Franz Kafka’s The Trial and Absurdism

           

             

            The questions of existentialism have provoked and troubled many great thinkers in the past: “Who are we? What are our places in the universe?” However, the beauty of the problem lies in the fact that there may never be an ultimate answer or solution to address our placement in the universe. The Greek philosopher Heraclitus of Ephesus must have emphasized this inconvenient truth: “ ‘It is impossible to step twice into the same river,’ as Heraclitus says ... ‘It scatters and regathers, comes together and dissolves, approaches and departs’ (Waterfield 41 F34). The early nineteenth century Danish thinker Søren Kierkegaard also supports this Heraclitean point of view when he celebrates philosophical doubts and uncertainty in Concluding Unscientific Postscript to Philosophical Fragments: “An objective uncertainty, held fast through appropriation with the most passionate inwardness, is the truth” (Kierkegaard 207).  Therefore, it is only appropriate to adhere to a theory that is most appealing and familiar to one’s own upbringing and what the German philosopher Martin Heidegger terms “equipmental totality.” In my case, I find comfort in addressing my existentiality with Albert Camus’s theory of absurdism. According to the French philosopher and journalist, the “absurd” is authentically “a divorce” (Camus 30) between man and the world: “This world in itself is not reasonable, that is all that can be said. But what is absurd is the confrontation of this irrational and the wild longing for clarity whose call echoes in the human heart” (21). Camus proposes this ongoing conflict is necessarily central to a meaningful life: “That revolt gives life its value. Spread out over the whole length of a life, it restores its majesty to that life” (55). In order to fully understand Camus’s theory, I will examine Franz Kafka’s The Trial and upon demonstrating how the work falls short of reaching an absurd standard, I will gain a better understanding into the secrets of living a true life: “But the point is to live” (65). Thus, I will first present how Camus defines an absurd work. After that, I will examine how The Trial is eventually not an absurdist work, although initially it possesses many convincing traits. When proving why The Trial is not an absurdist work, a critique of Kierkegaard’s ideas is also useful to understand Camus’s philosophy.

             In “The Myth of Sisyphus,” Camus’s analysis of The Trial inevitably leads to his standard of an absurdist work: “Consequently, I recognized here a work that is absurd in its principles … Nothing is lacking, neither the unexpressed revolt (but it is what is writing), nor lucid and mute despair (but it is what is creating), nor that amazing freedom of manner which the characters of the novel exemplify until their ultimate death” (130). Based on this standard, there are three components of an absurdist work that The Trial successfully exemplifies: an “unexpressed revolt,” a “lucid and mute despair” and an “amazing freedom of manner.” Accordingly, I will demonstrate next how The Trial satisfies these requirements.[1]

            At first, Joseph K. is summoned to a court hearing to defend his case—a situation in which even until the end of the novel, K. and the readers never find out the true purpose of his arrest and conviction. The first evidence is that right at the beginning K. is informed of his arrest by two men who are not in any official uniforms and do not attempt to present him with any official warrants. Initially, K., as a rational human being, attempts to seek the truth behind his opaque condition when confronting the court and condemning it to be nothing but insanity: “And the purpose of this extensive organization, gentlemen? It consists of arresting innocent people and introducing senseless proceedings against them, which for the most part, as in my case, go nowhere. Given the senselessness of the whole affair, how could the bureaucracy avoid becoming entirely corrupt? It’s impossible, even the highest judge couldn’t manage it … ” (Kafka 50, emphasis added). Conversely, when K. finds out over time that this attempt is completely futile, he simply gives up and ignores the whole matter. When K. and his uncle visit a lawyer to discuss the case, K. simply leaves his own life-and-death situation behind and enjoys an intimate moment with the lawyer’s mistress. The uncle accuses K.: “You’ve damaged your case terribly, when it was starting out so well. You crawl off to hide with a dirty little creature who obviously happens to be the lawyer’s mistress, and stay away for hours. You don’t even look for an excuse, make no efforts to cover it up, no, you’re totally open about it, run to her and stay with her” (109). At this point, the illogicality of the matter must convince readers that The Trial may indeed be an absurdist work.

            However, in “The Myth of Sisyphus,” Camus himself also introduces the reason why The Trial eventually may not be an absurdist work:

His work is universal (a really absurdist work is not universal) to the extent to which it represents the emotionally moving face of man fleeing humanity, deriving from his contradictions reasons for believing, reasons for hoping from his fecund despairs, and calling life his terrifying apprenticeship in death. It is universal because its inspiration is religious. As in all religions, man is freed of the weight of his own life. But if I know that, if I can even admire it, I also know that I am not seeking what is universal, but what is true. The two may not well coincide. (136, emphasis added)

Therefore, it is conclusive, according to Camus, that Kafka has strayed away from making The Trial an absurdist work by introducing religious notions, and the most prominent of which is undoubtedly hope: “Yet this world is not so closed as it seems. Into this universe devoid of progress, Kafka is going to introduce hope in a strange form” (130). Consequently, this idea suggests that The Trial may lean towards Kierkegaard’s absurdism rather than Camus’s: “The absurd is that the eternal truth has come into existence in time, that God has come into existence, has been born, has grown up, etc. has come into existence exactly as an individual human being, indistinguishable from any other human being, inasmuch as all immediate recognizability is pre-Socratic paganism and from the Jewish point of view is idolatry” (Kierkegaard, Con. 211-12). Effectively, Kierkegaard suggests a theological solution that Camus would refuse: “The formula for the state in which there is no despair at all: in relating itself to itself and in willing to be itself, the self rests transparently in the power that established it. This formula in turn, as has been frequently pointed out, is the definition of faith” (Sic. 372). In essence, there are numerous biblical symbols and meanings in The Trial that sustain the above argument.

First, Kafka has deliberately set the timing of Joseph K.’s arrest on his thirtieth birthday, “Perhaps because today was his thirtieth birthday, that was certainly possible” (Kafka 6). The significance of this evidence lies in the fact that, according to the Bible, Jesus Christ also starts his ministry at the age of thirty. Second, the relationships between K. and all the female characters in The Trial undoubtedly suggest an association to the story of the original sin and the temptation of Eve. Throughout the novel, it is not a coincidence how K. immediately has such a great effect on these women. K. himself admits: “I recruit women helpers, he thought, almost amazed: first Fräulein Bürstner, then the court usher’s wife, and now this little nurse, who seems to have an inexplicable desire for me” (107). Besides, Leni, the lawyer’s mistress, also offers a Kierkegaardian solution to K.: “Please don’t ask for names, but stop making that mistake, don’t be so stubborn; you can’t defend yourself against this court, all you can do is confess. Confess the first chance you get. That’s the only chance you have to escape, the only one” (106, emphasis added). Nevertheless, readers see the strongest evidence in the chapter called “In the Cathedral,” after the priest tells K. the story of “Before the Law.” The story is about a man whose life is spent trying to get through a doorkeeper separating himself and the Law. When the man is about to die, the doorkeeper tells him: “No one else could gain admittance here, because this entrance was meant solely for you. I’m going to go and shut it now” (217). Here Kafka points out that the desperate man and K. resemble fiercely, as both try frantically to seek entrance into a realm within their reach yet are too afraid or stubborn to do so. Even the priest points out to K. that the man is actually more powerful than the doorkeeper simply because he has free will, while the doorkeeper is bounded by this invisible force behind him: “But it is equally clear, according to this opinion, that he is in fact subordinate to him. First of all, the free man is superior to the bound man. Now the man is in fact free: he can go wherever he wishes, the entrance to the Law alone is denied to him, and this only by one person, the doorkeeper” (221). At the end of the chapter, when K. takes his leave and receives a surprisingly cold dismissal from the priest, the priest explains: “Why should I want something from you. The court wants nothing from you. It receives you when you come and dismisses you when you go” (224). Thus, this point suggests that K.’s fate is not pre-determined by any courts but his own choices and what Nietzsche calls “the will to power.” As soon as he forgoes his will to live, K. is executed: “With failing sight K. saw how the men drew near his face, leaning cheek-to-cheek to observe the verdict. ‘Like a dog!’ he said; it seemed as though the shame was to outlive him” (231). After all, the morality in this story may persuade one into believing that this is indeed an absurd theme.

However, he or she should not forget that the setting of the chapter is in a cathedral. Here Kafka deliberately creates a situation in which K. has an opportunity to redeem himself through faith and hope. Specifically, at one point during the conversation, the priest concludes that the doorkeeper is indeed superior to the man: “No matter how he appears to us, he’s still a servant of the Law, and thus is beyond human judgment. In that case one can’t see the doorkeeper as subordinate to the man. To be bound by his office, even if only at the entrance to the Law, is incomparably better than to live freely in the world” (223). Undoubtedly, Kafka creates a clear distinction between the world of the Law, or the divine, and the free world of humanity. The image of the doorkeeper is definitely comparable to the messenger of God. What Kafka signifies at this point in the story is that the divine grants mankind with choices, but only because of their stupidity and stubbornness, mankind turns away from this offering and faces a hopeless death. Certainly, K. follows this option and believes in a world without meaning: “Lies are made into a universal system” (223). Back in “The Myth of Sisyphus,” Camus suggests the encounter with the absurd leaves man with only three choices—physical suicide, the Kierkegaardian leap of faith[2] or consciousness of life. K. has inherently chosen to reject the latter two options when he decides to give up on life, as Kafka has granted K. the final chance to take the leap. Therefore, with these Christian notions, The Trial may not be considered a truly absurd work according to Camus.

            Clearly, Joseph K. in The Trial has both failed to have faith in his life and also to live an absurd life. Kafka has presented many absurd traits in The Trial, but only by introducing the Christian notions of faith and hope into the novel, Camus rejects his work as an absurd work. From K.’s age to his relationships and affairs with most of the women he meets as well as the encounter with the priest, The Trial clearly presents many biblical resemblances. Undoubtedly, Kafka has not presented K. with a life the poet T.S. Eliot beautifully describes in his poem East Coker: “I said to my soul be still, and wait without hope/ For hope would be hope of the wrong thing; wait without love/ For love would be love of the wrong thing; there is yet faith/ But the faith, and the love, and the hope are all in the waiting./ Wait without thought, for you are not ready for thought:/ So the darkness shall be the light, and the stillness the dancing” (T.S. Eliot).[3]

           

           

Works Cited

Camus, Albert. “The Myth of Sisyphus.” The Myth of Sisyphus and Other Essays. Trans. Justin O’Brien. New York: Vintage International, 1991. 1-138. Print.

Kafka, Franz. The Trial. Trans. Breon Mitchell. New York: Schocken Books, 1998. Print.

Kierkegaard, Søren. Concluding Unscientific Postscript to Philosophical Fragments. The Essential Kierkegaard. Ed. and Trans. Howard V. Hong and Edna H. Hong. Princeton, New Jersey: Princeton University Press, 2000. 187-246. Print.

———. The Sickness unto Death. The Essential Kierkegaard. Ed. and Trans. Howard V. Hong and Edna H. Hong. Princeton, New Jersey: Princeton University Press, 2000. 351-372. Print.

Eliot, Thomas. East Coker. Allspirit.co.uk, 2012. April 16^th 2012. Web.

Waterfield, Robin, trans. “Heraclitus of Ephesus.” The First Philosophers: The Presocratics and the Sophists. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000. 32-48. Print.

“I pledge my honor that I have neither received nor provided unauthorized assistance during the completion of this work.”

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[1] In drama, an absurd work may consist of several characteristics such as circular structure, communication difficulties, exhaustion of languages, deliberate failure to create a realistic situation, overt usage of symbolism and a lack of character development. Franz Kafka’s The Trial also exerts these characteristics.

[2] This, according to Camus, is the philosophical suicide.

[3] The author would like to acknowledge Professor Ronald Waite’s assistance towards the completion of this work. 

Martin Heidegger and the Last Crusade

Immediately on the first page of Being and Time, the German philosopher Martin Heidegger reveals one of the great misunderstandings in the history of philosophy by, ironically, introducing a Platonic statement: “ ‘For manifestly you have long been aware of what you mean when you use the expression ‘being’. We, however, who used to think we understood it, have now become perplexed” (Heidegger 19). In this comprehensive examination of the subject of Being, Heidegger demonstrates no matter how extensively great thinkers in the past studied the subject of Being, they have all missed the fundamentals of the issue. Thus, he demands a renaissance on this matter: “So it is fitting that we should raise anew the question of the meaning of Being” (19). This approach, which certainly sounds familiar to many lovers of wisdom, as another European philosopher, by the name of René Descartes, who is popularly believed to be the father of modern philosophy, also chooses to adopt it.

In his work Discourse on the Method, Descartes expresses: “But regarding the opinions to which I had hitherto given credence, I thought that I could not do better than undertake to get rid of them [old foundations of philosophical beliefs], all at one go, in order to replace them afterwards with better ones, or with the same ones once I had squared them with the standards of reason” (Descartes, Dis. 26). These two approaches are, undoubtedly, similar in nature, but it is possible to distinguish a major difference—it is Heidegger’s turn this time to bring down this so-called “new and firm footing” (Heidegger 46) that Descartes laboriously establishes. Indeed, Heidegger criticizes the Cartesian proof of existence and the famous expression cogito ergo sum[1] by proving that Descartes fails to support the ontological nature of Being, specifically, “by working out the unexpressed ontological foundations of the ‘cogito sum’, we shall complete out sojourn at the second station along the path of our destructive retrospect of the history of ontology” (46). Therefore, in this paper, I will first present the Cartesian approach to the question of Being. After that, I will show how the Heideggerian argument successfully demolishes the Cartesian foundation—a process that is vital to the understanding of this thousand-year-old Holy Grail of philosophy.

In Discourse on the Method, Descartes introduces his cogito sum with a high level of confidence: “And observing that this truth ‘I am thinking, therefore I exist’ was so firm and sure that all the most extravagant suppositions of the sceptics were incapable of shaking it, I decided that I could accept it without scruple as the first principle of the philosophy I was seeking” (Descartes, Dis. 36). Here it is apparent that the key to the Cartesian concept of existence is the connection between thinking and existence. Descartes himself would later claim: “I observed that there is nothing at all in the proposition ‘I am thinking, therefore I exist’ to assure me that I am speaking the truth, except that I see very clearly that in order to think it is necessary to exist” (36). This statement shows how Descartes firmly establishes the connection between thinking and existence.

As a profound scientist and mathematician, Descartes obviously takes the utmost care in his process of proving one’s existence, and he is careful enough to dedicate an entire session of his Meditations on First Philosophy to the exploration of the “I”: “But I do not yet have a sufficient understanding of what this ‘I’ is, that now necessarily exists. So I must be on my guard against carelessly taking something to be this ‘I’, and so making a mistake in the very item of knowledge that I maintain is the most certain and evident of all” (Med. 81). Pursuing this adventure, Descartes finally proves that he is inevitably a “thinking thing”: “But what then am I? A thing that thinks. What is that? A thing that doubts, understands, affirms, denies, is willing, is unwilling, and also imagines and has sensory perceptions” (83). Therefore, when forced to define the “I,” Descartes brilliantly chooses to identify himself as a “thinking thing.” But what exactly is a “thinking thing?” Sadly, he stops short right at that moment and does not go on to pursue what it means to be a “thing”—an invaluable missing piece of the puzzle that later Heidegger would exploit and condemn. I will therefore discuss this point later in this paper, as evidence of how Heidegger calls into doubt the Cartesian philosophy.

Furthermore, Descartes can only come to this conclusion after he has introduced the idea of the “wax.” At first when he observes the wax, Descartes comes into relation with it only through sensory perception: “It [the wax] has just been taken from the honey comb; it has not yet quite lost the taste of the honey; it retains some of the scent of the flowers from which it was gathered; its colour, shape, and size are plain to see; it is hard, cold and can be handled without difficulty; if you rap it with your knuckle it makes a sound” (84). However, as Descartes notes, the relationship between oneself and the wax goes beyond mere senses once the wax is put next to a fire—that is, a transformation has occurred. The wax is nonetheless still a wax, according to Descartes, but he concludes, at that moment, his relationship with the wax is established based not only on mere sensory perception but also by thoughts: “Perhaps the answer lies in the thought which now comes to my mind; namely, the wax was not after all the sweetness of the honey, or the fragrance of the flowers, or the whiteness, or the shape, or the sound, but was rather a body which presented itself to me in these various forms a little while ago, but which now exhibits different ones” (84). Heidegger would later refer to this idea as res extensa, or the thing which extends itself outward in space.

Let me step back and understand this notion of the wax as a res extensa. Originally, the wax itself has the shape and feel of wax, which is familiar to our senses and helps us realize this is a piece of wax. Conversely, when the wax undergoes transformation, that is when we place it next to a fire, it melts, but we still come to understand it as a wax. Thus, the wax extends itself outward with this possibility of taking a different appearance. Descartes believes, with absolute confidence, that this process of thinking would eventually lead one to capture the existence of oneself: “I now know that even bodies are not strictly perceived by the senses or the faculty of imagination but by the intellect alone, and that this perception derives not from their being touched or seen but from their being understood” (86). Sadly, Descartes, in his dedication to prove God’s existence, hastily makes a presupposition that will later backfire and come under scrutiny by many later thinkers; the foremost of which is undoubtedly Heidegger. In his explanation regarding the cause of the idea of God, Descartes quickly concludes: “The only remaining alternative is that it is innate in me, just as the idea of myself is innate in me” (97). Unfortunately for Descartes, Heidegger would later refute not only this innate idea[2] but also all the Cartesian opinions I have revisited.

First, Heidegger reexamines the Cartesian concept of res extensa as mentioned previously: “Descartes sees the extensio as basically definitive ontologically for the world” (Heidegger 122). What I understand from this statement is that through Descartes’s eyes, the world is made up of bodily substances[3] and corporeal things that spread out to a definable space. Later on, Heidegger strikes at the heart of the Cartesian reasoning of the wax, when he proposes: “Matter may have such definite characteristics as hardness, weight, and colour; (durities, pondus, color) ; but these can all be taken away from it, and it still remains what it is. These do not go to make up its real Being; and in so far as they are, they turn out to be modes of extensio” (124). Potentially, this may pose as a problem for Descartes as Heidegger hints in this statement that mere appearance of an object may not allow one to access to its “real Being.” In other words, no matter how long one tries to look at or touch the wax, it relates to us as only a wax and nothing else. Here I should step back and introduce the Heideggerian ideas of the “present-at-hand,” “readiness-to-hand” and their differences in order to better understand the problem.

In Being and Time, Heidegger clearly defines “readiness-to-hand” as: “The kind of Being which equipment possesses—in which it manifests itself in its own right—we call “readiness-to-hand”. Only because equipment has this ‘Being-in-itself’ and does not merely occur, is it manipulable in the broadest sense and at our disposal” (98). Recalling earlier when I addressed the Cartesian problem of failing to pursue the meaning of a “thing,” here in his quest to define the idea of “equipment” and the “readiness-to-hand,” Heidegger successfully pursues the true meaning of this term by outright denial of the Cartesian belief: “When one designates Things as the entities that are ‘proximally given’, one goes ontologically astray, even though ontically one has something else in mind” (96). Afterwards, Heidegger shares his definition, which is clearly more thorough than the Cartesian counterpart:

The Greeks has an appropriate term for ‘Things’: πράγματα—that is to say, that which one has to do with in one’s concernful dealings. But ontologically, the specifically ‘pragmatic’ character of the πράγματα is just what the Greeks left in obscurity; they thought of these ‘proximally’ as ‘mere Things’. We shall call those entities which we encounter in concern “equipment” … Equipment is essentially ‘something in-order-to …’ ” (96-97)

After establishing this connection between equipment and its readiness-to-hand, Heidegger is ready to strike at the foundation of the matter: “No matter how sharply we just look at the ‘outward appearance’ of Things in whatever form this takes [Heidegger considers this to be a characteristic of the “present-at-hand”], we cannot discover anything ready-to-hand” (98). Here Heidegger is clear in attaching the Cartesian approach to mere examination of the present-at-hand and condemning this as a failure to achieve what Descartes himself sets out to prove, which is the relationship between existence and thinking. Pure analysis of the “present-at-hand” poses a challenge to any ontological examination because “ ‘Being’ is not in fact accessible as an entity, it is expressed through attributes—definite characteristics of the entities under consideration, characteristics which themselves are” (127, emphasis added). Thus, no matter how hard one tries to look, touch, smell, or knock on the wax, it returns nothing to oneself in terms of understand one’s existence. Furthermore, Heidegger has also been careful in his critique of Descartes as he admits it may not be fair for him to access any principles that are “beyond his horizon” (131). In order to settle a fair treatment for Descartes, Heidegger concludes:

In his doctrine of the res cogitans and the res extensa, Descartes not only wants to formulate the problem of ‘the “I” and the world’; he claims to have solved it in a radical manner … By taking his basic ontological orientation from traditional sources and not subjecting it to positive criticism, he has made it impossible to lay bare any primordial[4] ontological problematic of Dasein[5]; this has inevitably obstructed his view of the phenomenon of the world. (131)

Here Heidegger clarifies that Descartes, in his haste to prove one’s existence, has neglected his reasoning of Being, and getting himself into a trouble Heidegger labels “pass over”: “A glance at previous ontology shows that if one fails to see Being-in-the-world as a state of Dasein, the phenomenon of worldhood likewise gets passed over. One tries instead to Interpret the world in terms of the Being of those entities which are present-at-hand within-the-world but which are by no means proximally discovered” (93). Therefore, by proving that through mere examination of the “present-at-hand” it is impossible to thoroughly understand Dasein, or Being, Heidegger successfully reveals a fundamental mistake in the Cartesian logical reasoning process, which has reigned over the modern philosophy for centuries.

Despite committing the above mistakes, Descartes should never be disregarded completely, for even Heidegger himself admits that when he starts, Descartes is heading in the right direction: “But if we recall that spatiality is manifestly one of the constituents of the entities within-the-world, then in the end the Cartesian analysis of the ‘world’ can still be ‘rescued’ ” (134). Conversely, Descartes fails to capture the Holy Grail simply because he does not take that last step further and instead creates an illusive presupposition: “Within certain limits the analysis of the extensio remains independent of his neglecting to provide an explicit interpretation for the Being of extended entities” (134). This is a vital lesson to the practice of philosophy since many past thinkers put forth the question of doubt and humility as an essence in the pursuit of wisdom.[6]

In Discourse on the Method, René Descartes lays down several rules on his philosophical methodology. The first of which is, “never to accept anything as true if I did not have evident knowledge of its truth: that is, carefully to avoid precipitate conclusions and preconceptions, and to include nothing more in my judgements than what presented itself to my mind co clearly and so distinctly that I had no occasion to call it into doubt” (Descartes, Dis. 29). Clearly, in his attempt to prove one’s existence, Descartes fails this first rule, and strictly abided by the Cartesian standard, it is not appropriate to move on any longer. He naively creates this connection between thinking and existence by mere examination of the appearance of an object. To Heidegger, this is impossible if one takes into account the concept of the “readiness-to-hand” and its relation to the equipmental totality of Dasein. Regrettably, the greatest defender of the “absolute certainty” method in philosophy has fallen, once again, and so it is suitable and timely to revisit a wake-up call by Friedrich Nietzsche at the beginning of Twilight of the Idols, or, How to Philosophize with a Hammer: “This time they are not just idols of the age, but eternal idols, which are here touched with a hammer as with a tuning fork” (Nietzsche, Twi. 466, emphasis added). [7]

Works Cited

Descartes, René. Discourse on the Method. Descartes: Selected Philosophical Writings. Trans. John Cottingham, Robert Stoothoff, and Dugald Murdoch. Cambridge, Eng.: Cambridge UP, 2009. 20-56. Print.

———. Meditations on First Philosophy. Descartes: Selected Philosophical Writings. Trans. John Cottingham, Robert Stoothoff, and Dugald Murdoch. Cambridge, Eng.: Cambridge UP, 2009. 73-122. Print.

———. Principles of Philosophy. Descartes: Selected Philosophical Writings. Trans. John Cottingham, Robert Stoothoff, and Dugald Murdoch. Cambridge, Eng.: Cambridge UP, 2009. 160-212. Print.

Heidegger, Martin. Being and Time. Trans. John Macquarrie and Edward Robinson. New York: HarperCollins, 2008. Print.

Nietzsche, Friedrich. Twilight of the Idols, or, How to Philosophize with a Hammer. The Portable Nietzsche. Trans. Walter Kaufmann. New York: Penguin Books, 1982. Print.

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[1] I think, therefore, I exist.

[2] This idea leads to a problem commonly known as the “Cartesian circle,” which many philosophers disregard.

[3] Descartes defines “substance” as: “By substance we can understand nothing other than a thing which exists in such a way as to depend on no other thing for its existence” (Descartes, Pri. 177)

[4] That which is closest and most familiar to us.

[5] Heidegger refers to “Dasein” as an entity which is capable of understanding its Being by itself explicitly. (Heidegger 32)

[6] Socrates once said: “ἓν οἶδα ὅτι οὐδὲν οἶδα” or, “The only thing I know is that I know nothing.”

[7] The author would like to express his appreciation towards Professor Ronald Waite’s assistance during the completion of this work.

Where Kierkegaard and Socrates Shake Hands

Involuntarily answering the call from Friedrich Nietzsche’s Twilight of the Idols, or, How to Philosophize with a Hammer, Søren Kierkegaard criticizes almost all the past great thinkers, one after another, specifically on their perspectives on the truth. Whether he is René Descartes or even the “divine Plato,” Kierkegaard does not seem to spare any, except for one: Socrates. Dubbed “the Socratic ignorance” in Concluding Unscientific Postscript to Philosophical Fragments, the Socratic perspective[1] will receive absolute support from Kierkegaard when he expresses his definition on the truth: “An objective uncertainty, held fast through appropriation with the most passionate inwardness, is the truth” (Kierkegaard 207). Understanding the relationship between the above statement and that of Socrates will be critical for further examination of Kierkegaard’s ideas, since one can argue Kierkegaard builds upon the very formidable foundation Socrates has established. Therefore, in this short paper, I will demonstrate how Kierkegaard’s perspective reconciles “the Socratic ignorance” by first presenting his offense on the desire for objective truth and later his thoughts on Socrates.

In the Postscripts, Kierkegaard attacks the desire for objective truth when stating: “Only in subjectivity is there decision, whereas wanting to become objective is untruth” (206). Understanding this statement requires one to note that prior to this statement, Kierkegaard firmly refers to the point that not a single decision can be infinite, even when looking from an objective point of view. Thus, the distinction between good and evil, truth and falsehood and even the principle of contradiction blurs (206). Therefore, Kierkegaard concludes since the passion of the infinite is subjectivity, truth must be subjectivity also. This makes a timely segue way into exploring how Kierkegaard’s confrontation with the objectivity of truth unearths Socrates’s thousand-year-old paradigm of “paganism” (207).

The major difference between the Socratic and the Platonic, according to Kierkegaard, is precisely that the latter invokes speculative thoughts, whereas the former focuses on the existence. This is, in Kierkegaard’s view, “where the road swings off” (208). The reason why Kierkegaard blames Plato for involving the use of speculation is explained in his footnote: “To emphasize existence, which contains within it the qualification of inwardness, is the Socratic, whereas the Platonic is to pursue recollection and immanence” (209). What Socrates essentially demonstrates through his simple ignorance and paradox is that by admitting the pursuit of knowledge as an “infinite merit,” he effectively implies the essential characteristic of an existing person, whereas Plato may have sidetracked and emphasized the “Theory of Recollection” too much on the pursuit of knowledge. According to Kierkegaard, those who pursue knowledge should be ruled out since they all participate in becoming, in the strict sense of certainty.[2]

On the other hand, Kierkegaard does not reserve his praises for Socrates: “Socratic ignorance is an analog to the category of the absurd, except that there is even less objective certainty in the repulsion exerted by the absurd, since there is only the certainty that it is absurd, and for that very reason there is infinitely greater resilience in the inwardness” (208). By stating so, he inherently admits a Socratic influence on his philosophy. Kierkegaard then concludes: “Socratic ignorance is an expression of the objective uncertainty; the inwardness of the existing person is truth” (208). This, as I have mentioned above, is necessarily Kierkegaard’s conclusion after his quest for the essence of the truth.

Clearly, the Socratic call for humility in philosophy contains a much deeper meaning, and one that is viewed with high regards by Kierkegaard. It demonstrates what Kierkegaard claims to be the truth: “an objective uncertainty, with the most passionate inwardness.” It is now clear where the two philosophers cross.

Work Cited

Kierkegaard, Søren. Concluding Unscientific Postscript to Philosophical Fragments. The Essential Kierkegaard. Ed. and Trans. Howard V. Hong and Edna H. Hong. Princeton, New Jersey: Princeton University Press, 2000. 187-246. Print.

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[1] Socrates once concludes decisively: “The only thing I know is that I know nothing.”

[2] The author would like to express his appreciation towards Professor Ron Waite for clarifying this point in his class note.