KSRK: Guilty?/Not Guilty? (January 20. Morning .)

Beautiful lyricism here, as when he writes, "I am well aware that she is lovely, in my eyes indescribably so...", but then it seems to take a sharp turn when he completes the thought by stating, "but I do not feel like throwing the passion of my soul in that direction." This contrast has been present throughout the diary, as Quidam alternates between his inclination for the aesthetic and religious, and in tipping the scales towards the religious he claims that it would be better if she were (1) ugly or (2) unhappy. And wonders whether Socrates would understand his (Quidam's) interpretation of 'loving ugly people'.

I wonder whether Socrates here (and more broadly speaking as well, I suppose) represents for Kierkegaard a stepping stone to the religious. Perhaps Kierkegaard himself regards him as a religious hero, but coming as he does out of the Greek philosophical tradition rather than the Judeo-Christian tradition, Socrates seems to be turned into a kind of quasi-Christian confronting pagan culture. Question: why does Kierkegaard hold up Socrates as the example again and again, rather than Christ? Because it would be madness to pose as Christ? Because Kierkegaard himself was in love with ancient pagan culture? Because Christ would be out of place in an 'aesthetic' work, and therefore is forced to get around it more obliquely by referring by turns to Socrates and 'the religious'?

After mentioning Socrates halfway through the first paragraph, Quidam refers to 'the religious' at the beginning of the second. Lyricism abounds again, although it isn't clear to me whether he is referring to his beloved or, more directly, to an abstract notion of 'freedom from care':

So I have chosen the religious. This is closest to me; my faith is in it. So leave loveliness in abeyance; let heaven keep it for her. If I attain a common point of departure along this road, then come, you smiling freedom from care; I shall rejoice with you as sincerely as I can, braid rosebuds in your hair; I shall handle you as lightly as is possible for me, as is possible for someone who is accustomed to reach for what is crucial with the passion of thought and at the risk of his life.

The conflict Quidam feels between his devotion to the beloved and 'the religious' continues to build in the next paragraph:

That I am so overwhelmed by her - I wonder if she would attribute this effect to love. Impossible, to me that would be the most unlovely thing I can imagine. When I humble myself under God, then to believe that it was under her! No, she does not have that effect upon me. I have been able, can still bear, to live without her if only I retain the religious. But I suspect that the religious crisis is to bring it into what I have begun here.

Not only is there conflict between his devotion to his beloved and the religious, but there is a great deal of uncertaintly regarding the nature of the religious. Taking 'what I have begun here' as a reference to their engagement, the religious 'inbreaking' he desires so much seems to be seeking him out in the midst of his relationship with the fiancée. Is it also possible that 'what I have begun here' refers to his diary - that is to say, his reflections? His attachment to solitude and the art of inclosing reserve?

His attitude towards life is the subject of the last paragraph. In the supplementary section a first draft reveals that he had surpassed his father in his ability to conceal depression. In wondering whether this entire approach to life is askew, he closes with another parable, or analogy:

Suppose a pilgrim had been wandering for ten years, taking two steps forward and one back, suppose that he finally saw the holy city in the distance and was told: That is not the holy city - well, presumably he would keep on walking. But suppose he was told: That is the holy city, but your method is completely wrong; you must break yourself of the habit of walking in this way if you want your journey to be pleasing to heaven! He who for ten years had been waling in this manner with most extreme effort!

Great stuff. Very sad, but very great stuff. This last paragraph reminds me a little of my own introduction to irony of the more deadly variety. In Piers Paul Read's Alive, the survivors of the plane crash make a huge cross of luggage and debris from the crash, which (they hope) will be visible to a search crew flying overhead. They do this in a large, snow covered meadow, and then return to the safety of their fuselage and the supply of corpses with which they are necessarily feeding themselves. The rescue never comes, and eventually two of the survivors hike out on their own and lead back a team to the sight of the crash to take out the remaining survivors. At some point one of the survivors asks about the huge cross made out of debris. Nobody saw it, of course, which was too bad, but what really killed me was a twist that seemed almost satanic in its irony: underneath the cross and ten feet of snow was a deserted shack with enough provisions to have fed them all during their months on the mountain. I still wonder whether Read didn't make it up.