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So
I was delighted, when Jan and I got to Copenhagen, to learn that its municipal
museum has put up an exhibition devoted to Kierkegaard: “Works of Life, Works of Love,” after
the title of one of Kierkegaard’s collections of “edifying discourses.” The central
piece in this exhibition is the diamond ring that SK had given his
fiancée, Regine Olsen. After he terminated their engagement, and the ring was
returned, Kierkegaard had the five diamonds fashioned into a cross, which he
wore himself, "even unto death."
As
I stood beside Kierkegaard’s writing desk, and looked at some of his cups and
saucers (none of which matched, according to his preference for the individual in contradistinction to any
collection or system), I appreciated again what Kierkegaard lived, worked, and died for. But visiting this museum exhibition with Jan made me keenly aware
that in the conduct of my own life I made quite a different choice, or series of
choices, than Kierkegaard did in his.
Had
I been (or become) an American Kierkegaard, I would no doubt have produced, by
now, a much larger output of creative and intellectual work than I can presently show for myself: one full-length play with music, 60 or 70 songs and other
musical compositions, a hundred or so recorded saxophone performances, a
handful rather than an armload of academic monographs (most unpublished), and
one hefty dissertation (with limited audience appeal).
Had
I devoted myself to an “authorship,” as SK did, what would I have
today, in addition that body of work? No life’s partner. No children. No friends. Probably no saxophones. No former students. No money. No thanks.
The
“existential” choices I made led to a different path—a shared path—not the path Kierkegaard walked alone. Nevertheless, the
way I chose to live has demanded its own “purity of heart” and has yielded its
own harvest of wisdom, fulfillment and “joyous suffering”—although, I admit, not
too much solitariness and very little genius. My chosen path has led to ample
and sometimes abundant love, occasional sacrifices, but no celebrity—and
certainly no cross, either to bear or to wear!
Each
day Jan and I were in Copenhagen I walked the city’s streets, as Kierkegaard himself did
for two or three hours on most days of his
life. It was touching to be walking alone in thought, seeing some of what my former
intellectual hero must have seen, in much the same way as he must have seen
it. But after a week of walking and reflecting in Copenhagen, I confess that the
work of love, in my life, took me
down a road somewhat more traveled. And that has made all the difference.
Who
needed another “American Kierkegaard” anyway? Henry Thoreau had already played
that role, and rather well indeed!
P.S.
If you would like to read a little more about Kierkegaard, you could do worse
than to start with a short essay by the late British writer and television
commentator, Malcom Muggeridge (1903-1990):
http://www.plough.com/en/articles/2010/january/the-oddest-prophet-søren-kierkegaard
http://www.plough.com/en/articles/2010/january/the-oddest-prophet-søren-kierkegaard