierkegaard's great oeuvre - it is as though the text is more irresolute than Kierkegaard will allow. A reading of Kierkegaard has begun to open itself to me. Doubtless, though, it will remain sheer possibility, and I, like Quidam, will accomplish nothing.


Still, isn't this the peculiar joy of blogging - of writing without responsibility? Of writing without having to condense what I write into a paper or a book? Blogging is writing's drift, an irresoluteness without momentum. Remain in the thunderstorm, then. Tungsind is without issue; but writing's melancholy is also writing's joy. February 28, Permalink.

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Tonight, I went through old manuscripts, trying to restore them to life — to repeat them anew. It was thrilling at first, but then these 'literary' texts began to bore me. They were failures; I knew that, which is why I never tried to publish them - at least, under my own name. Repetition is a novella of sorts, comprising general reflections by one Constantine Constantius and the letters written to C.

We learn from those letters that the young man fell in love, but that no relationship was established between him and his beloved. Who does he adore? One might think he adores adoration — loves what enables him to love.