For orientation in the plan of the Crumbs

That the point of departure was taken in paganism, and why

The reader of the Crumbs' crumb of philosophy will recall that the piece was not didactic but experimental. It took its point of departure in paganism in order, experimentally, to arrive at an interpretation of existence which could truly be said to go further than paganism. Modern speculation seems almost to have pulled off the trick of going further than Christianity on the other side, or of coming so far in understanding Christianity as practically to return to paganism. That someone prefers paganism to Christianity is not at all perplexing, but to make paganism out to be the highest within Christianity is an injustice both to Christianity, which becomes something it is not, and to paganism, which becomes nothing at all, as indeed it was not. Speculation, which has completely understood Christianity, and at the same time declares itself to be the highest development within Christianity, has thus, remarkably enough, discovered that there is no beyond, that ‘beyond’, ‘hereafter’ and the like are the dialectical parochialism of a finite understanding. The beyond has become a joke, a claim so doubtful that nobody makes it, let alone honours it, so that one simply amuses oneself with the reflection that there was once a time when this idea transformed the whole of life.

The speculative view grasps Christianity as a historical phenomenon. The question of its truth therefore means penetrating it with thought in such a way that, in the end, Christianity is itself the eternal thought.

The speculative view does of course have the virtue of being without presuppositions. It proceeds from nothing, assumes nothing as given, does not begin ‘bittweise’. So here we can be sure not to encounter presuppositions like those we met in the preceding.

One thing though is assumed: Christianity as given. It is assumed that we are all Christians. Alas, alas! Speculative philosophy is far too civil. Yes, how curious the way of the world! Once it was at the risk of life that one dared to profess oneself a Christian; now doubting that one is so is something to worry about. Especially, that is, when this doubting does not involve rushing out to have Christianity abolished, for that would be something. No, if someone were to say plainly and innocently that he was worried for himself, that as far he was concerned it might not be quite right for him to call himself a Christian, he would not exactly suffer persecution or be put to death. But angry glances would come his way and people would say: ‘How tiresome to make such a fuss about nothing; why can't he behave like the rest of us who are all Christians?

The present work has made it difficult to become a Christian, so difficult that the number of Christians among the cultivated in Christendom may not be very large – may not, because this is not something I can know. Whether my doing this is Christian, I do not decide. But going further than Christianity and fumbling in definitions once familiar to pagans, going further and then, in terms of proficiency in existing, falling far short of competing with pagans, that at least is not Christian. Nor is the difficulty made (in the experiment, for the book has no τέλος) in order for it to be hard for lay people to become Christians. For one thing, everyone can become a Christian; and for another, it is assumed here that everyone who says he is a Christian and has done the highest, actually is a Christian and indeed done the highest, unless in pushing himself importantly forward he prompts one, purely psychologically and to learn something for oneself, to look more closely into the matter. Woe to him who would judge hearts. But when a whole generation seems, though in various ways, to want to join en masse in going further, and when a whole generation aspires to objectivity, though this be understood in various ways, as the highest, whereby one ceases to be a Christian, if that is indeed what one was, surely this can prompt an individual into becoming aware of the difficulties.

So without daring to appeal to Lessing, without positively citing him as my source, without obliging anyone on account of Lessing's fame to feel bound to want to understand, or to protest that they do understand, what only brings them into a suspect association with my own obscurity, doubtless as off-putting as Lessing's fame is attractive, I am now about to present what I'll be damned if I won't attribute to him anyway, even if uncertain that he agrees; what I might, by throwing caution to the winds, easily be tempted to foist on him teasingly as something he had actually said, even if not directly; what in another mood I could wish in starry-eyed admiration to dare thank him for; what again with proud restraint and self-respect I ascribe to him simply out of generosity; and what, once more, I fear will offend or inconvenience him through my bringing his name into connection with these things.

Yes, one seldom finds an author who is such pleasant company as Lessing. And why is that? It is, I think, because he is so sure of himself. All this trivial and easy association between the eminent and the less eminent: that the one is genius, master, the other apprentice, messenger, hired servant, etc. is obviated here. If I strove with a devil's might and main to become Lessing's disciple, I could not, for he has prevented it.

Existing; actuality

The difficulty with existence and one who exists never really emerges in the language of abstract thought, much less receives an explanation. Just because abstract thinking is sub specie aeterni, it disregards the concrete, the temporal, the becoming of existence, the predicament of the existing individual due to his being a composite of the temporal and the eternal situated in existence.a If, of course, you are willing to assume that abstract thinking is supreme, it follows that science and the thinkers are proud to abandon existence, leaving the rest of us to face the worst. Yes, something also follows for the abstract thinker himself, that he, also being one who exists, must in one way or another be distrait.

To ask abstractly about actuality (supposing it is correct to ask about it abstractly, since the particular, the accidental, is a property of the actual and directly opposed to abstraction) and to answer abstractly is not nearly so hard as it is to raise and answer the question of what it means that this definite something is an actuality. This definite something is just what abstraction disregards, but the difficulty lies in bringing this definite something and the ideality of thought together through wanting to think it. Abstract thought cannot even so much as concern itself with such a contradiction, since the abstraction itself prevents it from arising.

Fate may seldom have so favoured a literary undertaking in accordance with its author's wishes as my Philosophical Crumbs. In doubt and unforthcoming as I am in all matters of personal opinion and self-appraisal, there is one truth I may confidently assert concerning the fate of that little piece: it has caused no sensation, none whatever. Undisturbed, and in accordance with his own motto (‘Better well hanged than ill wed’), the hanged, yes, well-hanged author has been left hanging. No one has asked him, not even playfully and in jest, exactly for whom he was hanging. But that was the wish: better well hanged, yes, better that than by an unfortunate marriage brought into systematic affinity with all the world. Relying on the manner of the piece's composition, my hope was that it would turn out like this. But in light of the agitated ferment of the times, in light of the constant warnings of prophets, visionaries and speculators, I feared I might see my wish confounded through some mistake. It is always awkward, even for the most insignificant traveller, to arrive at a town just when, in a state of the highest but most diverse expectation – some with cannons drawn up and fuses lit, with fireworks and illuminated placards in readiness, some with the town hall ceremoniously decorated, reception committee booted, speakers prepared, some with urgent systematic pen dripping and notebook opened – everyone is awaiting the arrival incognito of the promised one.

Viewed objectively Christianity is a res in facto posita the truth of which, however, is inquired into in a purely objective way, since the modest subject is far too objective not to leave himself out or ohne weiter include himself as the one who unreservedly has faith. Thus objectively understood truth can mean: (1) the historical truth, (2) the philosophical truth. Looked at historically, the truth must be made out through a critical consideration of the various reports etc., in short, in the way that historical truth is ordinarily brought to light. In the case of philosophical truth, the inquiry turns on the relation of a historically given and ratified doctrine to the eternal truth.

Thus the investigating, speculating, knowing subject does indeed ask about the truth, but not about the subjective truth, the truth of appropriation. Thus the investigating subject is of course interested but not infinitely, personally, passionately interested in his relation to this truth in respect of his eternal happiness. Far be it from the objective subject to be so immodest, so vain.

The investigating subject must be in one of two situations; he must either be in faith and convinced of the truth of Christianity and of his own relation to it, in which case the rest cannot possibly be of infinite interest, since faith is after all precisely the infinite interest in Christianity, any other interest apt to be a temptation; or the subject is not in faith but objective in his observation, and as such here too has no infinite interest in deciding the question.

You may recall, dear reader, that there was a remark towards the end of the Philosophical Crumbs, an item that might be taken as the promise of a sequel. True, as a promise that remark (‘in case I ever write a next part’) was as casual as could be and as far as possible from a solemn vow. Nor, therefore, have I felt bound by that promise, even if it was my intention from the start to fulfil it and the requirement was already to hand. As far as that goes, the promise could just as well have been made with great solemnity, in optima forma; but it would have been inconsistent to publish a piece that by its nature is incapable of creating a sensation, nor intended to, and then introduce a solemn promise which, if anything, is calculated to create a stir and would decidedly have created a huge one too. You no doubt know how it goes. An author publishes a very big book; hardly a week goes by before he falls into conversation with a reader who, out of polite solicitude, asks with eager concern whether he won't soon be writing a new book. The author is enchanted: having a reader who works his way so rapidly through a big book and in spite of the effort remains enthusiastic.

The undersigned, Johannes Climacus, who has written this work, does not make himself out to be a Christian; for he is completely preoccupied with how difficult it must be to become one; but still less is he one who, having been a Christian, ceases to be that by going further. He is a humorist. Content with the conditions of the moment, hoping that something higher may be granted him, he feels himself singularly fortunate, things having come to this pass, to be born precisely in this speculative, theocentric century. Yes, ours is an age of speculators and great men with matchless discoveries; and yet I believe that none of these honourable gentlemen is as well off as a privately practising humorist in all his quietude, whether on his own he beats his breast or roars with laughter. He can therefore very well be an author, if only he takes care that it is only for his own enjoyment, that he keeps to himself, does not get caught up in the crowd, perish in the importance of the age, be assigned to the pump like an inquisitive spectator at a fire, or merely be embarrassed by the thought that he might stand in the way of any of the various distinguished gentlemen who are and shall be and must be, and insist on being, important.

As a matter of form, and for the sake of order, I hereby acknowledge, what it can hardly be of real interest to anyone to know, that I am, as people say, the author of Either/Or (Victor Eremita), Copenhagen, February 1843; Fear and Trembling (Johannes de silentio) 1843; Repetition (Constantin Constantius) 1843; The Concept of Anxiety (Vigilius Haufniensis) 1844; Prefaces (Nicolaus Notabene) 1844; Philosophical Crumbs (Johannes Climacus) 1844; Stages on Life's Way (Hilarius Bogbinder: William Afham, the Assessor, Frater Taciturnus) 1845; Concluding Postscript to the Philosophical Crumbs (Johannes Climacus) 1846; an article in Fædrelandet, No. 1168, 1843 (Victor Eremita); two articles in Fædrelandet, January 1846 (Frater Taciturnus).

My pseudonymity or polyonymity has had no accidental basis in my person (certainly not from fear of penalty under law, in respect of which I am unaware of having committed any offence, and, at the time of publication, the printer together with the censor qua public official have always been officially informed who the author was) but an essential basis in the production itself, which, for the sake of the lines and of the variety in the psychological distinctions in the individual characters, for poetic reasons required the lack of scruple in respect of good and evil, of broken hearts and high spirits, of despair and arrogance, of suffering and exultation, etc., the limits to which are set only ideally, in terms of psychological consistency, and which no factual person would, or can, dare to permit themselves within the bounds of moral conduct in actuality.

If Christianity is looked on as a historical document, the important thing is to obtain completely reliable reports of what the Christian doctrine really is. Here, if the investigating subject were infinitely interested in his relation to this truth, he would despair straight away, because nothing is easier to see than that with regard to history the greatest certainty is after all only an approximation, and an approximation is too little to base his happiness on, and incongruent to such a degree with an eternal happiness that no ready solution can emerge. Since, however, the inquiring subject is interested only historically (whether, as a believer, he is also infinitely interested in the truth of Christianity, in which case his whole effort is liable to embroil him in a fair number of contradictions, or whether, lacking any impassioned negative decision as an unbeliever, he stays outside), he sets to work on the enormous studies to which he himself makes new contributions right up until his seventieth year. Just two weeks before his death he is looking forward to a new publication that is said to shed light on one whole side of the debate. A state of mind as objective as that – if the contrast is not an epigram on it – is an epigram on the infinitely interested subject's state of unrest, insisting as he does on having a question like that, concerning the decision on his eternal happiness, answered and yet not daring in each case, and at any price, to give up his infinite interest until the very last moment.