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Updated: May 10, 2025
The house of the sisters Spang was a pleasant one to go to; they were two unmarried ladies who kept an excellent girls' school, at which Julius Lange taught drawing. Benny Spang, not a beautiful, but a brilliant girl, with exceptional brains, daughter of the well-known Pastor Spang, a friend of Soeren Kierkegaard, adopted a tone of good- fellowship towards me that completely won my affection.
And it was clear to me that, on the road which led to Christianity, doubt must be overcome before cowardice not the contrary, as Kierkegaard maintains in his For Self-Examination, where he says that none of the martyrs doubted. But my doubt would not be overcome. Kierkegaard had declared that it was only to the consciousness of sin that Christianity was not horror or madness.
Brandes has insisted, again and again, on the close relation between Brand and other works of Ibsen and the famous Either-Or of Kierkegaard; "it actually seems," he says, "as though Ibsen had aspired to the honor of being called Kierkegaard's poet."
To set my mind in vibration, there was needed a brain that I felt superior to my own; and I did not find it in them. I found it in the philosophical and religious writings of Soeren Kierkegaard, in such works, for instance, as Sickness unto Death. The struggle within me began, faintly, as I approached my nineteenth year.
His conversation was as lively and disconnected as his lectures; there was a charm in the clear glance of his green eyes, a look of genius about his face. He talked for a long time about Herbart, whose Aesthetics, for that matter, he betrayed little knowledge of, then of Hegel, Heiberg, and Kierkegaard.
The innocent remark that Soeren Kierkegaard was the Tycho Brahe of our philosophy, as great as Tycho Brahe, but, like him, failing to place the centre of our solar system in its Sun, gave Bjoernson an opportunity for the statement, a very dangerous one for a young author of foreign origin to make, that the man who could write like that "had no views in common with other Danes, no Danish mind."
It was chiefly my first reading of the principal works of Kierkegaard that marked this epoch in my life. I felt, face to face with the first great mind that, as it were, had personally confronted me, all my real insignificance, understood all at once that I had as yet neither lived nor suffered, felt nor thought, and that nothing was more uncertain than whether I might one day evince talent.
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