Soren Kierkegaard

And indeed, Constantin Constantius could well have added, with reference
to that nose-picking little girl: She believed in repetition.
Related to this (though undeniabl yquite different) was the personal oc-
currence about which Constantin Constantius reports as follows: “I arose
one morning and felt unusuall ywell. Unaccountabl y, this sense of well-being
increased all morning long. At precisel yone o’clock I was at the highest
point and glimpsed the dizzying apex that is not to be found on any scale of
well-being, not even on the poetic thermometer. M ybod yhad lost its terres-
trial weight. It was as though I had no bod y, precisel ybecause ever yfunction
was entirel ysatisfied, ever ynerve delighted both in itself and on behalf of
the whole, while ever yheartbeat of the restlessness of the organism onl y
called attention to the pleasure of the moment.... It was as if the whole of
existence was in love with me, and everything quivered in a momentous
rapport with m ybeing. Ever ything in me was full of portent, and ever ything
was m ysteriousl ytransfigured b ym ymicrocosmic bliss.... As mentioned,
at exactl yone o’clock I was at the highest point, where I could sense absolute
sublimit y. Then something suddenl ystarted to irritate one of m ye yes.
Whether it was an eyelash, a speck, a bit of dust, I don’t know, but this I do
know: At that ver yinstant I plunged down almost into the ab yss of despair.
This will be readil yunderstood b yever yone who has been as high up as I
had been and who, while at that point, has also concerned himself with the
theoretical question of the extent to which absolute satisfaction is attainable
at all.” The tale of this heavenl ymorning can be read as a parod yof the
mystic’s ecstasy, and the repeated emphasis upon the exact hour of its culmi-
nation—precisel yone o’clock—should hardl ybe taken too seriousl y. But
the point of the stor yis the suddenness with which bliss appears, its
cause unpredictable, its disappearance inexplicable. And precisel ybecause
it has evaded Constantin Constantius’s control, it evinces similarities with
the sudden appearance of the trusting young woman and with the absolute
non-willing of the little girl—in brief, with repetition.
Scarcel yhad Constantin Constantius recounted the stor yof his euphoric
morning, however, when, in a sort of renunciation of the deceitful character
of repetition, he started to sing the praises of thechancehappening, which
from then on would serve as his principle: “Long live the post horn! It is
m yinstrument for man yreasons and especiall ybecause one can never be
certain of coaxing the same note out this instrument. For an infinit yof
possibilit yresides within the post horn, and the person who places it to his
lips and deposits his wisdom in it will never be guilt yof a repetition. And
the person who, instead of making a reply, provides his friend with a post
horn, such a person says nothing but explains everything. Long live the post
horn! It is m ys ymbol. As the ancient ascetic kept on his table a skull, the