The question is: Does or does not my personal life express what is communicated? As long as my life expresses what is communicated, I am a teacher; when this is not the case, I am obliged to add: What I say is certainly true, but my saying it is the poetic aspect; consequently it is a poet-communication, which, however, is meaningful both for keeping me awake and keeping me striving, and, if possible, for encouraging others.
–Søren Kierkegaard, Journals
My dialectic is ruined. Very well. I am only concerned that my previous post, in settling down unto itself in blogspace, has already begun to develop an oaken-ness and twang, like an old wine, on top of those modest purposes it was meant to serve. It may have left you in a state of false reconciliation with actuality; for that I apologize. Therefore things must be brought to a more proper close—a proper capstone, my final post, and one written not merely in the voice of a penitent but as one.
*
Brian knocked on his thirty-second door that morning with pride. His partner was already beginning to lose heart, attempting to mask his discontent with well-reasoned “time to go get lunch and have a break” pontificating. Why the Church required missionaries to go door-to-door in pairs, Brian would never fully understand, since one always ended up slackening behind the other under the Prospective’s appraising glare. If the third wheel isn’t usable it has to have some other value. Would anyone have watched the Three Stooges if Curly were retarded rather than lovably simple?
Door Thirty-Two opened on a young man, his right arm resting on the frame and the left on the door in a concavity whose shape itself petitioned the entrance of the two Truth-tellers. Looks like an easy sell, Brian thought.
He introduced himself and his friend and explained that they were Helping Hands in the Lord’s service working through the Church of Latter Day Saints, and asked if the man was happy in God’s eyes. The young man didn’t answer but opened the door a little more, and Brian and his Helping Hand entered.
The three of them sat at his table. The Helping Hand began the usual discussion of toiling in God’s vineyard, and while a devout man Brian allowed his hand to cradle the back of his closely cropped, youthful hairdo, focusing on what the young man’s history might be. The Prospective wore a smile so tight it seemed set to crack at any moment. “That’s very interesting,” the young man said, responding to the latest Mormon platitude. He thought for a moment, then stood and moved to an open book by his kitchen counter, bringing it back to the bare table. “This is what I worry about,” he sighed. He began reading from the book.
‘He very seldom goes to church, because it seems to him that most parsons really don’t know what they are talking about. He makes an exception in the case of one particular priest of whom he concedes that he knows what he is talking about, but he doesn’t want to hear him for another reason, because he has a fear that this might lead him too far. He often feels a need of solitude, which for him is a vital necessity—sometimes like breathing, at other times like sleeping. The fact that he feels this more than other men is also a sign that he has a deeper nature.’ He reclined, and flitted his eyes between the Helping Hands.
Brian realized that his fingers were tightly gripping the tabletop, and he slowly relaxed them. He felt blood slowly return to the joints and then pass them, moving into his cuticles. Sunlight cracked the length of the table through the window between them and diffused onto Brian’s face, and warmed his cheeks when he flinched them. Any attention paid to a facet of the room revealed its relation to the surrounding parts, and Brian found his place within it.
*
Brian lifted the cigarette to his lips and bent his head down to it, so as to minimize as much as possible the time before absorbing the nicotine his body required. The smoke shot out of his lungs like he was sucking in candle smoke. “It’s…it’s Kierkegaard in me,” he articulated, turning to me. I was collapsed on the bench next to him, half-huddling in the March cold, and attempted to laugh off his epiphany.
I tried to ignore the irony that after everything I had written by that point, he was the one apologizing. I had sensed for weeks the increasing likelihood that he would discover the blog, and I knew that he knew of it the moment he sheepishly asked if I might take a short walk with him after class.
“There’s not much I can say, Brian. You are now…privy to my weirdness. This is the kind of shit that I think my teachers have always dimly sensed from me though, that ‘oh, Tom’s getting something else completely from class time,’ barely related to what’s being taught.”
He shook his head. “If anything, you’re doing exactly what I was talking about in class. How does one author oneself? That’s Kierkegaard’s central question.” He took another draw and thought for a moment. “The ‘Brian’ character is dumb, aloof, more or less in his own world.”
“You know I don’t actually think those things about you.”
“No, but it is the impression I leave on some of my ex-girlfriends. It just makes me curious.”
He looked off, above the leafless branches of the trees in the square and Copenhagen’s crenellated rooflines, his defenses ruined and self laid bare to me, as he ruminated over himself, and I waited helplessly for a new charter that could shape our relationship into something safe, as the old one smoldered on the cobblestones.
*
Jon and company practically charged out of their folk high school with joy. A shy boy Jon took the time to befriend had invited him to his birthday party. “Can I bring friends?” Jon asked eagerly.
“Sure…yes. You can do that. That would be nice,” came the muted reply. Jon knew how sensitive his friend was and couldn’t wait to show him a good time, making sure to invite all twelve of his closest friends. He had promised them, a bit mendaciously, something exciting and wild. “You’ll see,” he breathed excitedly as they boarded the S-train to the boy’s house. Then again: “You’ll see,” as if convincing himself. He felt his chin absently, and decided that once puberty asserted itself he would try growing a goatee.
His friend greeted them at the door, patting Jon on the back and thanking him for coming while giving awkward, vaguely welcoming looks to the rest of the posse. There weren’t enough chairs for all, and Jon volunteered to stand, now feeling vaguely guilty. Only two other guests were there, a man and a woman; he hoped against hope that more would arrive. They looked much older than his friend and behaved to him quite nicely—a little too nicely, as if trying to comfort him.
One of them withdrew a cake for the oven, and again Jon thought it strange that they would have baked it in the friend’s home. How long had they been there for? It was cut solemnly with a butter knife, passed around like communion wafers to the assembled. So many dagger eyes were being shot at Jon by his twelve accomplices that he felt as if he were ratting them out for some terrible crime.
Finally the boy stood; maybe he would liven things up with a party game. “I just want to thank you all for coming,” he began. His voice was shaking slightly. “It means a great deal to me.” The shake in his voice spread visibly to his arms and legs, and he had to sit down. The female friend rubbed him on the back.
She began: “We’re very happy to celebrate your birthday with you. We all think you’re a great guy and we’re honored to be your friends.” Sobbing now; the boy’s head was down and Jon couldn’t be sure where it was coming from. Possible that it was one of his own friends, as an expression of social agony.
The man: “I don’t think this many people would have come out here today if they thought anything was wrong with you. None of us thinks that. Whenever you feel insecure or self-conscious just think about how much we all mean to you, and you to us.”
Jon fidgeted and lifted each leg, one at a time, like a jittery pony. He hated himself for what he had intruded upon and what he had practically ruined. The boy had trusted him. They couldn’t leave—not now, it would have ruined everything. He grinned a priapic grin that did not leave his face for the rest of the night, as he stared over the heads of his own twelve and occasionally lost sight of the boy among that multitude.
*
I remember now, it was myself and Jon and Eugene and the girl from Yale sitting together, on the hill over Moscow, drinking wine and discussing Western society.
“I could never live in America now,” Jon admitted, with a twinge of dismissal in his voice. Eugene expressed curiosity. Jon continued: “I believe that if I were to do that I would need to become involved in PTO and other such things for my daughter, when she’s older, and I can’t imagine holding a conversation with a soccer mom. Or interacting with them in any such way. Or subjecting my daughter to such an environment.” He was a little self-conscious, and I knew enough about Jon’s personality by this point to guess why: like most enlightened citizens, he didn’t want to be caught evincing unmasked prejudice towards an entire culture. But like most good parents, he was willing to do so if the cultural development of his children were at stake.
“I mean, certainly I wouldn’t want to raise a child in Russia, Jon,” I chastised gently. “And probably a fair few of the other DIS first-timers feel the same way. I bet as many are turned off an environment such as this as are fascinated by it, once they see it in the flesh. You must get a feel for that backlash.”
Jon had flexed his jaw in a deep yawn but suddenly closed it, alert, perfectly stifling the reflex as a dog can.
“Oh, I do, Tom. I very much do,” he said, a little more cagily than I would have expected.
And then I, unthinkingly: “I’m sure some of the blogs reflect that uneasiness after the long study tours.”
“They certainly do. And I’m sure we can expect many such interesting thoughts from your own.”
Eugene dropped the chicken mid-bite, having heard rumors of my writings but not yet taken the plunge into it himself. Yale-girl, fortunately, remained blissfully ignorant of the subtext.
I put on an innocent face, though I knew the moment had arrived. “What are you saying, Jon?”
“I know you have written about Brian, and I know you have written about me,” he said, with strangely measured enunciation, like a rattlesnake trying to decide if it was worth biting a human too dumb not to fuck with it. But instead he slithered away: “Yes, it’s very well written. But you need to read each post several times before you understand what’s going on. You will win a prize.”
*
And I did. I began to realize the weight of my four months abroad after the closing DIS ceremony, when amid the smiling faces and promises of catching up over the summer I defiantly donned my Kierkegaard hat and began taking notes in my moleskin. I continued to feel the weight of that when I visited my distant Continental relatives in Austria the week after DIS ended. I saw myself in them, perhaps they in me. Kierkegaard remained inside me. And the journey was not yet over. I went to Florence.
Dante rests after successfully interrogating his prey.
I saw the foundation of the Renaissance, the birth of the modern world. Saw so many Catholic churches that I felt my Protestantism reassert itself with a vengeance. Kierkegaard was still in me. I went back to Copenhagen and showed my father the city, some of the landmarks, Tivoli.
We went to Kierkegaard’s grave, my fourth time there, and my father snapped a quick photo before moving on, and I lingered as I always did, knowing that this was the last time for some time before seeing it again. I felt him in me again.
I went home. I confessed certain things that needed to be confessed.
Kierkegaard was in me again as I made my confession, to things I had done and seen abroad and elsewhere, to things I had done some time ago but never fully resolved. He is in me now as I write this, urging me towards a synthesis of who I am and what I write, which may never be possible, but I’ll be damned if I don’t try. I realize now that he will always be in me, though as we have learned, that is not enough: these things cannot be sequestered from one’s essence, if you truly consider them transformative. He and I are on a spectrum, connected and symbiotic, not involuted pieces of some Russian doll. I bought one for my host family after my travels, a pretty little blue and white thing, and Sophie and Frederik accepted it with happiness. I ate dinner with all of them one last time in late May, showed one last round of photos to them, promised to come back and visit. I will miss them all and they will be a part of me, inside me.
I’ve formed a new relation to my parents and friends and country. But it was primarily an invitation for something more, a greater and purer unveiling, that I could not have understood before my travels, so that in feeding me those foreign experiences it was awakening me to the choice which had always lain before me. My teachers were the vehicles, the sounding boards upon which I unleashed the expurgated muck of myself, so that I could stand empty and cleansed before the absolute. Brian, who as a teacher played that role with the utmost reluctance and whose cross-cultural history and internal conflicts practically begged to be dissected; and Jon, whose role was rather so tight and immune to be beyond penetration, but in my feigned excavation, my false confidence at succeeding at finding his essence, awakened his curiosity—and made him by turns, through awkward pauses in the classroom, through the amiable chats after class on his ambivalence towards Germans and excitement at translating Medvedev himself (moments which, though inconsequential in substance, were crucial in re-establishing mutual trust after both our covers had been blown), voluntarily open himself to me. The Director had announced to us in January, as we squatted side by side in hard chairs like a giant litter of unwanted kittens, that what we got out of study abroad correlated directly with what we wanted out of it. And now I know what that was—what I wanted out of it was myself.
*
So here is my situation. I sit with my laptop, finishing this post, on the floor of my giant suburban bedroom, in a home that was the McMansion equivalent of the late 1930s, with its colossal living and dining rooms, and a back lawn that could contain a city block, adjoining a river that I can kayak down at will like a swan in dreamworld.
My mother, the president of a university, with a work schedule I can scarcely imagine. Everything reminds me or exists in an antinomic state with Copenhagen, its streamlike streets and squares.
There are no bikes here. The streets are outlaid in a perfect grid. Columbus, Ohio.
And we have a cabin now, a second home in the woods, purchased when I was abroad perhaps on the assumption that my suspicion of such an acquisition would be lessened by being halfway across the world. It sits in Logan, Ohio. It receives the same radio channels and NPR frequency as Athens, Ohio, my hometown, and I recognize the voices and news items as if I am again graduating from high school, as if I again live on my sheep farm, compelling orphaned lambs to nurse from the bottle. Does Brian feel this way, in his own Logan, his own college town?
And Northwestern in the fall. The gentrified neighborhoods of Evanston, Illinois. The panicky emails on the university listserv every other week about the latest black man “of uncertain height and attire” who assaulted the latest helpless female freshman, who was innocently returning from a night of hard pledging and who can’t wait to get in to law school and who can’t believe a university of Northwestern’s stature allows these kinds of assaults to take place, thank you very much. Chicago looms to the south, glass and steel and proud towers of men who have “made it”; the South Side beyond it, yawning and wanton and festering, wanting so much to become something like what I have access to.
And the Cult of Brian? It has a few new members…
Some of them are so focused on serving him that they enter a catatonic state.
Some of them carve strange words into their flesh in his memory.
My stateside friends chase down internships and grants. They are cultivating the parts of themselves they are best at performing, remaking themselves into that and nothing more. Who wouldn’t?
That is the battle I am now fighting with myself. As I look now out the back window to the old servant’s quarters of my home, where servants prepared the meals of previous college presidents, the weight of myself consumes me.
The weight of where I find myself. When I then look down before me, at the bones of my novel, that weight seems less unfathomable, if no less heavy. My novel, which beyond all pretensions is really just about me and my life thus far, and the dangers I might face down the road. My novel, which is academically and conversationally unjustifiable, except by what edifying truths are revealed to me in the progress of its composition.
I am writing my novel. I am undertaking the arduous process of narrating myself, on a level far beyond anything on this blog, which was always dishonest enough about my true emotions and thoughts that half the fun lay in that dishonesty, as well as the hidden confession. Its voice—egomaniacal, deficient of empathy, insufferably glib—is unusable for my current project. Now the only audience is me, my confession to myself, all wordplay immediately unmasked by the mind which formed it. I don’t know who I am. But if there is only one lesson I want anyone to take away from Kierkegaard In Me, it is this: none of you, not Jon or Brian or anyone else, knows who you are either.
Do not take this for darkness or despair, for that is not where I am right now. I am becoming curious about myself. Certain memories from my childhood that poeticize themselves into my dreams, or spare thoughts that I ordinarily would have re-concealed, I now meditate on and try to form into words, into a narrative. Though at every step I am tempted to stop this process, whether by a small parental chore or bare indolence. How many of us wonder at ourselves? How many would mistake doing so for egomania? Is it possible to commit the “sin of reflection,” as Kierkegaard said, for a higher good? Will I be a different person by the end of the summer, owing only to plumbing previous experiences rather than forming new ones? The blog was dialectic; this is something else, a pure formation. Baptism awaits.
I will try not to worry about my life, what I will put on for others, how harshly I will judge myself. Which of you by worrying can add one cubit to your stature? Look at Brian translating Kierkegaard; look at Jon wandering Russia. Seek first something higher, and the rest will follow. Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself.
this is the moment