Soren Kierkegaard

Sorø.” The story was set in Carsten Hauch’s parlor in Sorø, where Møller
and various literary notables had assembled for an evening gathering in order
to discuss the books of the day, including some by Kierkegaard.
The conversation turned first toEither/Or, and Møller praised the aes-
thetic portion highly, while the ethical portion seemed to him to be more
a collection of material than genuine literature—a judgment that must have
annoyed Kierkegaard but which was not, in fact, entirely off the mark. In
this connection, Møller complained that the author was not the master of
his material from the very beginning “but had only developed his ethical
self—while writing,” which made the work formless and chaotic, “con-
stantly darting off in every direction.” One of those present chimed in,
declaring his agreement: “Yes, that’s exactly it....What I have against all
these works (the form and contents of which betray their common origin)
is that every time one feels ready to surrender to a purely literary enjoyment,
the author gets in one’s way, bringing in his own ethical and religious devel-
opment, which no one really has asked about, which privately might be
entirely respectable but which has not paid its dues to stroll upon the com-
mons of objective literature. He commits the same error for which people
have faulted the poet [Hans Christian] Andersen—he permits the entire
development of his inner life to take place in the public eye.”
Here Møller was informing Kierkegaard that he had nothing on Andersen
when it came to life views and his private sphere. But these objections were
polite and seemly compared with the comments Møller made aboutStages
on Life’s Way: “When I took hold of his most recent big book,Stages on
Life’s Way, it was with an almost sinister feeling. Such exaggerated, indeed,
such unnatural productivity might perhaps be healthful for the author, but
for literature and for the reader—never. Literary productivity seems to have
become a physical need for him, or he uses it as a medicine, just as in certain
illnesses one uses bloodletting, cupping, steam baths, emetics, and the like.
While a healthy person rests by sleeping, he seems to rest by letting his pen
run on. Instead of eating and drinking, he satiates himself by writing. In
place of normal human nature, which produces one fetus each year, he
seems to have the nature of a fish and to spawn. As chance would have it,
I began with the ‘psychological experiment’ ‘ “Guilty?”/“Not Guilty?” ’
which takes up the final two hundred forty-two closely printed pages. Here,
as I feared, he goes astray. Here there are repetitions, self-excavations, bril-
liant flashes of genius, and the beginnings of madness; in the end, what had
previously been fulfillment has now become mere facility, and method has
become stock mannerism, a trick obvious to everyone. He is not concerned
about the reader, because he writes only for his own enjoyment, nor about
making his name as a classical author, because he writes without form. He