Some authors make a lasting impression on one’s mind, for good or for bad. For me, one such writer is Søren Kierkegaard (1813-55), whom I first engaged while an undergraduate at Valparaiso University. While reading Kierkegaard, one cannot help but be flummoxed by large portions of his prose—there’s simply too much there to engage in its fullness. You are like a kindergartener, who is desperately trying to make sense of a chalkboard filled with Einstein’s equations but helpless to do so. But—and this is the glory of Kierkegaard—amidst the haze, one finds moments of brilliant sunshine. An image or idea breaks through the swirling clouds and, suddenly, it makes sense. For moments such as these, I find myself returning to Kierkegaard again and again. Continue reading
This article originally appeared at Conciliar Post.