Love Does Not Seek Its Own

1 Cor. XIII, 5. Kjerlighed søger ikke sit Eget.

1 Corinthians 13:5. Love does not seek its own.

Nei, Kjerlighed søger ikke sit Eget, thi at søge sit Eget, er jo netop Selvkjerlighed, Egenkjerlighed, Selvsyge, eller hvad det ukjerlige Sind har for andre Navne. Og dog, er Gud ikke Kjerlighed? Men han, som skabte Mennesket i sit Billede, at han maatte ligne ham, maatte vorde fuldkommen, som han er fuldkommen, altsaa naae den Fuldkommenhed, som er Gud egen, ligne det Billede, som er Guds eget: søger han ikke sit Eget? Jo, han søger sit Eget, som er Kjerlighed, han søger det ved at give Alt, thi Gud er god, og der er kun Een, der er god, Gud, som giver Alt. Eller var Christus ikke Kjerlighed? Og dog, han kom jo til Verden for at vorde Forbilledet, for at drage Menneskene til sig, at de maatte ligne ham, maatte i Sandhed vorde hans Egne: søgte han da ikke sit Eget? Jo, han søgte sit Eget, ved at hengive sig for Alle, at de nu maatte ligne ham i det ham Egne, i opoffrende Hengivelse. Men i den Forstand at søge sit Eget er jo noget ganske Andet, og ingenlunde det vi tænke paa, naar vi tale om at søge sit Eget, eller om, ikke at søge sit Eget. Kjerlighed er netop Hengivelse; at den søger Kjerlighed er atter og er den høieste Kjerlighed. Det vil sige, saaledes er det i Forholdet mellem Gud og Menneske. Thi naar et Menneske søger et andet Menneskes Kjerlighed, søger selv at blive elsket, da er det ikke Hengivelse; denne vilde jo netop være, at hjælpe det andet Menneske til at søge Gud. Kun Gud er det forbeholdt at kunne søge Kjerlighed og selv blive dens Gjenstand, uden dog at søge sit Eget. Men intet Menneske er Kjerlighed. Dersom et Menneske derfor søger at blive Gjenstanden for et andet Menneskes Kjerlighed, saa søger han vitterlig og falskelig sit Eget; thi den eneste sande Gjenstand for et Menneskes Kjerlighed er »Kjerligheden«, der er Gud, som dog derfor i dybere Forstand ikke er nogen Gjenstand, da han er selve Kjerligheden.

No, love does not seek its own. For seeking one's own is precisely self-love, self-centred love, self-absorption, or whatever other names the unloving mind bears. And yet, is God not love? He created the human being in his image, to resemble him, to become perfect as he is perfect: to attain the perfection that is God's own, resemble the image that is God's own. Does he not seek his own? Yes, he seeks his own, which is love; he seeks it by giving everything. For God is good, and there is only one who is good: God, who gives everything.

Or was Christ not love? Yet he came into the world to become the exemplar, to draw people to himself, so that they might resemble him, might truly become his own. Did he not seek his own? Yes, he sought his own by giving himself for everyone, so that they might resemble him in what was his own: sacrificial self-giving.

But seeking one's own in this sense is something altogether different from what we mean when speaking of seeking, or not seeking, one's own. Love is precisely self-giving; its seeking love is itself love again, and the highest love. That is how matters stand in the relationship between God and the human being. For when someone seeks another person's love, seeks to be loved himself, this is not self-giving. Self-giving would be helping the other to seek God. Only God can seek love and himself become its object without seeking his own.

But no human being is love. If someone seeks to become the object of another's love, he knowingly and falsely seeks his own. For the only true object of a human being's love is “Love”, which is God—who therefore, in the deeper sense, is no object, since he is love itself.

Saa lad os da med den opoffrende Hengivelses Gjerning i Tanken (og det er da egentligen ikke en Gjerning det, ikke at gjøre Dette eller Hiint) tale om

So let us, with the work of sacrificial self-giving in mind—for not doing this or that is not really a work—speak of:

Kjerlighed søger ikke sit Eget.

Love does not seek its own.

Kjerlighed søger ikke sit Eget; thi i Kjerlighed er der intet Mit og Dit. Men Mit og Dit er blot en Forholds-Bestemmelse af »Eget«; er der altsaa intet Mit og Dit, saa er der heller intet Eget; men er der slet intet Eget, saa er det jo umuligt at søge sit Eget.

Love does not seek its own, for in love there is no Mine and Yours. But Mine and Yours are merely relational forms of “one's own”. If there is no Mine and Yours, neither is there any “one's own”; and if there is no “one's own” at all, seeking one's own is impossible.

Retfærdighed er kjendelig paa, at den giver Hver Sit, ligesom den ogsaa igjen fordrer Sit; det vil sige, Retfærdighed gaaer i Rette om det Eget, skifter og deler, bestemmer hvad Enhver har Lov at kalde sit Eget, dømmer og straffer, hvis Nogen ikke vil gjøre Forskjel paa Mit og Dit. Med dette stridige, og dog En retligen tilkommende, Mit har da den Enkelte Lov at gjøre hvad han vil; og naar han ikke paa nogen anden Maade end Retfærdighed tillader det, søger sit Eget, saa har Retfærdigheden Intet at bebreide ham og ingen Ret til at bebreide ham Noget. Hver beholder saaledes Sit; saasnart En fravendes Sit eller saasnart En fravender en Anden Hans: saa griber Retfærdigheden ind, thi den betrygger den almene Sikkerhed, i hvilken Hver har Sit, hvad han har med Rette. – Men da indtræder stundom en Forandring, en Omvæltning, en Krig, et Jordskjælv eller en anden saadan forfærdelig Ulykke, og Alt forvirres. Forgjæves søger Retfærdigheden at betrygge Hver Sit, at hævde Forskjellen mellem Mit og Dit, den kan ikke, den kan i Forvirringen ikke holde Ligevægten, den kaster derfor Vægten fra sig: den fortvivler!

Justice is recognised by its giving each person his own, and in turn demanding its own. That is, justice adjudicates over what is one's own, apportions and divides, determines what each may rightfully call his own, judges and punishes anyone who refuses to distinguish Mine from Yours. The individual may do as he wishes with this contested Mine that nevertheless rightfully belongs to him. If he seeks his own only in ways justice permits, justice has nothing to reproach him for, and no right to reproach him.

Thus each keeps his own. As soon as someone is deprived of his own, or deprives another of his, justice intervenes; for it safeguards the common security in which each has his own, what belongs to him by right. But sometimes a change comes, an upheaval, a war, an earthquake or another terrible calamity, and everything is confused. Justice seeks in vain to secure each person's own, to uphold the distinction between Mine and Yours. It cannot; amid the confusion it cannot keep the balance, and therefore throws away the scales: it despairs!

Forfærdelige Skuespil! Og dog, afstedkommer ikke Kjerlighed i en vis Forstand, om end paa den livsaligste Maade, den samme Forvirring! Men Kjerlighed, den er ogsaa en Begivenhed, den største af alle, dog derhos den glædeligste; Kjerlighed er en Forandring, den mærkeligste af alle, men den ønskeligste – vi tale jo netop i fortrinlig Forstand om, at En, der gribes af Kjerlighed, forandres, eller bliver forandret; Kjerlighed er en Omvæltning, den dybeste af alle, men den saligste. Saa er da med Kjerligheden Forvirringen der; i denne livsalige Forvirring er der for de Elskende ingen Forskjel mellem Mit og Dit. Forunderligt, der er et Du og et Jeg, og der er intet Mit og Dit! Thi uden Du og Jeg ingen Kjerlighed, og med Mit og Dit ingen Kjerlighed; men Mit og Dit (disse Eiendoms-Stedord) er jo dannet af Du og Jeg, og synes altsaa at maatte være overalt, hvor der er Du og Jeg. Og det er ogsaa Tilfældet overalt, kun ikke i Kjerlighed, der er en Omvæltning fra Grunden af. Jo dybere Omvæltningen er, jo fuldkomnere Forskjellen Mit og Dit forsvinder, desto fuldkomnere er Kjerligheden; dens Fuldkommenhed beroer væsentligen paa, at det ikke viser sig, at der skjult i Grunden dog har ligget og ligger en Forskjel mellem Mit og Dit, den beroer altsaa væsentligen paa Omvæltningens Grad. Jo dybere Omvæltningen er, desto mere gyser Retfærdigheden; jo dybere Omvæltningen er, desto fuldkomnere er Kjerligheden.

Terrible spectacle! And yet, in a certain sense, does love not bring about the same confusion, though in the most delightful way? Love too is an event, the greatest of all, yet also the most joyful. Love is a change, the most remarkable of all, but the most desirable: we speak in a special sense of someone seized by love as changing, or being changed. Love is an upheaval, the deepest of all, but the most blessed.

With love, then, confusion arrives. In this delightful confusion, lovers find no distinction between Mine and Yours. How strange: there is a You and an I, but no Mine and Yours! For without You and I there is no love, and with Mine and Yours there is no love. Yet Mine and Yours, these possessive pronouns, are formed from You and I, and so seem bound to be wherever You and I are. So they are everywhere, except in love, which is an upheaval from the ground.

The deeper the upheaval, the more completely Mine and Yours disappear, the more perfect love is. Its perfection depends essentially on no distinction between Mine and Yours being revealed as having lain, and still lying, hidden in the ground. It thus depends essentially on the degree of the upheaval. The deeper the upheaval, the more justice shudders; the deeper the upheaval, the more perfect love is.

Hæves nu Forskjellen Mit og Dit ganske i Elskov og Venskab? Der foregaaer i Elskov og Venskab en Selvkjerlighedens Omvæltning, der er rokket ved Selvkjerligheden og ved dennes stridige Mit og Dit. Den Forelskede føler sig derfor ude af sig selv, udenfor det Eget, reven hen i den livsalige Forvirring, at for ham og den Elskede, for ham og Vennen er der ingen Forskjel paa Mit og Dit; »thi«, siger den Elskende, »Alt hvad mit er er hans …. og hvad Hans er …. er Mit!« Hvorledes; er saa Forskjellen Mit og Dit hævet? Naar Mit er blevet Dit, og Dit Mit, saa er der jo alligevel et Mit og Dit, kun at Ombytningen, der foregik, betegner og indestaaer for, at det ikke længere er den første, den umiddelbare Selvkjerligheds Mit, der staaer stridigt mod et Dit. Ved Ombytningen er det stridige Mit og Dit blevet det fælles Dit og Mit. Det er altsaa Fællesskab, fuldkomment Fællesskab i Mit og Dit. Idet Mit og Dit ombyttes bliver det »Vort«, i hvilken Bestemmelse Elskov og Venskab har sin Styrke, idetmindste ere de stærke i den. Men »Vort« er for Fællesskabet aldeles det Samme som »Mit« er for den Enlige, og »Vort« er jo dannet – ikke af det stridige Mit og Dit, thi deraf kan ingen Forening dannes, men af det forenede, det ombyttede Dit og Mit. See, derfor er Elskov og Venskab, som saadan, dog kun forædlet og forøget Selvkjerlighed, medens unegteligt Elskov er Livets skjønneste Lykke, og Venskab det største timelige Gode. I Elskov og Venskab er Selvkjerlighedens Omvæltning ingenlunde dybt nok fra Grunden af, derfor slumrer dog som en Mulighed deri den oprindelige Selvkjerligheds stridige Forskjel mellem Mit og Dit. Det er jo anseet for et aldeles betegnende Sindbillede paa Elskov, at de Elskende bytte Ring med hinanden. Og sandeligen, det er ogsaa aldeles betegnende, men det er et maadeligt Sindbillede paa Kjerlighed – det er jo at bytte. Men et Bytte hæver ingenlunde Forskjellen Mit og Dit, thi Det, jeg bytter mig til, bliver jo saa igjen Mit. Naar Vennerne blande deres Blod med hinanden, saa er det rigtignok som en Grund-Forandring, thi idet Blodet blandes opstaaer jo en Forvirring: er det mit Blod, der løber i mine Aarer, nei, det er Vennens; men saa er det igjen mit Blod, der flyder i Vennens Aarer. Det vil sige, Jeg’et er ikke mere sig selv det Første, men Du’et, dog omvendt er det Samme ogsaa Tilfældet.

Is the distinction between Mine and Yours wholly abolished in erotic love and friendship? There is an upheaval in self-love there; self-love and its contentious Mine and Yours are shaken. The person in love therefore feels outside himself, outside his own, swept away into the delightful confusion in which, for him and his beloved, for him and his friend, Mine and Yours do not differ. “For,” says the lover, “everything that is mine is his … and what is his … is mine!”

How so? Has the distinction been abolished? When Mine has become Yours and Yours Mine, there is still a Mine and Yours. The exchange signifies and guarantees only that this is no longer the original Mine of immediate self-love, standing contentiously against a Yours. Through exchange, contentious Mine and Yours have become shared Yours and Mine. This is community, perfect community in Mine and Yours. Their exchange makes them “Ours”, and in this determination erotic love and friendship have their strength; at least they are strong in it. But “Ours” is precisely what “Mine” is for the solitary individual, now applied to the community. “Ours” is formed not from contentious Mine and Yours, from which no union can form, but from united, exchanged Yours and Mine.

See, erotic love and friendship as such are therefore only refined and enlarged self-love, although erotic love is undeniably life's loveliest happiness, and friendship the greatest temporal good. In erotic love and friendship, self-love's upheaval does not reach deeply enough into the ground. The original self-love's contentious Mine and Yours therefore still slumber within it as a possibility.

Lovers' exchanging rings is regarded as a perfectly expressive emblem of erotic love. Truly, it is; but it is a poor emblem of love, for it is an exchange. An exchange does not abolish Mine and Yours: what I acquire by exchange becomes Mine again. When friends mingle their blood, it is indeed like a fundamental change, for mingling the blood creates confusion: “Is it my blood running in my veins? No, it is my friend's.” But then my blood flows in my friend's veins. That is, the I no longer puts itself first, but the You; yet conversely, the same holds for the other.

Hvorledes hæves da Forskjellen Mit og Dit ganske? Forskjellen Mit og Dit er et Modsætnings-Forhold, de ere kun i og med hinanden; tag derfor den ene Forskjel ganske bort, saa gaaer ogsaa den anden ganske ud. Lad os først forsøge i Forskjellen Mit og Dit at tage Forskjellen Dit ganske bort, hvad har vi saa? Saa har vi Forbrydelse, Misgjerning; thi Tyven, Røveren, Bedrageren, Voldsmanden, han vil i Forskjellen Mit og Dit intet, slet intet Dit erkjende. Men see, netop derfor gaaer ogsaa for ham Forskjellen »Mit« ganske ud. Om han end ikke forstaaer det, om han end hærder sig mod Forstaaelsen, Retfærdigheden forstaaer, at en Forbryder egentligen intet »Mit« har, han er som Forbryder sat udenfor denne Forskjel; og paa en anden Maade: jo rigere Forbryderen bliver ved det stjaalne »Dit«, desto mindre »Mit« har han. – Tag nu i Forskjellen Mit og Dit Forskjellen »Mit« ganske bort, hvad har vi saa? Saa har vi den opoffrende, den sig selv i Alt fornegtende, den sande Kjerlighed. Men saa gaaer igjen Bestemmelsen »Dit« ganske ud, hvad der er til at forstaae for Eftertanken, om det end et Øieblik synes en besynderlig Tanke. Det er Forbandelsen over Forbryderen, at hans Mit gaaer ud, fordi han ganske vil afskaffe Dit; det er Velsignelsen over den sande Kjerlige, at Bestemmelsen »Dit« gaaer ud, saa Alt bliver den sande Kjerliges, som Paulus siger »Alt er Eders«, og som den sande Kjerlige i en vis guddommelig Forstand siger: Alt er Mit. Og dog, dog skeer dette ene og alene derved, at han slet intet Mit har, altsaa: »Alt er Mit, jeg, som slet intet Mit har.« Dog at Alt er Hans er en guddommelig Hemmelighed; thi menneskelig talt er den sande Kjerlige, den opoffrende, den sig offrende og i Alt sig ganske fornegtende Kjerlige, han er, menneskelig talt, den Forurettede, den meest af alle Forurettede, om han end selv gjør sig dertil ved ideligt at offre sig selv. Han er saaledes ganske nøiagtigt lige det Modsatte af Forbryderen, der er den Forurettende. En Forelsket er ikke lige det Modsatte af den Forurettende, hvor forskjellig han end er fra ham, thi en Forelsket søger dog i en vis, oftest ubevidst Forstand sit Eget, og har saaledes et Mit. Men kun for Selvfornegtelsens Kjerlighed gaaer Bestemmelsen Mit ganske ud, og Forskjellen Mit og Dit hæves ganske. Naar jeg nemlig Intet veed, som er Mit, naar slet Intet er Mit, saa er jo Alt Dit, hvad det ogsaa i en vis Forstand er, og saaledes mener den opoffrende Kjerlighed det; men dog, Alt, ubetinget Alt kan ikke være »Dit«, da »Dit« er et Modsætnings-Forhold, og i Alt er der ingen Modsætning. Men da skeer det Vidunderlige, hvad der er Himlens Velsignelse over Selvfornegtelsens Kjerlighed, at i Salighedens gaadefulde Forstand Alt bliver hans, hans, som slet intet Mit havde, han, som i Selvfornegtelsen gjorde alt Sit til Dit. Gud er nemlig Alt, og just ved slet intet Mit at have vandt Selvfornegtelsens Kjerlighed Gud og vandt Alt. Thi Den, der taber sin Sjel, skal vinde den. Men Forskjellen Mit og Dit eller Elskovs og Venskabs Dit og Mit er en Bevaren af det Sjelelige. Kun Aandens Kjerlighed har Mod til slet intet Mit at ville have, Mod til ganske at hæve Forskjellen Dit og Mit, derfor vinder den Gud – ved at tabe sin Sjel. Atter her sees, hvad de Ældre forstode ved, at Hedenskabets Dyder dog ere glimrende Laster.

How, then, is Mine and Yours wholly abolished? Their distinction is a relationship of opposition; they exist only in and with one another. Remove one completely, and the other disappears as well. Let us first try removing Yours completely from Mine and Yours: what do we have? Crime, wrongdoing. For the thief, robber, fraudster, violent man will acknowledge no Yours, no Yours at all, within this distinction. But see, precisely for this reason, “Mine” disappears completely for him too. Even if he does not understand it, even if he hardens himself against understanding, justice understands that the criminal really has no “Mine”; as a criminal he is placed outside the distinction. Or put another way: the richer he becomes through stolen “Yours”, the less “Mine” he has.

Now remove “Mine” completely from Mine and Yours: what do we have? True love, which sacrifices itself and denies itself in everything. But then the determination “Yours” disappears in turn. Reflection can understand this, although for a moment it seems a strange thought. The criminal's curse is that his Mine disappears because he wants entirely to abolish Yours. The truly loving person's blessing is that “Yours” disappears, so that everything becomes his. As Paul says, “All things are yours”; and as the truly loving person says in a certain divine sense, “Everything is Mine.”

And yet, yet this happens solely because he has no Mine at all. Thus: “Everything is Mine—I who have no Mine at all.” That everything is his is a divine mystery. For humanly speaking, the truly loving person, who sacrifices himself and completely denies himself in everything, is the wronged person, the most wronged of all, even if he makes himself so by constantly sacrificing himself. He is thus precisely the opposite of the criminal, who is the wrongdoer. Someone in erotic love is not precisely the wrongdoer's opposite, however different from him; for in a certain, usually unconscious sense, he seeks his own, and therefore has a Mine.

Only in the love of self-denial does Mine disappear completely and Mine and Yours become wholly abolished. For if I know nothing as Mine, if nothing at all is Mine, then everything is Yours. In a certain sense it is, and self-sacrificing love means it so. Yet everything, unconditionally everything, cannot be “Yours”, since “Yours” is a relationship of opposition, and in everything there is no opposition. Then the wonder happens, heaven's blessing on the love of self-denial: in blessedness's enigmatic sense, everything belongs to the person who had no Mine at all, who through self-denial made all his own Yours.

For God is everything; precisely by having no Mine at all, the love of self-denial gained God and gained everything. Whoever loses his soul shall gain it. But Mine and Yours, or erotic love's and friendship's Yours and Mine, preserve the psychical. Only the love of spirit has the courage to want no Mine at all, the courage wholly to abolish Yours and Mine. Therefore it gains God—by losing its soul. Here again we see what the ancients meant by calling paganism's virtues splendid vices.

Kun den sande Kjerlige søger ikke sit Eget. Han forstaaer sig ikke paa den strenge Rets, eller Retfærdighedens, end ikke paa Billighedens Fordringer i Henseende til det »Eget«; ei heller forstaaer han sig paa et Bytte, som Elskov gjør, der tillige forstaaer at passe paa, at den ikke bliver narret (altsaa forstaaer at passe paa sit Eget); ei heller forstaaer han sig paa Fællesskab, som Venskab gjør, der tillige forstaaer at passe paa, om der nu gives Lige for Lige, at Venskabet kan holdes (altsaa forstaaer at passe paa sit Eget). Nei, den sande Kjerlige forstaaer sig kun paa Eet: at blive narret, at blive bedragen, at give Alt hen, uden at faae det mindste igjen – see det er, ikke at søge sit Eget. O, den stakkels Daare, hvor han dog er latterlig – i Verdens Øine! Den sande Kjerlige bliver den ubetinget Forurettede – hvad han da i en vis Forstand ved Selvfornegtelsen gjør sig selv til. Men saa har Omvæltningen af Mit og Dit naaet sit Høieste, derfor ogsaa Kjerligheden sin høieste Salighed i sig selv. Ingen Utaknemmelighed, ingen Miskjendelse, ingen upaaskjønnet Opoffrelse, ingen Spot til Tak, Intet, hverken det Nærværende eller det Tilkommende kan tidligere eller sildigere bringe ham til at forstaae, at han har noget Mit, eller gjøre det aabenbart, at han dog kun et Øieblik havde glemt Forskjellen Mit og Dit; thi han har evigt glemt denne Forskjel og evigt forstaaet sig i at elske opoffrende, forstaaet sig i at offres.

Only the truly loving person does not seek his own. He knows nothing of the demands of strict law or justice, not even equity, concerning one's “own”. Nor does he understand exchange as erotic love does, also taking care not to be cheated—and thus taking care of its own. Nor does he understand community as friendship does, also taking care that like is given for like, so friendship can be maintained—and thus taking care of its own.

No, the truly loving person understands only one thing: being cheated, being deceived, giving everything away without receiving the slightest thing in return. See, this is not seeking one's own. Oh, the poor fool, how ridiculous he is—in the world's eyes! The truly loving person becomes the unconditionally wronged person, which in a certain sense he makes himself through self-denial. But then Mine and Yours have undergone their utmost upheaval, and love has reached its highest blessedness within itself.

No ingratitude, no misjudgement, no unappreciated sacrifice, no mockery in place of thanks, nothing, neither the present nor the future, can sooner or later make him understand that he has any Mine, or reveal that he had only momentarily forgotten Mine and Yours. For he has eternally forgotten the distinction and eternally understood how to love sacrificially, how to be sacrificed.

Kjerlighed søger ikke sit Eget; thi den sande Kjerlige elsker ikke sin Eiendommelighed, men elsker hvert Menneske efter hans Eiendommelighed; men »hans Eiendommelighed« er jo just det for ham Egne, altsaa søger den Kjerlige ikke sit Eget, lige modsat elsker han den Andens Eget.

Love does not seek its own. For the truly loving person does not love his own individuality, but loves each human being according to that person's individuality. And “his individuality” is precisely what is his own. Thus the loving person does not seek his own; on the contrary, he loves the other's own.

Lad os et Øieblik betragte Naturen. Med hvilken uendelig Kjerlighed omfatter Naturen eller Gud i Naturen alt det Forskjellige, der har Liv og Tilvær! Erindre engang, hvad Du jo saa ofte har glædet Dig ved at betragte, erindre Dig Markens Deilighed! Der er ingen, o, ingen Forskjel paa Kjerligheden – men paa Blomsterne hvilken Forskjel! Selv den mindste, den ubetydeligste, den uanseeligste, den endog af sin nærmeste Omgivelse overseete lille Stakkel, som Du neppe opdager uden Du seer nøie til, det er som havde den ogsaa sagt til Kjerligheden: lad mig blive Noget for mig selv, noget Eiendommeligt. Og da har Kjerligheden hjulpet den til at blive sit Eiendommelige, men langt skjønnere end hvad den lille Stakkel nogensinde havde turdet haabe. Hvilken Kjerlighed! Det Første er, at den ingen Forskjel gjør, slet ingen; det Næste, der er ligesom dette Første, er, at den uendelig forskjelliggjør sig i at elske det Forskjellige. Vidunderlige Kjerlighed; thi hvad er dog saa vanskeligt, som i at elske slet ikke at gjøre Forskjel, og naar man slet ikke gjør Forskjel, hvad er da saa vanskeligt, som at gjøre Forskjel! Tænk Dig, at Naturen var, som vi Mennesker ere, streng, herskesyg, kold, partisk, smaalig, lunefuld – og tænk Dig, ja tænk Dig saa, hvad det vilde blive til med Markens Deilighed!

Let us look at nature for a moment. With what infinite love nature—or God in nature—embraces all the different things that live and exist! Recall what you have so often delighted to contemplate: recall the beauty of the field! There is no difference, oh, no difference in the love—but what a difference among the flowers!

Even the smallest, most insignificant, least imposing poor little thing, overlooked even by its immediate surroundings, scarcely noticed unless you look closely—it is as though it too had said to love, “Let me become something in my own right, something distinctive.” And love helped it become its distinctive self, far more beautiful than the poor little thing ever dared hope. What love! The first thing is that it makes no distinctions, none at all. The next, which is like the first, is that it differentiates itself infinitely in loving what is different.

Wondrous love! What is so difficult as making no distinction in loving? And when one makes no distinction, what is so difficult as making a distinction! Imagine nature as we human beings are: stern, domineering, cold, partial, petty, capricious. Imagine, yes, imagine what would become of the field's beauty!

Saaledes nu ogsaa i Kjerlighedens Forhold mellem Menneske og Menneske, kun den sande Kjerlighed elsker ethvert Menneske efter hans Eiendommelighed. Den Strenge, den Herskesyge, han mangler Bøielighed, og han mangler Føielighed til at opfatte Andre; han fordrer sit Eget af Enhver, vil, at Enhver skal omskabes i hans Form, studses til efter hans Snit paa Mennesker. Eller han gjør, hvad han da anseer for en sjelden Grad af Kjerlighed, han gjør den sjeldne Gang en Undtagelse, han søger, saa siger han, at opfatte et enkelt Menneske, det er, han tænker sig paa en ganske bestemt og særlig – og vilkaarlig Maade noget Bestemt ved dette Menneske, og fordrer nu, at han skal fuldkomme denne Tanke. Om det just er dette Menneskes Eiendommelighed eller ikke, gjør Intet til Sagen, thi det er hvad den Herskesyge har tænkt sig ved ham. Skabe kan den Strenge og Herskesyge nu engang ikke, saa vil han idetmindste omskabe, det er, han søger sit Eget, at han overalt, hvor han peger hen, kan sige: see det er mit Billede, det er min Tanke, det er min Villie. Om den Strenge og Herskesyge er anviist en stor Virkekreds, eller en lille, om han er Tyran i et Keiserdømme, eller Huus-Tyran i et lille Værelse paa Qvisten, gjør væsentligen ingen Forskjel, Væsenet er det samme: herskesygt ikke at ville gaae ud af sig selv, herskesygt at ville knuse det andet Menneskes Eiendommelighed eller pine Livet af den. Væsenet er det samme – den største Tyran, der har levet, og som havde en Verden at tyrannisere, han blev jo dog kjed deraf, og endte med at tyrannisere Fluer, men sandeligen han blev den Samme!

So too in the loving relationship between one human being and another: only true love loves everyone according to his individuality. The stern, domineering person lacks flexibility and responsiveness in understanding others. He demands his own from everyone, wants everyone remade in his form, trimmed to his pattern for human beings.

Or, in what he regards as an exceptional degree of love, he occasionally makes an exception. He tries, so he says, to understand a particular person. That is, he conceives something definite about this person in a quite specific, particular—and arbitrary—way, and demands that the person fulfil this conception. Whether it is actually the person's individuality makes no difference: it is what the domineering person has conceived of him. The stern, domineering person cannot create, so he will at least recreate. That is, he seeks his own, so that wherever he points he can say, “See, that is my image, my thought, my will.”

Whether his sphere is great or small, whether he tyrannises over an empire or a little attic room, makes no essential difference. The nature is the same: a domineering refusal to go beyond himself, a domineering will to crush the other's individuality or torment the life out of it. The nature is the same. The greatest tyrant who ever lived, with a world to tyrannise over, grew tired of it and ended by tyrannising over flies—but truly, he remained the same!

Og som den Strenge og Herskesyge kun søger sit Eget, saaledes ogsaa Smaaligheden, den misundeligt-herskesyge, den feigt-frygtagtige Smaalighed. Hvad er Smaalighed? Er Smaalighed en Eiendommelighed, det er, er noget Menneske oprindeligen, fra Guds Haand, smaalig? Nei! Smaalighed er Skabningens egen kummerlige Opfindelse, naar den hverken sand stolt eller sand ydmyg (thi Ydmyghed for Gud er den sande Stolthed) skaber sig, og tillige vanskaber Gud, som var han ogsaa smaalig, som kunde han ikke taale Eiendommelighed, – han, der kjerligt giver Alt, og dog, dog giver Alt Eiendommelighed. Smaalighed maa derfor ikke forvexles med de ringe Gaver eller med hvad vi Mennesker smaaligt nok kalde Ubetydelighed. Tag en saadan Ubetydelig – dersom han har havt Mod til for Gud at være sig selv, saa har han Eiendommelighed; men sandeligen, en saadan Ubetydelig, dog hvad siger jeg, nei, en saadan Ædel, han er heller ikke smaalig. Man vogte sig vel for denne Forvexling, og saaledes forvexle man heller ikke en simpel, ædel Eenfoldighed, der ikke forstaaer Meget, med en smaalig Indskrænkethed, der feigt og stædigt kun vil forstaae sit Eget. Den Smaalige har aldrig havt Mod til dette Ydmyghedens og Stolthedens gudvelbehagelige Vovestykke: for Gud at være sig selv – thi Eftertrykket ligger paa »for Gud«, da dette er al Eiendommeligheds Ophav og Udspring. Den, der har vovet det, han har Eiendommelighed, han har nemlig faaet at vide hvad Gud allerede havde givet ham; og han troer ganske i samme Forstand paa Enhvers Eiendommelighed. At have Eiendommelighed er at troe paa enhver Andens Eiendommelighed; thi Eiendommeligheden er ikke Mit, men er Guds Gave, ved hvilken han giver mig at være, og han giver jo Alle, og giver Alle at være. Dette er just det uudgrundelige Væld af Godhed i Guds Godhed, at han, den Almægtige, dog giver saaledes, at Modtageren faaer Eiendommelighed, at Han, der skaber af Intet, dog skaber Eiendommelighed, saa Skabningen lige overfor Ham ikke bliver Intet, dog den er tagen af Intet og er Intet, men bliver Eiendommelighed. Men Smaaligheden, der er paataget Væsen, har ingen Eiendommelighed, det er, den har ikke troet paa sin egen, derfor kan den heller ikke troe paa Nogens. Den Smaalige har klamret sig fast til en ganske bestemt Skikkelse og Form, som han kalder sit Eget; kun det søger han, kun det kan han elske. Finder den Smaalige dette, da elsker han. Saa holder Smaalighed sammen med Smaalighed, de groe sammen, hvilket, aandeligt forstaaet, er lige saa fordærveligt, som at en Negl groer i Kjødet. Dette smaalige Sammenhold anprises da som den høieste Kjerlighed, som det sande Venskab, som den sande trofaste, oprigtige Samdrægtighed. Man vil ikke forstaae, at jo mere man saaledes holder sammen, desto mere fjerner man sig fra sand Kjerlighed, desto større bliver Smaalighedens Usandhed – og desto fordærveligere, naar den ovenikjøbet tager sig Gud til Indtægt for Filteriet, saa Smaaligheden formeentligen skal være den eneste Gjenstand for Guds Kjerlighed, den eneste, i hvem han har Velbehagelighed. Dette smaalige Sammenhold er saa lige smaaligt i begge Retninger: lige smaaligt i at forgude et ganske enkelt Menneske, der er af Smaalighedens »Egne«, maaskee dens Opfinder, eller dog En, der for den smaaligste Prøvelse befindes indtil den mindste Smaalighed ganske at have Smaalighedens Ansigt, Mine, Stemme, Tankegang, Talemaader, Hjertelighed; og lige smaaligt i at ville fortrænge alt Andet. Just fordi Smaaligheden er paataget Væsen, og altsaa Usandhed, just fordi den ikke i dybeste Grund og aldrig frimodigt har indladt sig med Gud, men sneverhjertet forqvaklet sig selv og forfalsket Gud, just derfor har den en ond Samvittighed. For Den, der har Eiendommelighed, er ingen fremmed Eiendommelighed et Modbeviis, den er snarere et Medbeviis, eller et Beviis mere; thi det kan ikke forstyrre ham, at det viser sig som han troer, at Hver har Eiendommelighed. Men for Smaaligheden er enhver Eiendommelighed et Modbeviis; den føler derfor en klam, uhyggelig Angest ved at see en fremmed Eiendommelighed, og Intet er den vigtigere end at faae den bort; Smaaligheden fordrer det ligesom af Gud, at enhver saadan Eiendommelighed maa gaae til Grunde, at det nu kan vise sig, at Smaaligheden har Ret og at Gud er en nidkjer Gud – nidkjer paa Smaalighed. Til Undskyldning kan stundom tjene, at Smaaligheden virkelig selv indbilder sig, at dens kummerlige Opfindelse er det Sande, saa det altsaa endog er oprigtigt Venskab og sand Deeltagelse at ville forkluddre og forqvakle Enhver i Lighed med sig. Naar saa er, er Smaaligheden gjerne riig paa hjertelige Talemaader og Forsikkringer. Men egentligen er det dog, hvad der som oftest forties, Nødværge, Selvopholdelsesdriften, der gjør Smaaligheden saa virksom for at faae alt Andet end dens Eget bort. Man hører det paa dens Trangbrystethed, der gisper efter Lindring, hvorledes den vilde omkomme, hvis den ikke faaer dette Uhyggelige, Ængstende bort; man seer det paa dens Blik, hvor usikker over sig selv den er dybere nede, og derfor hvor luskende og dog hvor rovbegjerligt den venter paa Byttet: at det skal blive viist, at Smaaligheden dog har Ret og har Seiren. Som En, der er i Livsfare, tillader sig Alt, fordi det gjelder om Liv og Død, saaledes gjør Smaaligheden det ogsaa; kun er naturligviis alle de Midler, den bruger, for at værge om sit Liv og for at tage Livet af det Eiendommelige, ja de ere naturligviis yderst smaalige; thi skjøndt den tillader sig Alt kan man dog være sikker paa, at det Alt, den tillader sig, er Alt smaaligt.

Just as the stern and domineering person seeks only his own, so does pettiness: enviously domineering, cowardly, fearful pettiness. What is pettiness? Is it an individuality? That is, is any human being originally petty, from God's hand? No! Pettiness is the creature's own miserable invention when, neither truly proud nor truly humble—for humility before God is true pride—it puts on a pose, and at the same time disfigures God, as though he too were petty and could not tolerate individuality: he who lovingly gives everything, and yet, yet gives everything individuality.

Pettiness must therefore not be confused with modest gifts, or with what we human beings, pettily enough, call insignificance. Take such an insignificant person. If he has had the courage to be himself before God, he has individuality. Truly, such an insignificant person—what am I saying? No, such a noble person—is not petty either. Beware of this confusion. Likewise, do not confuse plain, noble simplicity that understands little with petty narrowness that cowardly and stubbornly wants to understand only its own.

The petty person has never dared this venture of humility and pride that pleases God: being oneself before God. The emphasis is on “before God”, for this is the origin and source of all individuality. Whoever has dared it has individuality: he has learned what God already gave him. And in precisely the same sense he believes in everyone's individuality. Having individuality is believing in everyone else's individuality. For individuality is not Mine, but God's gift, by which he grants me to be; and he gives to everyone, grants everyone to be.

This is the unfathomable wellspring of goodness in God's goodness: the Almighty gives in such a way that the recipient receives individuality. He who creates from nothing nevertheless creates individuality, so that the creature before him does not become nothing, although taken from nothing and being nothing, but becomes individuality.

But pettiness, an assumed character, has no individuality. That is, it has not believed in its own, and so cannot believe in anyone else's. The petty person clings to a particular shape and form that he calls his own. That alone he seeks; that alone he can love. If he finds it, he loves. Thus pettiness joins with pettiness; they grow together, which spiritually is as harmful as a nail growing into the flesh. This petty alliance is praised as the highest love, true friendship, true, faithful, sincere concord. People refuse to understand that the more they hold together in this way, the further they depart from true love, the greater pettiness's untruth becomes. It becomes still more destructive when it claims God's support for the entanglement, supposedly making pettiness the sole object of God's love, the only thing in which he delights.

This petty alliance is equally petty in both directions. It idolises one particular person among pettiness's “own”, perhaps its inventor, or someone whom the pettiest scrutiny finds bearing, down to the smallest pettiness, pettiness's very face, expression, voice, manner of thought, turns of speech and warmth. And it is equally petty in wanting to drive out everything else.

Precisely because pettiness is an assumed character, and thus untruth; precisely because it has never, in its deepest ground, freely and boldly entered into relation with God, but narrow-heartedly warped itself and falsified God—it has a bad conscience. To someone with individuality, another's individuality is no counter-proof, but supporting proof, one proof more. He cannot be disturbed by finding what he believes: everyone has individuality. To pettiness, however, every individuality is a counter-proof. It feels clammy, uncanny anxiety at seeing an unfamiliar individuality, and nothing matters more than getting rid of it. Pettiness almost demands of God that every such individuality perish, to prove pettiness right and God a jealous God—jealous for pettiness.

Sometimes it may be excused because it really does imagine its miserable invention is the truth, and so thinks it sincere friendship and true concern to botch and warp everyone into its own likeness. In that case pettiness is usually rich in warm expressions and assurances. But what really makes it so active in getting rid of everything except its own is usually left unsaid: self-defence, the instinct of self-preservation. You hear in its constricted breathing, gasping for relief, how it would perish unless it removed this uncanny, frightening thing. You see in its eyes how unsure of itself it is deep down, and therefore how furtively, yet rapaciously, it waits for its prey: proof that pettiness is right after all and has won.

As someone whose life is in danger permits himself anything because it is a matter of life and death, so does pettiness. Only, of course, all the means it uses to protect its own life and kill what is individual are petty in the extreme. Although it permits itself anything, one can be sure that everything it permits itself is petty.

Men Elskov og Venskab elsker dog vel den Elskede og Vennen efter hans Eiendommelighed? Ja, det er sandt, og dog er det ikke altid ganske sandt; thi Elskov og Venskab har en Grændse, kan opgive Alt for den Andens Eiendommelighed, men ikke sig selv, Elskov og Venskab for den Andens Eiendommelighed. Men sæt nu, at den Andens Eiendommelighed just fordrede dette Offer! Sæt den Elskende saae, hvad der var ham hans Lyst, at han var elsket, men tillige saae, at det var yderst fordærveligt for den Elskedes Eiendommelighed, vilde blive dens Forqvakling, hvor meget det end ønskedes: ja, da formaaer Elskov, som saadan, ikke at bringe dette Offer. Eller sæt den Elskede saae, at Forholdet vilde blive den Elskendes Ruin, vilde aldeles forstyrre hans Eiendommelighed: ja, da har Elskov, som saadan, dog ikke Kraft til at bringe dette Offer.

But surely erotic love and friendship love the beloved and the friend according to his individuality? Yes, that is true, yet not always entirely true. Erotic love and friendship have a limit: they can give up everything for the other's individuality, but cannot give themselves up—erotic love and friendship themselves—for that individuality.

Suppose, however, that the other's individuality required precisely this sacrifice. Suppose the lover saw what delighted him, that he was loved, yet also saw that this was profoundly harmful to his beloved's individuality, that it would warp it, however much it was desired. Erotic love as such cannot make this sacrifice. Or suppose the beloved saw that the relationship would ruin the lover, would entirely disrupt his individuality. Erotic love as such does not have the strength to make this sacrifice either.

Men den sande Kjerlighed, den opoffrende Kjerlighed, der elsker ethvert Menneske efter hans Eiendommelighed, er villig til at bringe ethvert Offer: den søger ikke sit Eget.

But true love, self-sacrificing love, which loves each human being according to his individuality, is willing to make every sacrifice: it does not seek its own.

Kjerlighed søger ikke sit Eget; thi den giver helst saaledes, at Gaven seer ud som var den Modtagerens Eiendom.

Love does not seek its own, for it prefers to give in such a way that the gift looks as though it were the recipient's own property.

Naar vi i de borgerlige Forhold tale om Menneskenes Vilkaar, saa gjør vi Forskjel mellem dem, som ere deres Egne, og dem, som ere afhængige, og vi ønske Enhver, at han engang maatte kunne vorde istand til at blive sin Egen, som det hedder. Men i Aandens Verden er just ogsaa det at blive sin Egen det Høieste – og kjerligt at hjælpe En dertil, til at blive sig selv, fri, uafhængig, sin Egen, hjælpe ham til at staae ene: det er den største Velgjerning. Hvilken er altsaa den største Velgjerning? Ja, det er den, vi have nævnet, naar da, vel at mærke, den Kjerlige tillige veed at gjøre sig ubemærket, saa den Hjulpne ikke bliver afhængig af ham – ved at skylde ham den største Velgjerning. Dette vil sige, den største Velgjerning er netop: Maaden paa hvilken den eneste sande Velgjerning gjøres. Den kan væsentligt kun gjøres paa een Maade, om end i en anden Forstand paa mangfoldige Maader; naar Velgjerningen ikke gjøres paa denne Maade, er den meget langt fra at være den største Velgjerning, vel endog langtfra at være en Velgjerning. Saa man altsaa ikke ligefrem kan sige, hvilken der er den største Velgjerning, da den største Velgjerning, det at hjælpe en Anden til at staae ene, ikke kan gjøres ligefrem.

When we speak of people's circumstances in civil life, we distinguish those who are their own masters from those who are dependent. We wish that everyone might one day be able to become his own master, as the saying goes. In the world of spirit, too, becoming one's own is precisely the highest thing. And lovingly helping someone towards this—to become himself, free, independent, his own, helping him to stand alone—is the greatest benefaction.

What, then, is the greatest benefaction? The one we have named, provided, mark this well, the loving person also knows how to make himself unnoticed, so that the person helped does not become dependent on him by owing him the greatest benefaction. That is, the greatest benefaction is precisely the manner in which the only true benefaction is performed. Essentially it can be performed in only one way, though in another sense in many ways. If it is not performed in this way, it is far from the greatest benefaction, perhaps far from a benefaction at all. Thus one cannot directly say what the greatest benefaction is, since the greatest benefaction, helping another to stand alone, cannot be done directly.

Lad os forstaae dette. Naar jeg siger »dette Menneske staaer ene ved min Hjælp«, og det er sandt hvad jeg siger: har jeg saa gjort det Høieste for ham? Lad see! Hvad siger jeg dermed? Jeg siger »han staaer ene og alene ved min Hjælp« – men saa staaer han jo ikke ene, saa er han jo ikke bleven sin Egen, saa er det jo min Hjælp, han skylder alt Dette – og han er vidende derom. At hjælpe et Menneske paa den Maade er egentligen at bedrage ham. Og dog er det den Maade, paa hvilken den største Velgjerning som oftest gjøres i Verden, det er, paa den Maade, paa hvilken den ikke kan gjøres; og dog er det den Maade, der især paaskjønnes i Verden – som naturligt er, thi den sande Maade gjør sig usynlig, sees altsaa ikke, og fritager saaledes Verden ligesom de Paagjeldende for al Afhængighed. Men Den, der er hjulpen paa den urette, den meningsløse Maade, han er uudtømmelig i at prise og takke mig for den største Velgjerning (at han staaer ene ved Hjælp af Afhængigheds-Forholdet til mig); han og hans Familie og alle Samtlige ære og prise mig som hans største Velgjører, at jeg kjerligt har gjort ham afhængig af mig, eller – ja det er besynderligt, man udtrykker sin Taknemlighed paa en aldeles meningsløs Maade, thi istedenfor at sige, at jeg har gjort ham afhængig af mig, siger man, at jeg har hjulpet ham til at staae ene.

Let us understand this. If I say, “This person stands alone through my help,” and what I say is true, have I done the highest thing for him? Let us see! What am I saying? I am saying, “He stands solely through my help.” But then he does not stand alone, has not become his own; he owes all this to my help—and knows it. Helping someone in this way is really deceiving him.

Yet this is how the greatest benefaction is most often performed in the world: that is, in the way it cannot be performed. And this is the way the world especially appreciates, naturally enough, since the true way makes itself invisible and therefore goes unseen, freeing the world, as well as those concerned, from all dependence.

But the person helped in the wrong, senseless way is inexhaustible in praising and thanking me for the greatest benefaction: standing alone by means of a relationship of dependence on me. He, his family and everyone concerned honour and praise me as his greatest benefactor, because I have lovingly made him dependent on me. Or—yes, it is strange—gratitude is expressed quite senselessly: instead of saying I have made him dependent on me, they say I have helped him to stand alone.

Altsaa paa den Maade lader den største Velgjerning sig ikke gjøre, at Modtageren faaer at vide, at det er mig han skylder den; thi faaer han det at vide, saa er det netop ikke den største Velgjerning. Dersom derimod En siger »dette Menneske staaer ene – ved min Hjælp«, og det er sandt hvad han siger: ja, saa har han gjort for dette Menneske det Høieste, det ene Menneske kan gjøre for det andet, gjort ham fri, uafhængig, til sig selv, til sin Egen, og netop ved at skjule sin Hjælp hjulpet ham til at staae ene. Altsaa: at staae ene – ved en Andens Hjælp! See, der er mange Forfattere, som bruge Tankestreg ved enhver Leilighed i Mangel af Tanke; og der er jo ogsaa dem, som bruge Tankestregen med Indsigt og Smag: men sandeligen, aldrig er en Tankestreg brugt mere betegnende og aldrig kan den bruges mere betegnende end i denne lille Sætning – naar den da, vel at mærke, bruges af En, som har fuldkommet det, hvis der er nogen Saadan; thi i denne lille Sætning er Uendelighedens Tanke indeholdt paa den sindrigste Maade, den største Modsigelse overvunden. Han staaer ene – det er det Høieste; han staaer ene – Mere seer Du ikke; Du seer ingen Hjælp eller Understøttelse, ingen klodderagtig Fuskers Haand, der holder paa ham, saa lidet som det falder ham selv ind, at Nogen har hjulpet ham, nei, han staaer ene – ved en Andens Hjælp. Men denne Andens Hjælp er skjult, skjult for ham, den – Hjulpnes, nei, for ham, den Uafhængiges Øie (thi veed han af, at han er bleven hjulpen, da er han jo ikke i dybeste Forstand den Uafhængige, der hjælper og har hjulpet sig selv), den er skjult bag Tankestregen.

Thus the greatest benefaction cannot be performed by letting the recipient learn that he owes it to me. If he learns this, it is precisely not the greatest benefaction. If, by contrast, someone says, “This person stands alone—through my help,” and this is true, then he has done the highest thing one human being can do for another. He has made him free, independent, himself, his own; precisely by hiding his help, he has helped him to stand alone.

Thus: standing alone—through another's help! Many authors use a dash at every opportunity for want of thought; others use it with insight and taste. But truly, no dash has ever been used more meaningfully, or could be, than in this little sentence—provided, mark this well, it is used by someone who has accomplished it, if there is such a person. For this little sentence contains the thought of infinity in the most ingenious way; the greatest contradiction is overcome.

He stands alone—that is the highest. He stands alone—you see nothing more. You see no help or support, no clumsy bungler's hand holding him up; nor does it occur to him that anyone has helped him. No, he stands alone—through another's help. But that other's help is hidden: hidden from the eyes of the—helped person? No, of the independent person. For if he knows he has been helped, he is not, in the deepest sense, the independent person who helps and has helped himself. The help is hidden behind the dash.

Der gives en ædel Viisdom, som dog tillige i god Forstand er saa uendelig listig og underfundig. Den er velbekjendt; hvis jeg vilde nævne det fremmede Ord, hvormed den nævnes, vilde der neppe være Nogen i disse Tider uden at han kjendte den – af Navn: maaskee er endda de ikke saa Mange, som kjende den, naar man beskriver den uden at nævne dens Navn. Den og dens Navn maa ofte høre ilde i Verden, og det er endda ikke saa underligt; thi Verden er en meget fortumlet Tænker, som for bare Tanker hverken har Tid eller Taalmod til at tænke een Tanke. Hiin ædle Eenfoldige i Oldtiden, han var Mesteren i denne Viisdom, og sandeligen – hiin Ædle var endda ikke just et slet eller et ondt Menneske, han var tillige, at jeg skal udtrykke mig lidt skalkagtigt, han var, det kan man egentligen ikke negte ham, han var en Slags Tænker, om end ikke saa dybsindig som den nyere Tænkemaades Talemaader, om end ikke saa beundringsværdig som den i at kunne forklare, thi han drev det aldrig til at kunne forklare mere end hvad han forstod.

There is a noble wisdom that is also, in the good sense, infinitely cunning and subtle. It is well known. If I named the foreign word for it, scarcely anyone nowadays would fail to recognise it—by name. Perhaps fewer recognise it when it is described without being named. It and its name are often spoken ill of in the world, which is hardly surprising: the world is a thoroughly muddled thinker, with so many thoughts that it has neither time nor patience to think a single thought.

That noble, simple man of antiquity was the master of this wisdom. Truly, that noble man was not exactly a bad or evil person. He was also—to put it a little roguishly—he was, one really cannot deny him this, a kind of thinker. Not so profound as the turns of phrase of the modern way of thinking, nor so admirable in his powers of explanation: for he never managed to explain more than he understood.

Denne ædle Skalkagtige havde dybsindigt forstaaet, at det Høieste, det ene Menneske kan gjøre for det andet, er at gjøre ham fri, hjælpe ham til at staae ene – og tillige havde han forstaaet sig selv i at forstaae det, det er, han havde forstaaet, at skal dette kunne gjøres, saa maa Hjælperen kunne gjøre sig selv skjult, høimodigt ville tilintetgjøre sig selv. Han var, hvad han selv kaldte sig, aandeligt forstaaet, en Fødselshjælper, og han arbeidede i denne Tjeneste med enhver Opoffrelse uegennyttigt – thi det Uegennyttige laae just i, at det blev skjult for den Hjulpne, hvorledes, og at han blev hjulpen, det Uegennyttige laae i, at Verden ikke kunde forstaae og altsaa ikke paaskjønne hans Uegennyttighed, hvad den da aldrig kan, thi den kan netop ikke begribe, hvorfor En ikke vil være egennyttig, men vel, at en Egennyttig endnu mere egennyttigt kan ønske at ansees for uegennyttig.

This noble rogue had profoundly understood that the highest thing one person can do for another is set him free, help him stand alone. And in understanding this he had also understood himself: he understood that the helper must be able to hide himself, magnanimously willing to efface himself, if this is to be done.

He was what he called himself, spiritually understood: a midwife. He worked unselfishly in this service, making every sacrifice. His unselfishness lay precisely in concealing from the person helped both how he was helped and that he was helped. It lay in the world's being unable to understand, and therefore appreciate, his unselfishness—which it never can. For the world cannot grasp why anyone would not wish to be self-interested, although it can understand a self-interested person's still more self-interested wish to be considered unselfish.

I denne Forstaaelse af at hjælpe et andet Menneske enes den sande Kjerlige og hiin ædle Skalkagtige. Denne Sidste veed med sig selv, og det er sandt, at han har gjort mod det andet Menneske den største Velgjerning, han veed med sig selv, hvorledes han har arbeidet derfor, hvilken Tid og Flid og Kunst det har kostet ham, at bedrage den Anden ind i Sandheden, hvor megen Misforstaaelse han har maattet udholde af Den, han hjalp ved at fratage ham hans Taabeligheder og tilliste ham det Sande. Thi den Kunst, at berøve En hans Taabeligheder, den er farlig at øve; hiin Ædle siger selv, »at Menneskene kunde blive saa vrede paa ham, at de ordentligen vilde bide ham, hver Gang han fratog dem en Dumhed« – thi at bestyrke dem i deres Taabelighed kalde de Kjerlighed, hvad Under da, at de vredes, naar Nogen vil tage den, deres bedste Skat, fra dem! Saaledes arbeidede han, og naar da Arbeidet var færdigt, sagde han ganske sagte til sig selv: nu staaer dette Menneske ene. Men derpaa komme vi til Tankestregen, og ved Tankestregen kommer Smilet paa den Ædles og dog saa Skalkagtiges Læber, og han siger »nu staaer dette Menneske ene – ved min Hjælp,« han forbeholder sig dette ubeskrivelige Smiils Hemmelighed. Sandeligen, der er ikke Spor af Ondt i dette Smiil, han veed med sig selv, at det er velmeent hvad han har gjort, han veed med sig selv, at det i Sandhed er Velgjerningen og i Sandhed den eneste Maade, paa hvilken den lader sig gjøre: men Smilet, det er dog Sindrighedens Selvbevidsthed.

The truly loving person and that noble rogue agree in this understanding of helping another. The latter knows within himself, and it is true, that he has done the other the greatest benefaction. He knows within himself how he worked for it: the time, diligence and art it cost him to deceive the other into the truth; the misunderstanding he endured from the person he helped by removing his follies and stealthily bringing him the truth.

For depriving someone of his follies is a dangerous art. That noble man says himself that “people could become so angry with him that they would positively bite him whenever he took a piece of foolishness from them”. They call strengthening them in their foolishness love. No wonder they are angry when someone wants to take it, their greatest treasure, away!

Thus he worked. When the work was finished, he said quietly to himself, “Now this person stands alone.” But then we come to the dash; and at the dash a smile appears on the noble, yet so roguish, man's lips. He says, “Now this person stands alone—through my help.” He reserves for himself the secret of this indescribable smile. Truly, there is no trace of evil in it. He knows within himself that what he did was well meant; he knows that this truly is the benefaction and truly the only way to perform it. Yet the smile is ingenuity's self-awareness.

Anderledes med den Kjerlige. Han siger ogsaa: nu staaer dette Menneske ene. Derpaa kommer Tankestregen. O, men denne Tankestreg betyder for den Kjerlige noget Andet end et Smiil; thi hvor ædel og høimodig og uegennyttig end hiin Skalkagtige var, han elskede dog ikke i Bekymringens Forstand Den, han vilde hjælpe. Medens da hiin Skalkagtige netop gjør sig uendelig let i Tankestregens Underfundighed, og just dette er Kunsten, at have kunnet gjøre Alt for det andet Menneske og saa lade som havde man slet Intet gjort: saa er Tankestregen for den Kjerlige, om end i Tænkningens Forstand den uendelige Lethed, i en anden Forstand (dog vel at mærke, det er ikke til at mærke) som et tungt Aandedrag, næsten som et dybt Suk. Thi i denne Tankestreg er skjult Angestens Søvnløshed, Arbeidets Nattevaagen, næsten fortvivlet Anstrengelse; i denne Tankestreg er skjult en Frygt og Bæven, som, og just derfor desto forfærdeligere, aldrig har fundet noget Udtryk. Den Kjerlige har forstaaet, at det i Sandhed er den største, den eneste Velgjerning, eet Menneske kan gjøre mod det andet, at hjælpe ham til at staae ene, til at blive sig selv, blive sin Egen; men han har ogsaa forstaaet Faren og Lidelsen under Arbeidet og fremfor Alt Ansvarets Forfærdelighed. Med Tak til Gud siger han derfor: nu staaer dette Menneske ene – ved min Hjælp. Men der er ingen Selvtilfredsstillelse i dette Sidste; thi den Kjerlige har forstaaet, at væsentligen staaer dog ethvert Menneske ene – ved Guds Hjælp, og at den Kjerliges Selvtilintetgjørelse egentligen blot er, for ikke at forhindre det andet Menneskes Guds-Forhold, saa al den Kjerliges Hjælpen uendeligt forsvinder i Guds-Forholdet. Han arbeider uden Løn; thi han gjør sig selv til Intet, og just i det Øieblik, da der kunde være Tale om, at han dog kunde beholde den stolte Selvbevidstheds Løn, saa træder Gud til, og han er atter tilintetgjort, hvilket dog er ham hans Salighed. See, en Hofmand har det jo i sin Magt at skaffe sig selv Betydning for Den, hvem det er saa vigtigt at tale med Majestæten; men hvis nu dette Forhold lod sig tænke, at en Hofmand, just ved at skaffe sig selv til Side, kunde hjælpe den Søgende til hvert Øieblik at faae Majestæten i Tale: mon da ikke den Søgende i Glæde over hvert Øieblik at kunne tale med Majestæten vilde reent glemme den stakkels Hofmand; den stakkels Hofmand, der havde havt det i sin Magt, ukjerligt, ved engang imellem at skaffe den Søgende Adgang til Majestæten, at gjøre sig ham saa særdeles forbunden, gjøre sig elsket af ham for sin Kjerlighed; den stakkels Hofmand, der istedenderfor kjerligt valgte, at skaffe sig selv til Side, og just saaledes at berede den Søgende hvert Øieblik Adgang til Majestæten, hjælpe den Søgende til den Uafhængighed, der hvert Øieblik finder Adgang til Majestæten.

It is different with the loving person. He too says, “Now this person stands alone.” Then comes the dash. Oh, but for him the dash means something other than a smile. However noble, magnanimous and unselfish that rogue was, he did not love the person he wished to help in the sense of anxious concern.

The rogue makes himself infinitely light through the dash's subtlety. This is precisely the art: to have done everything for another, then act as though one had done nothing. For the loving person, by contrast, the dash is infinite lightness in the sense of thought, but in another sense like a heavy breath, almost a deep sigh—although, mark this well, it is not to be noticed. Within the dash lie hidden anxiety's sleeplessness, the work's night-long vigil, almost despairing exertion. Within it lie fear and trembling that have never found expression, and are all the more terrible for that.

The loving person has understood that helping another to stand alone, become himself, become his own, is truly the greatest, the only benefaction one human being can do for another. But he has also understood the danger and suffering in the work, above all the dreadfulness of the responsibility. With thanks to God, therefore, he says, “Now this person stands alone—through my help.”

Yet there is no self-satisfaction in the last words. The loving person understands that essentially everyone stands alone—through God's help. His own self-effacement is really only a way of not hindering the other's relationship to God; all his helping vanishes infinitely into that relationship. He works without reward, for he makes himself nothing. At the very moment when he might retain the reward of proud self-awareness, God enters, and he is again reduced to nothing—which is nevertheless his blessedness.

See, a courtier can make himself important to someone eager to speak with His Majesty. But suppose that, simply by stepping aside, the courtier could help the seeker gain access to His Majesty at every moment. Would the seeker, in the joy of being able to speak with His Majesty at every moment, not entirely forget the poor courtier? The poor courtier, who could unlovingly have placed the seeker under so great an obligation by occasionally giving him access, making himself loved for his love. The poor courtier, who instead lovingly chose to step aside, and in this way prepared access to His Majesty at every moment, helping the seeker to the independence that finds access at every moment.

Saaledes er al den Kjerliges Arbeiden. Sandeligen, han søger ikke sit Eget, thi han giver jo netop saaledes, at det seer ud som var Gaven Modtagerens Eiendom. Saavidt den Kjerlige formaaer, søger han at hjælpe et Menneske til at blive sig selv, blive sin Egen. Men saaledes bliver paa en Maade slet Intet forandret i Tilværelsen, kun den Kjerlige, den skjulte Velgjører, puffet udenfor. Det er jo ethvert Menneskes Bestemmelse at blive fri, uafhængig, sig selv. Har den Kjerlige i denne Henseende været Guds Medarbeider, saa er dog Alt blevet – som det var efter Bestemmelsen. Mærkes det, at den Kjerlige har hjulpet, saa er Forholdet forstyrret, eller saa har Hjælperen ikke hjulpet kjerligt, den Kjerlige ikke hjulpet rigtigt.

All the loving person's work is like this. Truly, he does not seek his own, for he gives in such a way that the gift looks like the recipient's own property. As far as he can, he seeks to help someone become himself, become his own. In this way, in a sense, nothing at all in existence changes: only the loving person, the hidden benefactor, is pushed aside.

For everyone is destined to become free, independent, himself. If the loving person has been God's fellow-worker in this, everything has nevertheless become—as it was meant to be. If his help is noticed, the relationship is disturbed; or the helper has not helped lovingly, the loving person has not helped rightly.

Forunderlige Ihukommelse, som den Kjerlige erhverver til Tak for al sin Arbeiden! Han kan paa en Maade pakke hele sit Liv sammen i en Tankestreg. Han kan sige: jeg har arbeidet trods Nogen, aarle og silde, men hvad jeg har udrettet – en Tankestreg! (Kunde det nemlig sees ligefrem hvad han havde udrettet, saa havde han arbeidet mindre kjerligt.) Jeg har lidt, tungt som noget Menneske, inderligt som kun Kjerlighed kan lide; men hvad jeg har gavnet – en Tankestreg! Jeg har forkyndt det Sande, klart og vel gjennemtænkt trods Nogen; men hvo der har tilegnet sig det – en Tankestreg! Havde han nemlig ikke været den Kjerlige, saa havde han, mindre vel gjennemtænkt, skreget det Sande ligefrem ud, og saa havde han strax havt Tilhængere, der havde tilegnet sig det Sande – og hilst ham som Mester.

What strange remembrance the loving person receives in thanks for all his work! In a sense he can pack his whole life into a dash. He can say: “I have worked as hard as anyone, early and late; but what I have accomplished—a dash!” For if his accomplishment could be seen directly, he would have worked less lovingly. “I have suffered as heavily as any human being, as inwardly as only love can suffer; but what good I have done—a dash! I have proclaimed the truth as clearly and thoughtfully as anyone; but who has made it his own—a dash!”

Had he not been loving, he would have cried the truth directly out, with less thought, and immediately gained followers who had made the truth their own—and hailed him as master.

Er den Kjerliges Liv da spildt, har han ganske levet forgjeves, siden der Intet, slet Intet er, der vidner om hans Virken og Stræben? Svar: er da det ikke at søge sit Eget, er det at spilde sit Liv? Nei, sandeligen, dette Liv er ikke spildt, det veed den Kjerlige i salig Glæde med sig selv og med Gud. Hans Liv er i en vis Forstand ganske ødslet paa Tilværelsen, paa Andres Tilværelse; uden at ville spilde nogen Tid eller nogen Kraft paa at hævde sig selv, paa at være Noget for sig selv, er han i Selvopoffrelsen villig at gaae til Grunde, det er, han er heel og holden forvandlet til blot at være en Virkekraft i Guds Haand. Deraf kommer det, at hans Virken ikke kan blive synlig. Hans Virken bestod jo just i, at hjælpe et andet eller andre Mennesker til at blive deres Egne, hvad de i en vis Forstand vare iforveien. Men naar virkeligen En ved en Andens Hjælp er bleven sin Egen, saa er det ganske umuligt at see, at det er den Andens Hjælp; thi seer jeg den Andens Hjælp, saa seer jeg jo, at den Hjulpne ikke er bleven sin Egen.

Is the loving person's life wasted, then? Has he lived entirely in vain, since nothing, nothing at all, bears witness to his work and striving? Answer: is refraining from seeking one's own a waste of one's life? No, truly, this life is not wasted. The loving person knows this in blessed joy, within himself and with God.

In a certain sense his life is wholly lavished on existence, on the existence of others. Unwilling to waste any time or strength asserting himself, being something for himself, he is willing to perish in self-sacrifice. That is, he is wholly transformed into a force at work in God's hand. This is why his work cannot become visible. It consisted precisely in helping another, or others, become their own—which in a certain sense they already were. But when someone truly has become his own through another's help, it is impossible to see that other's help. For if I see the help, I see that the person helped has not become his own.