The Work of Love in Praising Love

X. Den Kjerlighedens Gjerning at anprise Kjerlighed »At sige det er ingen Kunst, men at gjøre det.« Dette er en ordsproglig Bemærkning, som ogsaa er ganske sand, naar man da fornuftigviis undtager de Tilfælde og Forhold, hvor Kunsten virkelig er »at sige det«. Thi det var jo dog besynderligt, om Nogen vilde negte, at Digterens Kunst netop er »at sige det«, da dog vel ikke Enhver kan sige Det, som Digteren siger saaledes, at han netop derved viser sig at være Digter. Tildeels gjælder dette ogsaa om Talerens Kunst. Men i Henseende til Kjerlighed gjælder det hverken tildeels eller ganske, at Kunsten er at sige det, eller at det at kunne sige det paa nogen Maade væsentligen er betinget ved Begavethedens Tilfældighed. Just derfor er det saa opbyggeligt at tale om Kjerlighed, fordi man bestandig maa betænke og sige til sig selv: »det kan Enhver, eller det burde Enhver kunne« – medens det var en underlig Tale, at Enhver er eller kunde være Digter. Kjerligheden, som overvinder alle Forskjelligheder, som løser alle Baand for at binde Alle i Kjerlighedens, maa naturligviis kjerligt passe paa, at her ikke pludseligen en egen Art Forskjellighed splidagtig gjør sig gjeldende.

X. The Work of Love in Praising Love. “Saying it is no feat; doing it is.” This proverbial observation is perfectly true, so long as one reasonably excepts those cases and relations in which the art really does lie in “saying it”. It would surely be strange to deny that the poet's art consists precisely in saying it, since not everyone can say what the poet says in such a way as to show himself, by that very means, to be a poet. The same is partly true of the orator's art. But where love is concerned, it is neither partly nor wholly true that the art lies in saying it, or that the ability to say it depends in any essential way upon the accident of giftedness. That is precisely why it is so edifying to speak about love: one must continually remember and tell oneself, “everyone can do it—or at least everyone ought to be able to”—whereas it would be a strange claim that everyone is, or could be, a poet. Love overcomes every difference and loosens every bond in order to bind everyone in the bond of love; naturally, then, love must take loving care that some peculiar new kind of difference does not suddenly assert itself here and sow division.

Fordi dette forholder sig saaledes, fordi det ingen »Kunst« er at anprise Kjerlighed, just derfor er det en Gjerning at gjøre det; thi »Kunst« forholder sig til Begavethedens Tilfældighed, Gjerning forholder sig til det Almene-Menneskelige. Saa kan da Ordsproget paa en egen Maade finde sin Anvendelse. Hvis saaledes En i en flygtig henkastet Bemærkning, i et Hastværks-Forslag (hvilket især synes at behage disse Tider) vilde sige, »det var godt om Nogen paatog sig at anprise Kjerlighed,« saa maatte man svare, »at sige det er ingen Kunst, men at gjøre det« – og det uagtet »at gjøre det« i denne Forbindelse vilde betyde at sige det, hvad der dog, som viist er blevet, i Forhold til Kjerlighed ingen Kunst er: saa det altsaa er Kunsten og dog ingen Kunst, men en Gjerning. Gjerningen er da at paatage sig Arbeidet ved at udføre en saadan Anprisning af Kjerlighed, hvortil baade kræves Tid og Flid.

Because this is so—because there is no “art” in praising love—doing it is, for that very reason, a deed; “art” belongs to the accident of giftedness, whereas a deed belongs to what is universally human. The proverb can therefore be applied here in a distinctive way. Suppose someone, in a passing offhand remark or a hasty proposal (the kind of thing that seems especially to please our times), were to say, “It would be good if someone took it upon himself to praise love”; the answer would have to be, “Saying it is no art, but doing it is”—even though here “doing it” would mean saying it, which, as has been shown, is no art where love is concerned: thus it is the art and yet no art, but a deed. The deed, then, consists in taking on the labour of carrying out such praise of love—a task requiring both time and diligence.

Dersom det var en Kunst at anprise Kjerlighed var Forholdet ikke saaledes. Thi i Forholdet til en Kunst er det sandeligen ikke Enhver givet at øve den, selv om han vil anvende Tiden og Fliden, vil paatage sig Arbeidet. Kjerlighed derimod, o, den er ikke som Kunsten, misundelig paa sig selv, og derfor kun Faa skjenket. Enhver, der vil have Kjerlighed, ham gives den, og vil han paatage sig Arbeidet med at anprise den, da skal det ogsaa lykkes ham.

Saa lad os da nu betragte

Den Kjerlighedens Gjerning at anprise Kjerlighed.

Det er en Gjerning, og naturligviis en Gjerning af Kjerlighed, thi det kan kun gjøres i Kjerlighed, nærmere bestemmet i Sandhedskjerlighed. Vi ville nu stræbe at tydeliggjøre, hvorledes denne Gjerning maa udføres.

Den Gjerning at anprise Kjerlighed maa indefter gjøres i Selvfornegtelse.

If praising love were an art, matters would be otherwise. For when it comes to an art, it truly is not granted to everyone to practise it, even if he is willing to devote time and diligence and take on the labour. But love—oh, love is unlike art, which jealously guards itself and so is bestowed on only a few. Everyone who wills to have love is given it; and if he is willing to take on the labour of praising it, he shall succeed in that as well.

So let us now consider

The Work of Love That Is the Praise of Love.

It is a deed, and naturally a deed of love, for it can be done only in love—more precisely, in love of truth. We shall now try to make clear how this deed must be carried out.

The Work of Praising Love Must Be Done Inwardly, in Self-Denial.

Naar det at anprise Kjerlighed skal gjøres tilgavns, da maa man i lang Tid holde ud at tænke een Tanke, holde det ud med den, aandeligt forstaaet, strengeste Afholdenhed i Forhold til alt Ueensartet, Fremmed, Uvedkommende, Forstyrrende, holde det ud med den punktligste og lydigste Forsagelse af enhver anden Tanke. Men dette er meget anstrengende. Ad den Vei at gaae fra Mening og Sammenhæng, fra Forstanden er let nok; og det vil ogsaa blive Tilfældet, hvis det Ene, som beskæftiger, er en enkelt endelig Forestilling, ikke een uendelig Tanke. Men er det ogsaa, hvad der frelser og bevarer Forstanden, een Tanke, det er dog meget anstrengende. At tænke een Tanke, altsaa, med Retningen indefter bort fra al Adspredelse, i Stigen fra Maaned til Maaned at gjøre den Haand stærkere og stærkere, der strammer Tænkningens Streng, og saa, fra den anden Side, i Stigen at lære bestandigt lydigere, bestandigt ydmygere at gjøre den Haand lettere og smidigere i Leddet, den Haand, med hvilken der hvert Secund, hvis fornødent skulde gjøres, kan et Øieblik mindskes og lindres ved Stramningen, altsaa med stigende Lidenskab at gribe fastere og fastere, sikkrere og sikkrere, og med voxende Ydmyghed at kunne, hvis et Øieblik fornødent gjordes, give lettere og lettere Slip: det er meget anstrengende.

If one is to praise love thoroughly, one must persist for a long time in thinking one single thought; one must keep to it with—spiritually understood—the strictest abstinence from everything heterogeneous, alien, irrelevant or distracting, and with the most exact and obedient renunciation of every other thought. But this is very strenuous. It is easy enough to go down that road away from meaning and coherence, away from reason; and that is what will happen if the one thing occupying us is a single finite idea, not one infinite thought. Yet even when it is one thought that saves and preserves reason, the effort is still very strenuous. To think one thought, then, with one's direction turned inward, away from every distraction; in an ever-rising movement, month after month, to make stronger and stronger the hand that tightens the string of thought; and then, from the other side of that same ascent, to learn with ever-greater obedience and humility to make the other hand lighter and more supple at the joint—the hand by which, at every second and whenever necessary, the tension can briefly be reduced and eased: thus, with increasing passion, to take a firmer and firmer, surer and surer hold, while with growing humility being able, should the moment require it, to let go more and more lightly—this is very strenuous.

Og dog kan det ikke blive skjult for En, at dette er det Fornødne, ei heller kan det blive skjult for En, om man gjør det; thi naar man kun tænker een Tanke er Retningen indefter. Eet er det jo at tænke saaledes, at Ens Opmærksomhed bestandigt blot er udefter, i Retning af Gjenstanden, som er noget Udvortes; et Andet at være saaledes vendt i at tænke, at man bestandigt i hvert Øieblik bliver sig selv bevidst, sig sin Tilstand under Tænkningen bevidst, eller hvorledes det gaaer til i En selv under Tænkningen. Men kun det Sidste er væsentligen at tænke, det er nemlig Gjennemsigtighed; det første er en uklar Tænkning, der lider af den Modsigelse, at Det, der tænkende klarer Andet, selv i sidste Grund er uklart. En saadan Tænker forklarer ved sin Tænkning Andet, og see, han forstaaer sig ikke selv; han gjør i Retningen udefter mod Gjenstanden maaskee en meget grundig Brug af sine naturlige Evner, men i Retningen indefter en meget overfladisk, og derfor bliver al hans Tænkning, hvor grundig den end synes, dog i Grunden overfladisk.

Yet no one can hide from themselves that this is what is needed, nor can they hide from themselves whether they are doing it; for when one thinks only one thought, the direction is inward. It is one thing, of course, to think with one's attention constantly directed merely outward, towards an object external to oneself; another to be so oriented in thinking that at every moment one becomes aware of oneself, aware of one's state while thinking, or of how things are proceeding within oneself as one thinks. But only the latter is thinking in the essential sense; it is transparency. The former is an obscure kind of thinking, afflicted by the contradiction that what makes other things clear in thought is itself, in the final analysis, unclear. Such a thinker explains other things by means of his thought—and behold, he does not understand himself; outwardly, towards the object, he may make very thorough use of his natural abilities, but inwardly he makes very superficial use of them, and so all his thinking, however thorough it may appear, is nevertheless superficial at bottom.

Men naar Gjenstanden for Ens Tænkning er i udvortes Forstand vidtløftig, eller naar man forvandler Det, hvorover man tænker, til en lærd Gjenstand, eller naar man springer fra een Gjenstand til en anden: saa opdager man ikke denne sidste Mislighed: at der til Grund for al Klarheden ligger en Uklarhed, istedetfor, at sand Klarhed kun kan være i Gjennemsigtighed. Naar man derimod kun tænker een Tanke, saa har man ingen udvortes Gjenstand, saa har man Retningen indefter i Selvfordybelse, saa maa man gjøre Opdagelsen betræffende sin egen indre Tilstand; og denne Opdagelse er først meget ydmygende. Det forholder sig ikke paa samme Maade med Menneske-Aandens Kræfter, som med Legemets Kræfter. Dersom En arbeider over sine legemlige Kræfter, ja, saa er han sprengt, og dermed er Intet vundet. Men dersom En ikke, just ved at vælge Retningen indefter, overarbeider sin Aands Kræfter som saadanne, saa opdager han slet ikke, eller han opdager ikke i dybere Forstand, at Gud er til; og naar saa er, har han jo tabt det Vigtigste, eller det Vigtigste er væsentligen undgaaet ham.

But when the object of one's thought is outwardly extensive, or when one turns what one is thinking about into an object of learning, or jumps from one object to another, one fails to discover this final defect: that beneath all the clarity lies an unclarity, whereas true clarity is possible only in transparency. By contrast, when one thinks only one thought, one has no external object: one's direction is inward, in self-absorption, and one must discover one's own inward state; at first, that discovery is deeply humbling. The powers of the human spirit do not stand in the same relation as the powers of the body. If someone overstrains their bodily powers, they are broken down, and nothing has been gained. But unless a person, precisely by choosing the inward direction, overstrains the powers of the spirit as such, they do not discover at all—or do not discover in a deeper sense—that God exists; and when that is so, they have lost what matters most, or what matters most has in essence escaped their notice.

I Legemets Kraft som saadan ligger der nemlig intet Selvisk, men i Menneske-Aanden som saadan ligger der en Selviskhed, der maa knækkes, hvis Guds-Forholdet i Sandhed skal vindes. Dette maa nu Den, som kun tænker een Tanke, erfare, han maa opleve, at den Standsning indtræder, hvori det er som fratoges Alt ham, han maa forsøge den Livsfare, i hvilken det gjælder om at tabe Livet for at vinde det. Det er ad den Vei han skal frem, hvis han skal bringe noget Dybere for Dagen; springer han fra i denne Vanskelighed, saa bliver hans Tænkning overfladisk – uagtet det jo rigtignok i disse kløgtige Tider er blevet antaget saadan mellem Mand og Mand, uden dog at spørge sig for hos Gud eller det Evige, at saadan Anstrengelse behøves ikke, ja, at den er Overspændthed. Nu, det forstaaer sig, den behøves heller ikke for at have det mageligt i et tankeløst Liv, eller for at tilfredsstille sine Samtidige ved den beundrede Fuldendthed, der til Punkt og Prikke er ganske som alle de Andre. Men vist er det alligevel, uden at forsøges i denne Vanskelighed og uden denne Anstrengelse bliver Ens Tænkning overfladisk.

Bodily power as such contains nothing selfish; but the human spirit as such contains a selfishness that must be broken if one's true relation to God is to be gained. The person who thinks only one thought must now experience this: they must live through the onset of a standstill in which everything seems to be taken from them; they must undergo the mortal danger in which one must lose one's life in order to gain it. This is the path along which one must advance if one is to bring something deeper to light. If a person draws back at this difficulty, their thinking becomes superficial—even though, in these clever times, people have passed the word from one to another, without consulting God or the eternal, that such exertion is unnecessary, indeed that it is excessive. Of course, it is not needed for a comfortable, thoughtless life, nor for satisfying one's contemporaries with the admired perfection of being, to the last detail, exactly like everyone else. Yet this remains certain: unless one is tried in this difficulty and undergoes this exertion, one's thinking becomes superficial.

Thi aandelig forstaaet gjælder det, at just da, naar et Menneske har overarbeidet sin Aands Kraft som saadan, da og først da kan han blive et Redskab; han vil fra det Øieblik af, hvis han oprigtigt og troende holder ud, faae de bedste Kræfter; men det er ikke hans egne, han har dem i Selvfornegtelse. – O, jeg veed ikke til hvem jeg taler betræffende Dette, hvorvidt der er Nogen, som bekymres om Sligt; men dette veed jeg, at der har levet Saadanne, og dette veed jeg, at netop De, der tilgavns have anpriist Kjerlighed, have været velbefarne og heelbefarne Folk i disse nu tildeels næsten ubekjendte Farvande. Og for dem kan jeg jo skrive, trøstende mig ved det skjønne Ord: »Skriv!« »For hvem?« »For de Afdøde, for dem, Du har elsket i en Fortid!« – og i at elske dem vil jeg jo ogsaa træffe sammen med de Kjereste blandt de Medlevende.

For, spiritually understood, it is precisely when a person has exhausted the power of their own spirit that they can—and only then—become an instrument. From that moment on, if they endure sincerely and faithfully, they will receive the finest powers; but those powers are not their own: they possess them in self-denial. O, I do not know to whom I am speaking about this, or whether anyone cares about such matters. But this I know: such people have lived; and this too I know: those who have truly praised love have been seasoned and thoroughly experienced voyagers in these waters, which are now partly almost unknown. For them, then, I can write, consoling myself with those beautiful words: ‘Write!’ ‘For whom?’ ‘For the departed, for those You loved in days gone by!’ And in loving them I shall also meet the dearest among my living contemporaries.

Naar man kun tænker een Tanke, maa man i Forhold til det at tænke opdage Selvfornegtelsen, og det er Selvfornegtelsen, der opdager, at Gud er til. Just dette bliver nu Modsigelsen i Salighed og i Forfærdelse: at have en Almægtig til sin Medarbeider. Thi en Almægtig kan ikke være Din, et Menneskes, Medarbeider, uden at dette betyder, at Du slet Intet formaaer; og paa den anden Side, naar han er Din Medhjælper, saa kan Du formaae Alt. Det Anstrengende er, at det er en Modsigelse eller paa een Gang, saa Du ikke oplever det Ene idag det Andet imorgen; og det Anstrengende er, at denne Modsigelse ikke er Noget, som Du engang imellem maa blive Dig bevidst, men er Noget, som Du i ethvert Øieblik maa blive Dig bevidst. I samme Øieblik det er, som formaaede Du Alt – og en selvisk Tanke vil snige sig frem, som var det Dig, der formaaede det, i samme Øieblik kan Alt være tabt for Dig; og i samme Øieblik som den selviske Tanke overgiver sig, kan Du igjen have Alt.

When a person thinks only one thought, they must discover self-denial in the very act of thinking; and it is self-denial that discovers that God exists. This is precisely the contradiction—both blessed and terrifying—of having the Almighty as one's co-worker. For the Almighty cannot be your co-worker—yours, a human being's—without this meaning that you can do absolutely nothing; yet when he is your helper, you can do all things. The strain is that this is a contradiction, both sides present at once: you do not experience one today and the other tomorrow. And the strain is that this contradiction is not something to notice now and then, but something of which you must become conscious at every moment. At the very moment when it seems that you can do all things—and a selfish thought slips in, claiming that it is you who can do it—everything may be lost to you; and the moment that selfish thought surrenders, you may have everything again.

Men Gud sees ikke; og altsaa idet Gud bruger dette Redskab, hvortil Mennesket gjorde sig selv i Selvfornegtelse, saa seer det ud, som var det Redskabet, der formaaede Alt, og det frister Redskabet selv at forstaae det saaledes – indtil han saa igjen Intet formaaer. Vanskeligt nok at arbeide sammen med et andet Menneske, o, men at arbeide sammen med den Almægtige! Ja, det er let nok i en vis Forstand; thi hvad formaaer han ikke, saa kan jeg jo lade ham gjøre det. Vanskeligheden er derfor just, at jeg skal arbeide med, om ikke ved Andet saa ved bestandigt at forstaae, at jeg slet Intet formaaer, hvad ikke forstaaes een Gang for alle. Og dette er vanskeligt at forstaae, at forstaae det ikke i det Øieblik, da man virkeligen Intet formaaer, naar man er syg, uoplagt, men at forstaae det i det Øieblik, da man tilsyneladende formaaer Alt.

But God is not seen. And so, when God uses the instrument that the human being made of himself in self-denial, it looks as though the instrument itself could do everything; the appearance appeals to the instrument too, inviting it to understand matters in just that way—until the person can once again do nothing. It is difficult enough to work with another human being—O, but to work with the Almighty! In one sense, of course, it is easy: what can he not do? I can simply let him do it. Yet the very difficulty is that I must work along with him, if in no other way than by constantly understanding that I can do absolutely nothing—something that is never understood once and for all. And this is difficult to understand: not when one truly can do nothing, when one is ill and indisposed, but at the very moment when one apparently can do everything.

O, der er dog Intet saa hurtigt som en Tanke, og Intet, der kommer saa heftigt paa En som en Tanke, naar den kommer paa En, og nu paa Tankens Hav, paa de »70,000 Favnes Dyb« – inden man lærer, naar Nattens Tid kommer at kunne slumre roligt fra Tankerne i Tillid til, at Gud, som er Kjerlighed, har dem i Overflod, og at kunne vaagne tillidsfuld op til Tankerne, forvisset om, at Gud ikke har sovet! Den mægtige Keiser i Østen havde en Tjener, som mindede ham dagligt om et bestemt Foretagende: men at et ringe Menneske maa vende Forholdet om og sige til Gud, den Almægtige, »husk mig nu endeligen paa Det og Det;« og at Gud saa gjør det! Er dette ikke til at tabe Forstanden over, at et Menneske skal have Lov til at sove trygt og sødt, naar han blot siger til Gud, altsaa som Keiseren til Tjeneren: husk mig endelig paa Det og Det.

O, nothing is so swift as a thought, and nothing comes upon one with such force as a thought when it takes hold of one. And now—out on the sea of thought, over “70,000 fathoms” of depth—one must learn, when night comes, to sleep calmly away from one's thoughts, trusting that God, who is love, has thoughts in abundance, and to wake trustfully to them, assured that God has not slept! The mighty emperor in the East had a servant remind him every day about a particular undertaking. Yet a lowly human being may reverse the relation and say to God Almighty, “Please be sure to remind me of this and that”—and God does it! Is this not enough to make one lose one's mind: that a human being may sleep safely and sweetly after merely saying to God, as the emperor said to his servant, “Be sure to remind me of this and that”?

Men da er igjen denne Almægtige saa nidkjer paa sig selv, at blot et selvisk Ord i denne dumdristige Frihed, som han tillader, saa er Alt tabt, saa husker Gud ikke blot ikke Det og Det, men det er, som vilde han aldrig glemme det Forskyldte. Nei, saa er det jo dog langt sikkrere, at formaae lidt mindre, og saa, paa almindelig menneskelig Viis, indbilde sig, at man er vis paa, at man formaaer det, det er langt sikkrere end dette Anstrengende: ganske egentligen og bogstaveligen Intet at formaae, og derimod i en vis uegentlig Forstand ligesom at formaae Alt.

But then again the Almighty is so jealous for himself that a single selfish word within this audacious freedom he permits—and everything is lost. God not only fails to remember this and that; it is as though he would never forget the offence. No; surely it is far safer to be capable of a little less and, in the ordinary human way, imagine oneself certain of what one can do. That is far safer than this strenuous condition: quite truly and literally to be able to do nothing, yet in a certain figurative sense to be as though one could do everything.

Dog kun i Selvfornegtelse kan et Menneske tilgavns anprise Kjerlighed; thi Gud er Kjerlighed, og kun i Selvfornegtelse kan et Menneske holde Gud fast.

Yet only in self-denial can a human being fully praise love; for God is love, and only in self-denial can a human being hold fast to God.

Hvad et Menneske af sig selv veed om Kjerlighed er meget overfladisk, af Gud maa han faae det Dybere at vide, det er, han maa i Selvfornegtelse blive, hvad ethvert Menneske kan blive (thi Selvfornegtelse er i Forhold til det Almeen-Menneskelige og saaledes forskjellig fra den særlige Kaldelse og Udvælgelse) et Redskab for Gud. Saa kan ethvert Menneske faae Alt at vide om Kjerlighed, ligesom jo ethvert Menneske kan faae at vide, at han er, hvad ethvert Menneske er, elsket af Gud. Forskjellen er blot, at Nogle forekommer (hvad der da ikke synes mig saa forunderligt) denne Tanke saa tilstrækkelig selv for det længste Liv, saa de endnu i det halvfjerdsinstyvende Aar ikke mene at have forundret sig nok derover, og andre derimod forekommer (hvad der synes mig saare besynderligt og beklageligt) denne Tanke saa ubetydelig, da det at være elsket af Gud jo ikke er mere end hvad ethvert Menneske er – som var det derfor mindre.

What a human being knows of love from himself is very superficial; he must learn what is deeper from God. That is, in self-denial he must become what every human being can become—since self-denial belongs to what is universally human and therefore differs from the special calling and election—an instrument for God. Thus every human being can learn everything about love, just as every human being can learn that he is what every human being is: loved by God. The only difference is that some find this thought sufficient even for the longest life—and that does not seem so surprising to me. Even in their seventieth year they still do not think they have marvelled enough at it. Others, by contrast—and this seems to me exceedingly strange and deplorable—find the thought so insignificant, since being loved by God is, after all, no more than what every human being is—as though that made it any less.

Kun i Selvfornegtelse kan et Menneske tilgavns anprise Kjerlighed. Ingen Digter kan gjøre det. Digteren kan synge om Elskov og Venskab, hvad der er det sjeldne Fortrin at kunne, men »Digteren« kan ikke anprise Kjerlighed. Thi for Digteren er dog Forholdet til den ham begeistrende Aand som en Spøg, Paakaldelsen af dens Bistand som en Spøg (og dette skulde jo svare til Selvfornegtelsen og Bønnen), hans Naturbegavethed derimod det Afgjørende, og Udbyttet af Forholdet til den begeistrende Aand ham Hovedsagen, det er Digtet, Digter-Frembringelsen, som jo er Udbyttet. Men for Den, der skal anprise Kjerlighed (hvad da Enhver kan, dette er intet Fortrin) bør Selvfornegtelsens Forhold til Gud, eller det i Selvfornegtelse at forholde sig til Gud være Alt, være Alvoren; det, om Frembringelsen bliver færdig eller ikke, en Spøg, det er, Guds-Forholdet selv bør være ham vigtigere end Udbyttet. Og det er i Selvfornegtelsen hans ganske alvorlige Overbeviisning, at det er Gud, som hjælper ham.

Only in self-denial can a human being fully praise love. No poet can do that. The poet can sing of erotic love and friendship—a rare privilege—but “the poet” cannot praise love. For the poet, after all, his relation to the spirit that inspires him is like a jest, and so is his invocation of its help (though this is supposed to correspond to self-denial and prayer). His natural gift, by contrast, is decisive, and what chiefly matters to him is the yield of his relation to the inspiring spirit: the poem, the poetic creation, which is itself the yield. But for the person who is to praise love—which everyone can do, for this is no privilege—the self-denying relation to God, or relating oneself to God in self-denial, should be everything, should be the earnestness. Whether the production is completed or not should be a jest; that is, the relationship to God itself should matter more to him than the yield. And in self-denial it is his utterly earnest conviction that God is the one who helps him.

O, dersom et Menneske i Selvfornegtelse ret kunde skaffe alle Sandsebedrag bort, som formaaede han Noget, ret kunde forstaae, at han selv slet Intet formaaer, det er, dersom et Menneske ret kunde vinde Selvfornegtelsens Seier, og da til Seieren føie Selvfornegtelsens Triumph, i Sandhed og oprigtigt at finde hele sin Salighed i dette selv slet Intet at formaae: hvor skulde et saadant Menneske kunne vidunderligt tale om Kjerlighed! Thi i Selvfornegtelsens yderste Anstrengelse, i denne al den egne Krafts Besvimen og Daanen at være salig, at føle sig salig, hvad er det Andet end i Sandhed at elske Gud? Men Gud er Kjerlighed. Hvo skulde da bedre kunne anprise Kjerlighed end Den, som i Sandhed elsker Gud, thi han forholder sig jo paa den eneste rigtige Maade til sin Gjenstand: han forholder sig til Gud og i Sandhed elskende.

O, if in self-denial a human being could truly dispel every illusion that he can accomplish something; if he could truly understand that he himself can do absolutely nothing—that is, if he could win self-denial’s victory and then add to that victory self-denial’s triumph, sincerely finding his whole blessedness in the fact that he himself can do absolutely nothing—how marvellously such a person could speak of love! For at the furthest pitch of self-denial, when all one’s own strength faints and swoons away, to be blessed and to feel oneself blessed—what else is this but truly loving God? But God is love. Who, then, could praise love better than the one who truly loves God? For he relates himself to his object in the only right way: he relates himself to God, and does so as one who truly loves.

Dette er indefter Betingelsen eller Maaden paa hvilken det at anprise Kjerlighed maa gjøres. At udføre det har naturligviis sin Løn i sig selv, om det ogsaa derhos har dette Formaal, ved at anprise Kjerlighed, saavidt man formaaer, at vinde Menneskene for den, at gjøre dem ret opmærksomme paa hvad der i Forligelighed er forundt ethvert Menneske, det Høieste nemlig. Thi Den, der anpriser Kunst og Videnskab, han sætter dog de Begavedes og Ikke-begavedes Splid imellem Menneskene. Men Den, der anpriser Kjerlighed, han forliger Alle, ikke i en fælles Armod, ei heller i en fælles Middelmaadighed, men i det Høiestes Fællesskab.

Den Gjerning at anprise Kjerlighed maa udefter gjøres i opoffrende Uegennyttighed.

This, inwardly, is the condition or the way in which the praise of love must be carried out. To carry it out is naturally its own reward, though it also has this purpose: by praising love as far as one can, to win people for love and make them properly attentive to what is granted to every human being in reconcilability—namely, the highest. For whoever praises art and learning still sets the division between the gifted and the ungifted among human beings. But whoever praises love reconciles everyone—not in a shared poverty, nor in a shared mediocrity, but in fellowship in the highest.

The Deed of Praising Love Must Be Carried Outwardly in Sacrificial Unselfishness.

Ved Selvfornegtelse vinder et Menneske at kunne være Redskabet, idet han indefter gjør sig selv til Intet for Gud; ved opoffrende Uegennyttighed gjør han sig udefter til Intet, til en unyttig Tjener: indefter bliver han ikke sig selv vigtig, thi han er Intet, udefter bliver han heller ikke sig selv vigtig, thi han er Intet; han er Intet for Gud – og han glemmer ikke, at han er for Gud, hvor han er. Ak, det kan jo skee, at et Menneske griber feil i det sidste Øieblik, at han, i Sandhed ydmyg for Gud, dog idet han henvender sig til Menneskene bliver stolt af hvad han formaaer. Det er da en Sammenligningens Fristelse, der bliver hans Fald. Han forstod, at han ikke kunde sammenligne sig med Gud, for ham blev han sig bevidst som et Intet; men i Sammenligning med Menneskene syntes han sig dog at være Noget. Det vil sige, han glemte Selvfornegtelsen, han hildedes i et Sandsebedrag, som var han kun i enkelte Timer for Gud, ligesom man i en enkelt Time besøger den kongelige Majestæt.

Through self-denial, a human being gains the ability to be the instrument, inwardly making himself nothing before God; through sacrificial unselfishness, he makes himself outwardly nothing—an unprofitable servant: inwardly he does not make himself important, for he is nothing; outwardly too he does not make himself important, for he is nothing; he is nothing before God—and he does not forget that he is before God wherever he may be. Alas, it can happen that at the very last moment a person goes wrong: truly humble before God, he nevertheless becomes proud of what he can accomplish as he turns to other people. It is, then, the temptation of comparison that becomes his fall. He understood that he could not compare himself with God, and before God he was conscious of himself as nothing; yet compared with other people, he seemed to himself to be something after all. That is, he forgot self-denial: he was ensnared in an illusion, as though he were before God only at certain hours, just as one visits the King for a single hour.

Hvilken sørgelig Forvirring! Thi i Forholdet til et Menneske lader det sig rigtignok gjøre at tale anderledes med ham i hans Nærværelse og anderledes om ham i hans Fraværelse; men skulde det lade sig gjøre at tale om Gud – i hans Fraværelse? Forstaaes Dette rigtigt, saa er den opoffrende Uegennyttighed Eet og det Samme som Selvfornegtelsen. Det vilde dog ogsaa være den forfærdeligste Modsigelse, om Nogen vilde herske over Andre – ved at anprise Kjerlighed. – Saaledes er den opoffrende Uegennyttighed i en vis Forstand, indefter nemlig forstaaet, en Selvfølge af Selvfornegtelse eller Eet med Selvfornegtelsen.

Men udefter er den opoffrende Uegennyttighed fornøden, hvis Kjerlighed i Sandhed skal anprises; og dette er just en Gjerning af Kjerlighed at ville anprise Kjerlighed i Sandhedskjerlighed. Man kan let nok skaffe sig jordiske Fordele og, hvad der er allersørgeligst, vinde Menneskenes Bifald ved at forkynde allehaande Bedrag. Men sandeligen det er ikke kjerligt. Thi det Modsatte er kjerligt: i Kjerlighed til det Sande og til Menneskene at ville bringe ethvert Offer for at forkynde det Sande, og derimod ikke at ville offre det Mindste af det Sande.

What sorrowful confusion! For with another person it is indeed possible to speak one way with him when he is present and another way about him when he is absent; but could one speak about God—in his absence? Rightly understood, sacrificial unselfishness is one and the same as self-denial. And it would surely be the most dreadful contradiction if someone sought to rule over others—by extolling love. — Thus, in a certain sense, sacrificial unselfishness, understood inwardly, follows from self-denial or is one with it.

But outwardly sacrificial unselfishness is necessary if love is truly to be extolled; and to be willing to extol love out of love for the truth is itself a deed of love. One can readily gain earthly advantages and—saddest of all—win people’s approval by proclaiming every kind of deception. But truly, that is not loving. For the loving thing is the opposite: out of love for the truth and for other people, to be willing to make every sacrifice to proclaim the truth, yet unwilling to sacrifice even the smallest part of the truth.

Det Sande maa væsentligen betragtes som stridende i denne Verden; saa god har Verden aldrig været, og saa god bliver den aldrig, at de Fleste ville det Sande, eller have den sande Forestilling derom, saa dets Forkyndelse altsaa strax maatte vinde Alles Bifald. Nei, Den, der vil forkynde noget Sandt i Sandhed, han maa forberede sig paa en anden Maade end ved Hjælp af en saadan bedaarende Forventning, han maa være villig til væsentligen at give Afkald paa Øieblikket. Vel siger, selv en Apostel, at han stræber »at vinde Menneskene,« dog med det Tilføiende, »men for Gud ere vi aabenbare«. Saa er der da mindst af Alt i disse Ord Tanke om denne selviske eller feige, frygtagtige Higen efter at vinde Menneskenes Bifald – som var det Menneskenes Bifald, der afgjorde, om Noget er sandt eller ikke. Nei, for Gud er Apostelen aabenbar, idet han søger at vinde Menneskene; han vil altsaa ikke vinde dem for sig, men for Sandheden.

Truth must essentially be regarded as being in conflict in this world; the world has never been so good, nor will it ever become so good, that most people want the truth, or have a true conception of it, so that proclaiming it would immediately win everyone’s approval. No: anyone who wishes to proclaim something true in truth must prepare in another way than by relying on such a beguiling expectation; they must be willing, in essence, to relinquish the present moment. Even an apostle says that he strives “to win people”, but he adds, “before God we are manifest”. These words, then, contain least of all any thought of the selfish or cowardly, fearful craving to win people’s approval—as though people’s approval decided whether something was true or not. No: the apostle is manifest before God as he seeks to win people; he seeks to win them not for himself but for the truth.

Saasnart han seer, at han kan vinde dem saaledes, at de blive ham hengivne, men misforstaae ham, forvanske hans Lære, saa vil han strax støde dem fra sig – for at vinde dem. Han vil altsaa ikke vinde dem for selv at have Fordeel deraf, men han vil med enhver Opoffrelse, altsaa ogsaa med Opoffrelse af deres Bifald, vinde dem for det Sande – dersom det kan lykkes ham; men det er Det, han vil. Derfor siger den samme Apostel et andetsteds (I. Thess. 2, 4. 5. 6.) »saaledes tale vi, ikke som vi ville behage Menneskene, men Gud. Vi omgikkes ikke med smigrende Ord, ei heller med Paaskud for Gjerrighed, vi søgte og ikke Ære af Mennesker, hverken af Eder eller af Andre, enddog vi kunde have været Eder til Byrde som Christi Apostle.« Hvor megen Opoffrelse er ikke heri indeholdt! Han har ikke søgt nogen Fordeel, ikke ladet sig betale, end ikke forsaavidt han med Rette kunde have fordret det som Christi Apostel; han har givet Afkald paa deres Ære, deres Bifald, deres Hengivenhed; forarmet har han udsat sig for deres Miskjendelse, deres Spot: og alt Det har han gjort – for at vinde dem.

As soon as he sees that he can win people only by making them devoted to him while they misunderstand him and distort his teaching, he will immediately thrust them away from himself—in order truly to win them. He does not seek to win them for his own advantage; at every cost, even at the cost of their approval, he seeks to win them for the truth—if he can succeed; that is what he wills. Hence the same apostle says elsewhere (1 Thessalonians 2:4–6): “We speak not to please people, but God. We did not come with flattering words or use greed as a pretext; nor did we seek honour from people, whether from you or from others, although as Christ’s apostles we could have been a burden to you.” How much sacrifice this contains! He sought no advantage and accepted no payment, not even where, as Christ’s apostle, he had the right to claim it; he renounced their honour, their approval and their devotion; impoverished, he exposed himself to their misjudgement and mockery. And he did all this—in order to win them.

Ja, paa den Maade er det vistnok tilladeligt at gjøre Alt, om det saa var at sætte Livet til ved at blive henrettet, for at vinde Menneskene; thi det er jo netop i Selvopoffrelse og Uegennyttighed at forsage alle øieblikkelige Midler, ved hvilke man vinder Øieblikket – og taber Sandheden. Grundfæstet ved det Evige staaer Apostelen; det er ham, som ved det Eviges Kræfter i Selvopoffrelse vil vinde Menneskene; det er ikke Apostelen, der for at holde sig selv trænger til dem, og derfor griber det første det bedste, det kløgtigste Middel for at vinde dem – ikke for at vinde Sandheden dem, thi dertil kan ikke bruges saadanne Midler. Og nu i disse Tider; hvor fornøden er ikke Uegennyttighed, i disse Tider da Alt gjøres for at gjøre Alt øieblikkeligt og det Øieblikkelige til Alt! – Thi gjøres ikke Alt for at gjøre Øieblikket saa overmægtigt som muligt, overmægtigt over det Evige, over det Sande, gjøres ikke Alt for at gjøre Øieblikket saa selvtilfreds i næsten fornem Uvidenhed om Gud og det Evige, saa indbildsk i formentlig Besiddelse af al Sandhed, saa overmodigt i den Forestilling selv at være Opfinderen af det Sande!

Yes, in this way it is certainly permissible to do anything—even to lay down one’s life by being executed—in order to win people; for self-sacrifice and unselfishness consist precisely in renouncing every expedient of the moment by which one wins the moment—and loses the truth. Grounded in the eternal, the apostle stands firm. Through the powers of the eternal, and in self-sacrifice, he seeks to win people; he does not need them in order to sustain himself and therefore seize the first available, most ingenious means of winning them—not of winning them for the truth, for such means cannot serve that end. And now, in these times, how necessary unselfishness is, when everything is done to make everything momentary and the momentary everything!—For is not everything done to make the moment as dominant as possible, dominant over the eternal, over the true; is not everything done to make the moment so self-satisfied in its almost haughty ignorance of God and the eternal, so conceited in its supposed possession of all truth, so arrogant in imagining itself to be the inventor of the true!

Hvor mangen Bedre har ikke bøiet sig for Øieblikkets Magt og derved gjort Øieblikket end værre; thi just Den, der var en Bedre, naar han svagt eller selvisk giver efter, da maa han netop i Øieblikkets Larmen søge Glemsel for sit Fald, han maa nu arbeide af al Magt for at gjøre Øieblikket end mere opblæst. Ak, Tænkernes Tid synes at være forbi! Den stille Taalmod, den ydmyge og lydige Langsomhed, den høimodige Forsagelse af øieblikkelig Virkning, den Uendelighedens Afstand fra Øieblikket, den sin Tanke og sin Gud hengivne Kjerlighed, som er fornøden for at tænke een Tanke: den synes at forsvinde, den er næsten ifærd med at blive Menneskene en Latterlighed. »Mennesket er« atter blevet »Alts Maal« og aldeles i Øieblikkets Forstand. Al Meddelelse skal indrettes paa at komme beleiligt i et let Flyveskrift, eller understøttes af Usandhed paa Usandhed.

How many a better person has bowed to the power of the moment and thereby made it worse still; for when someone who was better yields weakly or selfishly, he must seek oblivion for his fall in the clamour of the moment itself, and must now work with all his might to inflate the moment still further. Ah, the age of reflective people seems to be past! Quiet patience, humble and obedient slowness, magnanimous renunciation of immediate effect, infinity’s distance from the moment, the love devoted to its thought and its God that is needed to think one thought: all this seems to be disappearing; it is almost becoming a laughing-stock to human beings. “The human being” has once again become “the measure of all things”—entirely in the moment’s sense. Every communication must be arranged to appear at the opportune time in a slight occasional pamphlet, or else be propped up by untruth upon untruth.

Ja, det er jo, som maatte tilsidst al Meddelelse indrettes til at kunne foredrages i høiest en Time paa en Forsamling, der igjen spilder den ene halve Time med Bifalds og Mishags Støien og i den anden halve Time er for fortumlet til at kunne samle Tankerne. Og dog eftertragtes dette som det Høieste. Børnene opdrages til at betragte dette som det Høieste: at blive hørt og at blive beundret i en Time. Saaledes nedsættes Myntfoden paa det at være Menneske. Der er ikke mere Tale om det Høieste, om at behage Gud, som Apostelen siger, ei heller om at tækkes hine Herlige, der have levet i en Fortid, ei heller om at tækkes de faa Fortræffelige, der leve samtidigen med En: nei, at tilfredsstille i en Time en Forsamling af de første de bedste sammenløbne Mennesker, som selv atter hverken have havt Tid eller Leilighed til at tænke over det Sande, og altsaa kræve Overfladiskhed og halve Tanker, hvis de skulle lønne med Bifald: dette er det Eftertragtede.

Yes, it is as though every communication must ultimately be adapted for delivery in no more than an hour to an assembly which wastes one half-hour in the noise of approval and disapproval and is too dazed during the other half-hour to collect its thoughts. Yet this is pursued as the highest. Children are brought up to regard this as the highest: to be heard and admired for an hour. In this way the coinage of being human is debased. There is no longer any question of the highest—of pleasing God, as the apostle says; nor of pleasing those glorious ones who lived in an earlier age; nor of pleasing the few excellent people among one’s contemporaries. No: what is sought is to satisfy for an hour an indiscriminate crowd, people who themselves have had neither time nor opportunity to reflect upon the true and therefore demand superficiality and half-formed thoughts if they are to pay out their applause.

– Det vil sige, for dog nogenlunde at finde det værd at eftertragte, hjælper man med lidt Usandhed, man bilder hinanden ind, at disse Forsamlede ere lutter Vise, at enhver Forsamling bestaaer af lutter Vise.

Det er ganske som det var paa Socrates Tid, efter hvad Anklageren oplyste: »Alle forstode at undervise de unge Mennesker, der var kun een Eneste, som ikke forstod det – det var Socrates,« saaledes er i vor Tid »Alle« de Vise, der er kun hist og her en enkelt Een, som er en Daare.

Saa nær er Verden ved at have naaet Fuldkommenheden, at nu er »Alle« de Vise; dersom de enkelte Særlinger og Daarer ikke var, saa vilde Verden være aldeles fuldkommen.

Under alt Dette sidder Gud ligesom og venter i Himmelen.

Ingen længes bort fra al denne Øieblikkets Larmen og Støien for at finde den Stilhed, hvori Gud boer; medens Menneske beundrer Menneske, og beundrer ham – fordi han er ganske som alle de Andre, længes Ingen efter den Eensomhed, hvori man tilbeder Gud; Ingen forsmaaer dette godtkjøbs Aflad fra det Høieste i Længsel efter Evighedens Maalestok!

— That is to say, if it is to seem even somewhat worth pursuing, people help matters along with a little untruth: they persuade one another that those assembled are all wise, that every assembly consists entirely of wise people.

It is just as in Socrates’ day, according to the accuser’s account: “Everyone knew how to teach the young; there was only one person who did not—it was Socrates.” So in our own time “Everyone” is wise; only here and there is there a solitary fool.

The world has come so close to perfection that now “Everyone” is wise; were it not for a few eccentrics and fools, the world would be utterly perfect.

Meanwhile God sits waiting, as it were, in heaven.

No one longs to escape all this clamour and noise of the moment and find the stillness where God dwells. While one person admires another—and admires him because he is exactly like everyone else—no one longs for the solitude in which God is worshipped; no one, out of longing for eternity’s standard, scorns this cheap release from the highest!

– Saa vigtigt er Øieblikket blevet sig selv.

Saa fornøden er derfor opoffrende Uegennyttighed.

O, at jeg kunde fremstille en saadan i Sandhed uegennyttig Skikkelse!

Men dertil er her ikke Stedet, hvor Talen egentligen er om den Gjerning at anprise Kjerlighed – og derfor her et andet Ønske: gid Øieblikket, hvis han fremstilledes, dog havde Tid til at betragte ham.

Men hvad der gjælder for al Sandhedskjerlighed i Forhold til Øieblikket, det gjælder ogsaa betræffende det, sandt at anprise Kjerlighed.

Førend man med sin Anpriisning af Kjerlighed søger at vinde Øieblikkets Bifald, maa man dog vel først forvisse sig om, hvorvidt Øieblikket har den sande Forestilling om Kjerlighed.

Har da Øieblikket, som det nu er, eller kan Øieblikket nogensinde have den sande Forestilling om hvad Kjerlighed er?

Nei, umuligt.

Kjerlighed i Øieblikkets eller det Øieblikkeliges Forstand er nemlig hverken mere eller mindre end Selvkjerlighed.

— So important has the moment become in its own eyes.

So necessary, therefore, is self-sacrificing unselfishness.

O, that I could portray such a truly unselfish figure!

But this is not the place for that, for the discourse is properly concerned with the deed of praising love—and so I have another wish: if such a person were portrayed, would that the moment at least had time to contemplate him.

But what holds for every love of truth in relation to the moment also holds when it comes to praising love truthfully.

Before seeking the moment’s approval by praising love, one must surely first make certain whether the moment has a true conception of love.

Does the moment, as it now is, possess that true conception of what love is—or can the moment ever possess it?

No: impossible.

For love in the moment’s sense, or in the sense of the momentary, is nothing more and nothing less than self-love.

Altsaa er det selvkjerligt at tale saaledes om Kjerlighed, og selvkjerligt at vinde dette Bifald.

Den sande Kjerlighed er Selvfornegtelsens.

Men hvad er Selvfornegtelse?

Det er netop at opgive Øieblikket og det Øieblikkelige.

Men saa er det jo aldeles umuligt at vinde Øieblikkets Bifald – ved en sand Tale om den Kjerlighed, der netop er den sande ved at opgive Øieblikket.

Det er umuligt, det er saa umuligt, at den Talende, hvis da ellers Sandheden er ham vigtigere end Øieblikkets Bifald, skylder selv at gjøre opmærksom paa Misforstaaelsen, forsaavidt han skulde slumpe til at vinde Øieblikkets Bifald.

Af det her Udviklede sees ogsaa let, at den Slutning ingenlunde er rigtig, der udenvidere slutter: Den, som anpriser Kjerlighed, maa selv være eller blive elsket – i en Verden, der korsfæstede Den, som var Kjerligheden, i en Verden, der forfulgte og udryddede saa mange Kjerlighedens Vidner.

Therefore, to speak of love in this way is selfish, and so is winning this approval.

True love is the love of self-denial.

But what is self-denial?

It is precisely to give up the moment and the momentary.

But then it is altogether impossible to win the moment’s approval by speaking truly of the love that is true precisely because it gives up the moment.

It is impossible—so impossible that, if truth really matters more to the speaker than the moment’s approval, he is himself bound to point out the misunderstanding should he happen to win that approval.

It is also readily apparent from what has been set out here that the following conclusion is by no means sound when drawn without more ado: someone who praises love must himself be, or become, loved—in a world that crucified the One who was Love, in a world that persecuted and destroyed so many of love’s witnesses.

Og have end Forholdene i denne Henseende forandret sig, selv om det ikke mere gaaer til den Yderlighed og Afgjørelse, at Sandhedens Vidner maae offre Liv og Blod: væsentligen er dog Verden ikke bleven bedre, den er kun bleven mindre lidenskabelig og mere smaalig.

Det derfor hvad Verden saadan i Almindelighed kalder at være elskværdig, det vil naturligviis Evigheden ansee for noget Lastværdigt og Strafværdigt.

En saadan hvad man kalder elskværdig Mand, det er en Mand, der for Alt passer paa ikke at tage sig Evighedens eller Guds Fordringen til en væsentlig og væsentlig anstrenget Tilværelse for nær.

Den elskværdige Mand, han veed Beskeed om alle mulige Undskyldninger og Udflugter og Klogskabsregler, om at tinge og prutte og slaae af; og saa er han kjerlig nok til at overlade Andre lidt af sin Klogskab, ved hvis Hjælp man saa selv indretter sit Liv fordeelagtigt, let og beqvemt.

And even if conditions have changed in this respect—even if things no longer reach the extreme and decisive point at which witnesses to the truth must sacrifice life and blood—the world has still not become essentially better; it has only become less passionate and more petty.

What the world commonly calls being lovable, therefore, eternity will naturally regard as blameworthy and deserving punishment.

A so-called lovable man is one who, above all, takes care not to take too much to heart the demand of eternity or of God for an essential and essentially strenuous existence.

The lovable man knows every conceivable excuse, evasion and rule of prudence for bargaining, haggling and scaling things down; and he is loving enough to share a little of his wisdom with others, enabling one to arrange one’s life to one’s own advantage, easily and comfortably.

I den Elskværdiges Selskab finder man sig saa tryg, saa behagelig; det falder En aldrig ind i Anledning af ham at komme til at tænke paa, at der er noget Evigt til, eller hvilken Fordring det har til ethvert Menneskes Liv, eller at det Evige ligger En saa nær, at Fordringen kunde angaae den Dag idag.

Dette er det Elskværdige.

Men Den er uelskværdig, der, uden at fordre Noget af Andre, ved strengt og for Alvor at fordre Meget af sig selv, dog minder om, at en saadan Fordring er til.

I Selskab med ham tage Undskyldningerne og Udflugterne sig mindre godt ud, det Hele man lever for faaer en uheldig Belysning; man kan i Selskab med ham ikke ret faae sin Magelighed, end mindre, at han ved timeligt eller vel endog ved gemytligt-gudeligt Aflad hjælper En Magelighedens Puder tilrette.

Men hvad er denne Elskværdighed?

Den er Forræderie mod det Evige.

Det er derfor, at Timeligheden synes saa godt om den.

Og det er derfor, at Verden altid forarges over de Ord, »at Kjerlighed til Gud er Had til Verden«.

In the lovable man’s company one feels so safe, so comfortable; because of him, it never occurs to one to reflect that anything eternal exists, what claim it makes upon every human life, or that the eternal lies so near that its demand might concern this very day.

This is what is lovable.

But unlovable is the person who demands nothing of others and yet, by strictly and earnestly demanding much of himself, reminds one that such a demand exists.

In his company excuses and evasions do not look so good, and everything one lives for is cast in an unfavourable light; one cannot quite enjoy one’s ease with him, still less will he adjust the cushions of one’s ease with worldly—or perhaps even cosy-devotional—indulgence.

But what is this lovableness?

It is betrayal of the eternal.

That is why temporality approves of it so warmly.

And that is why the world always takes offence at the words, “love for God is hatred of the world”.

Naar nemlig Evighedens Fordring ret gjøres gjældende, saa seer det ud som hadede et saadant Menneske Alt, hvad de fleste Mennesker leve for.

Hvor forstyrrende derfor, hvor sært, hvor uelskværdigt!

Hvor elskværdigt derimod og hvor kjerligt at bestyrke og hjælpe Menneskene i deres elskede Vildfarelse.

Men er det da Kjerlighed at bedrage Menneskene; er det derfor vist, at det er Kjerlighed, fordi de Bedragne ansee det for Kjerlighed, fordi de takke Bedrageren som var han deres største Velgjører; er det Kjerlighed at elske i et Bedrag og at blive gjenelsket i et Bedrag?

Jeg troede, at Kjerlighed var: i at meddele det Sande personligt at ville bringe ethvert Offer, men ikke at ville offre det Mindste af Sandheden.

For when eternity’s demand is truly brought to bear, it looks as though such a person hated everything most people live for.

How disturbing, then, how strange, how unlovable!

How lovable, by contrast—how loving—to strengthen people and help them remain in their beloved delusion.

But is it love to deceive people? Is it therefore certain to be love because those deceived take it for love, because they thank the deceiver as though he were their greatest benefactor? Is it love to love within a deception and to be loved in return within a deception?

I thought love meant this: in communicating the truth, to be personally willing to make every sacrifice, yet unwilling to sacrifice the least of the truth.

Dog, selv om vi ville glemme Virkeligheden, glemme hvorledes Verden er, og digterisk forlægge hele Forholdet ind i Indbildningens Verden: det ligger dog i Sagens egen Natur, at der i Forholdet mellem Menneske og Menneske fordres Uegennyttighed for sandt at anprise Kjerlighed.

Lad os vove et saadant digterisk Forsøg, hvor vi slet Intet have med den virkelige Verden at skaffe, men kun i Tanke-Fjernheden gjennemgaae den Tanke, at anprise Kjerlighed.

Skulde der, digterisk forstaaet, af et Menneske tales ganske sandt om den sande Kjerlighed, saa er et Dobbelt fornødent: Taleren maa gjøre sig selv til den Selvkjerlige, og Talens Indhold maa være, om det at elske den u-elskelige Gjenstand.

Men naar saa er, er det umuligt at have nogen Fordeel af at anprise Kjerlighed; thi Fordeel deraf kan man kun have, naar enten Taleren bliver anseet for den Kjerlige, eller Talens Indhold er det Indyndende, om at elske den elskelige Gjenstand.

Og naar det er umuligt at have nogen Fordeel af at anprise Kjerlighed, saa er det jo uegennyttigt at gjøre det.

Yet even if we were to forget reality—forget what the world is like—and poetically transpose the whole relation into the world of imagination, the very nature of the matter still requires unselfishness between one human being and another if love is to be praised truthfully.

Let us venture such a poetic experiment, having nothing whatever to do with the real world, but considering only, at a distance in thought, the thought of praising love.

If, in poetic terms, a human being is to speak wholly truthfully about true love, two things are required: the speaker must make himself into the self-loving person, and his subject must be the love of the unlovable object.

But if that is so, there can be no advantage in praising love; one can benefit only if either the speaker is regarded as loving, or the speech has the ingratiating subject of loving a lovable object.

And if no advantage can be gained by praising love, then doing so is surely unselfish.

– See, hiin Oldtidens eenfoldige Vise, som af Alle vidste skjønnest at tale om den Kjerlighed, der elsker det Skjønne og den Skjønne, han var, ja han var den styggeste Mand i hele Folket, den styggeste Mand i det skjønneste Folk.

Man skulde nu troe, at Dette maatte have afskrækket ham fra at tale om den Kjerlighed, der elsker det Skjønne – man undgaaer jo dog gjerne at tale om Strikken i hængt Mands Huus, og selv de Skjønne undgaae gjerne i den paafaldende Stygges Nærværelse at tale om Skjønhed, endsige den Stygge selv.

Men nei, han var sær og besynderlig nok til just at finde Dette tiltalende og begeistrende, altsaa sær og besynderlig nok til at bringe sig selv i den ufordeelagtigste Stilling, der var mulig.

Thi, naar han da talte om det Skjønne, naar han i Tankens og Talens Længsel efter det Skjønne rev Tilhøreren hen – og denne da tilfældigviis kom til at see paa ham: saa blev han jo end een Gang saa styg, som han allerede var, han, der allerede var den styggeste Mand i Folket.

– See, that simple wise man of antiquity, who knew better than anyone how beautifully to speak of the love that loves the beautiful and the beautiful one—he was, yes, he was the ugliest man in the whole nation, the ugliest man among the most beautiful of peoples.

One might suppose that this would have deterred him from speaking of the love that loves the beautiful—after all, people generally avoid speaking of the rope in a hanged man's house; and even beautiful people generally avoid speaking of beauty in the presence of someone conspicuously ugly, let alone the ugly man himself.

But no: he was eccentric and peculiar enough to find this very thing appealing and inspiring—eccentric and peculiar enough, therefore, to place himself at the greatest possible disadvantage.

For when he spoke of the beautiful, when the longing for the beautiful in his thought and speech carried the listener away—and the listener then happened to look at him—he became, of course, twice as ugly as he was already, he who was already the ugliest man in the nation.

Jo mere han talte, jo skønnere han talte om Skjønheden, desto styggere blev han selv ved Modsætningen.

Det maa dog have været en Særling, denne Vise, han maa ikke blot have været den styggeste, men tillige den særeste Mand i hele Folket; eller hvad kan have bestemt ham?

Jeg tænker, at dersom han blot havde havt en skjøn Næse (hvad han ikke havde, udpeget ogsaa derved paafaldende blandt Grækerne, som alle havde skjønne Næser), saa havde han ikke villet tale eet eneste Ord om at elske det Skjønne, det vilde have været ham imod af Frygt for, at Nogen skulde troe, at han talte om sig selv, eller dog om sin skjønne Næse; det vilde have bedrøvet hans Aand, som besveeg han Talens Gjenstand, Skjønheden, om hvilken han talte, ved at henlede nogen Opmærksomhed paa sin Skjønhed.

Men i Tillid til selv at være den Styggeste meente han med en god Samvittighed at kunne sige Alt, Alt, Alt til Skjønhedens Priis, uden at have mindste Fordeel deraf, han som blot derved blev styggere og styggere.

The more he spoke—and the more beautifully he spoke of beauty—the uglier he himself became by contrast.

This sage must surely have been an eccentric—not merely the ugliest but also the most eccentric man in the whole nation; or what could have moved him?

I think that if he had possessed so much as a beautiful nose—which he did not, and was thereby conspicuously marked out even among the Greeks, who all had beautiful noses—he would not have wished to say a single word about loving the beautiful; it would have been repugnant to him, for fear that someone might think he was speaking of himself, or at least of his beautiful nose; it would have grieved his spirit, as though he were defrauding his speech's subject—beauty itself—by drawing any attention to his own beauty.

But trusting that he was himself the ugliest, he believed he could, with a good conscience, say all, all, all in praise of beauty without gaining the slightest advantage from it—he who, merely by doing so, became uglier and uglier.

Men den Kjerlighed, der elsker det Skjønne, er ikke den sande Kjerlighed, der er Selvfornegtelsens Kjerlighed.

I Forhold til den maa nu Taleren, hvis Alt skal være i sin Orden og digterisk fuldendt, gjøre sig selv til den Selvkjerlige.

At anprise Selvfornegtelsens Kjerlighed og saa selv at ville være den Kjerlige, det er, ja det er Mangel paa Selvfornegtelse.

Naar Taleren ikke er den Selvkjerlige, saa bliver han ogsaa let usikker eller usand; han vil enten fristes til selv at have Fordeel af Anprisningen, hvilket er at besvige Gjenstanden, eller han vil geraade i en Slags Forlegenhed, saa han end ikke tør sige Alt, om hvor herlig denne Kjerlighed er, af Frygt for, at Nogen skulde troe, det var ham selv, han talte om.

Men er Taleren den Selvkjerlige, eller for at tænke det ganske fuldkomment, den Selvkjerligste i et Folk, som kjerlige Talere kalde Kjerligheds-Folket, saa, ja saa kan han frit tale om Selvfornegtelsens Kjerlighed, gladere ved at have gjort sig selv til den Selvkjerligste end hiin eenfoldige Vise ved at være den Styggeste.

But the love that loves the beautiful is not true love, which is the love of self-denial.

In relation to it, the speaker must now—if everything is to be properly arranged and poetically complete—make himself the self-loving one.

To praise self-denying love while wishing oneself to be the loving one—why, that is a lack of self-denial.

If the speaker is not the self-loving one, he readily becomes hesitant or untrue: either he will be tempted to gain a personal advantage from the praise—which is to defraud its subject—or he will fall into a certain embarrassment and not even dare to say everything about how glorious this love is, for fear that someone might think he was speaking about himself.

But if the speaker is the self-loving one—or, to conceive it in complete perfection, the most self-loving in a people that loving speakers call the People of Love—then, yes then, he can speak freely of self-denying love, happier to have made himself the most self-loving than that simple sage was to be the ugliest.

I Virkelighedens Forhold vilde der da vistnok kræves lang Forberedelse for at kunne tale om Selvfornegtelsens Kjerlighed; men Forberedelsen vilde ikke bestaae i at læse mange Bøger, eller i at blive æret og agtet for sin af Alle forstaaede Selvfornegtelse (hvis det ellers er muligt, at En kan vise Selvfornegtelse i at gjøre det, hvad Alle forstaae som Selvfornegtelse af ham), men omvendt i at gjøre sig selv til den Selvkjerlige, at drive det igjennem at blive anseet for den Selvkjerligste.

Og dette vilde endda ikke være saa let at opnaae.

Det at blive udmærket ved en Prøve, og det at faae den ringeste Charakteer, netop den ringeste, er jo omtrent lige vanskeligt, saa der derfor ogsaa gjerne er et lige stort Antal af begge.

– Dette angaaende Taleren.

Men Talens Indhold skulde være: om det at elske den u-elskelige Gjenstand.

In the relations of actuality, long preparation would certainly be required before one could speak of self-denying love; but this preparation would not consist in reading many books, or in being honoured and esteemed for a self-denial that everyone understands (if indeed anyone can show self-denial by doing what everyone recognises as self-denial on his part), but, on the contrary, in making oneself the self-loving one and carrying it through until one is regarded as the most self-loving.

And even this would not be so easy to attain.

To gain the highest distinction in an examination and to receive the lowest mark—precisely the lowest—are about equally difficult; which is why there are generally equal numbers of both.

—So much for the speaker.

But the content of the speech was to be this: loving the unlovable object.

See, hiin Oldtidens eenfoldige Vise, der vidste saa skjønt at tale om den Kjerlighed, der elsker det Skjønne, han førte dog ogsaa stundom en anden Tale, naar han talte om at elske den Stygge.

Han negtede ikke, at det at elske er at elske den Skjønne, men han talte dog, ja det var en Art Spøg, om det at elske den Stygge.

Hvad forstaaes der da ved »den Skjønne«?

»Den Skjønne« er den umiddelbare og ligefremme Gjenstand for den umiddelbare Kjerlighed, Tilbøielighedens og Lidenskabens Valg.

Man behøver saavist ikke at befale, at man skal elske den Skjønne.

Men den Stygge!

Det er ikke Noget at byde Tilbøielighed og Lidenskab, der vende sig bort og sige »er det Noget at elske«!

Og hvad er saa igjen efter vore Begreber om Kjerlighed »den Skjønne«?

Det er den Elskede og Vennen.

Thi den Elskede og Vennen er den umiddelbare og ligefremme Gjenstand for den umiddelbare Kjerlighed, Lidenskabens og Tilbøielighedens Valg.

Og hvad er »den Stygge«?

Det er »Næsten«, som man skal elske.

Look: that simple sage of antiquity, who knew how to speak so beautifully of the love that loves the beautiful, sometimes also spoke in another vein, when he spoke of loving the ugly one.

He did not deny that to love is to love the beautiful one; yet he also spoke—yes, it was a kind of jest—of loving the ugly one.

What, then, is meant by “the beautiful one”?

“The beautiful one” is the immediate and direct object of immediate love, chosen by inclination and passion.

There is assuredly no need to command anyone to love the beautiful one.

But the ugly one!

That is not something one can ask of inclination and passion: they turn away and say, “Is that anything to love!”

And according to our concepts of love, what, in turn, is “the beautiful one”?

It is the beloved and the friend.

For the beloved and the friend are the immediate and direct object of immediate love, chosen by passion and inclination.

And what is “the ugly one”?

It is “the neighbour”, whom we are to love.

Man skal elske ham, dette vidste hiin eenfoldige Vise Intet om, han vidste ikke, at Næsten var til og at man skulde elske ham, det han talte om at elske den Stygge var blot et Drillerie.

»Næsten« er den u-elskelige Gjenstand, er ikke Noget at byde Tilbøielighed og Lidenskab, der vende sig bort fra ham og sige »er det Noget at elske«.

Men derfor er der heller ingen Fordeel forbunden ved at tale om at skulle elske den u-elskelige Gjenstand.

Og dog er den sande Kjerlighed just Kjerlighed til »Næsten« eller den er, ikke det at finde den elskelige Gjenstand, men det, at finde den u-elskelige Gjenstand elskelig.

– Naar da, for at der kan tales ganske sandt om den sande Kjerlighed, Taleren maa have gjort sig selv til den Selvkjerligste, og Talens Indhold maa være, om det at elske den u-elskelige Gjenstand: saa er enhver Fordeel eller Vinding umulig.

One is to love him; that simple sage of antiquity knew nothing of this: he did not know that the neighbour existed or that one was to love him; his talk of loving the ugly one was merely teasing.

“The neighbour” is the unlovable object—not something one can ask of inclination and passion, which turn away from him and say, “Is that anything to love?”

But for that very reason, neither is there any advantage in speaking of the duty to love the unlovable object.

And yet true love is precisely love of “the neighbour”: it does not consist in finding the lovable object, but in finding the unlovable object lovable.

—If, then, true love is to be spoken of altogether truthfully, the speaker must have made himself the most self-loving, and the speech must concern loving the unlovable object: every advantage or gain is impossible.

Taleren bliver ikke til Løn selv elsket, thi hvor selvkjerlig han er bliver jo kun aabenbarere ved Modsætningen; og Talens Indhold er ikke skikket til at indynde sig hos Menneskene, som gjerne ville høre om, hvad Tilbøielighed og Lidenskab saa let og saa gjerne forstaae, men ikke gjerne høre om, hvad Tilbøielighed og Lidenskab ingenlunde lystes ved.

– Dog er dette digteriske Forsøg ganske rigtigt og kan blandt Andet maaskee tjene til at belyse en Sviig eller en Misforstaaelse, der har viist sig atter og atter i hele Christenheden.

Man tager den christelige Ydmyghed og Selvfornegtelse forfængelig derved, at man vistnok fornegter sig selv i een Henseende, men ikke har Mod til at gjøre det afgjørende, hvorfor man passer paa at blive forstaaet i sin Ydmyghed og i sin Selvfornegtelse, saa man altsaa bliver agtet og æret for sin Ydmyghed og Selvfornegtelse – hvilket dog vel ikke er Selvfornegtelse.

The speaker is not rewarded by being loved himself, for the contrast only makes how self-loving he is more apparent; nor is the speech's content suited to winning people's favour: they gladly hear what inclination and passion understand so readily and willingly, but do not gladly hear what inclination and passion take no pleasure in at all.

—Yet this poetic experiment is quite right, and may perhaps, among other things, help to illuminate a deception or misunderstanding that has manifested itself again and again throughout Christendom.

One makes Christian humility and self-denial vain by admittedly denying oneself in one respect, yet lacking the courage to do the decisive thing: one makes sure that one's humility and self-denial are understood, so that one is esteemed and honoured for them—which surely is not self-denial.

Der fordres altsaa, for at kunne anprise Kjerlighed, ind efter Selvfornegtelse, og udefter opoffrende Uegennyttighed.

Naar da En paatager sig at anprise Kjerlighed, og der nu spørges, om det virkelig er Kjerlighed af ham, at han gjør det: saa maa dertil svares »dette kan ingen Anden med Bestemthed afgjøre; det er muligt, at det er Forfængelighed, Stolthed, kort af det Onde, men det er ogsaa muligt, at det er Kjerlighed.« –

Thus, to praise love, one needs self-denial inwardly and sacrificial disinterestedness outwardly.

So when someone undertakes to praise love, and the question is asked whether his doing so truly proceeds from love, the answer must be: “No one else can decide that with certainty; it may be vanity, pride—in short, something evil—but it may also be love.” —