Beautiful Words About Women

by Alice von Hildebrand

To write on Kierkegaard's thought is an act of daring. In a way this is true of many philosophers.
One only need think of the various interpretations given to Aristotle.
Those acquainted with the voluminous literature written about the greatest Danish philosopher (and
Kierkegaard remarked wittingly that "there is only one") will face a similar difficulty. Who was he?
One thing is certain: Soren Kierkegaard seemed to derive an impish pleasure from putting us off
track. To my knowledge, no other thinker has written a series of works under various pseudonyms.
When he published Either/Or (a work which unlike most of his publications enjoyed great success),
it was rightly suspected that the witty young man might be the author. He denied it in very strong
terms, but later acknowledged his authorship. He made this confession at a time when he
simultaneously claimed that none of his early works contain a single word which is his! Yet, Walter
Lowrie, a devoted admirer of Kierkegaard, argues that several of them contain valuable
biographical information.
In a remarkable book published posthumously, The Point of View for My Work as an Author,
Kierkegaard informs us that his intention from the very beginning of his career as a writer was
religious — something which is surprising indeed if one reads such works of his as Either/Or. He
intimates that, given the secularized nature of Denmark, the indirect way of communication was the
one which had a chance of catching the attention of "this individual who is my reader" and bringing
him to Christianity (later, however, he changed his mind). Kierkegaard was definitely a committed
Christian.
It is not my purpose here to discuss some of the contradictory interpretations of his thought that
scholars have offered; such would call for a whole book. In the framework of this article, my
modest concern is to shed some light on Kierkegaard's views on women. His position is ambiguous;
he has written about them both beautifully and spitefully. Deal Hudson, in his book An American
Conversion, tells us that he did not like Kierkegaard because the latter "did not like women" — a
remark likely to attract the sympathies of the fair sex.
I am going to take to Kierkegaard's defense and show that the few regrettable things he wrote about
women are largely compensated by the beautiful things he wrote about them, and that his insights
into the female personality and role in human and religious life could only come from the pen of
someone who has loved.
That Kierkegaard loved Regina Olsen is something no one can deny, for he says so explicitly and
unambiguously. It is true that a German "scholar" by the name of Schrempf contested this fact. But
Kierkegaard was in a privileged position to know his feelings for his fiancée; I find it wiser to trust
him.
The Soren Kierkegaard-Regina Olsen love story is certainly one of the most tragic in the history of
great love affairs. He fell in love with her; he conquered her; he got engaged to her and was hoping
to marry her. Then, to his horror and despair, he realized that he could not achieve the universal,
tread the common path, and marry the girl he loved. Kierkegaard was a penitent; he had received a
special calling which was not compatible with marriage. He often refers to the tragedy of Abraham,
who was called upon to sacrifice the son he loved. To read about how he broke off his engagement,
about her despair, about the humiliation to which her proud father submitted himself by begging
him not to abandon his daughter, and the qualms of conscience that Kierkegaard suffered make at
times painful reading. To the end of his life, he makes reference to this drama. At times, he hoped he
could, after all, make her his wife. All these hopes were dashed when he found out that she was
engaged to a previous beau that his ardent courtship had eliminated from the picture. That this was a
serious blow, that he probably had to fight against a certain bitterness and disappointment, is not
unlikely. He left her his literary bequest — this was rejected by Regina's husband, and it fell into the
hands of Kierkegaard's older brother, Peter. But this is not my concern here.
My claim is that someone who has written so beautifully about the love between man and woman,
who has tasted its sweetness and enchantment, cannot be a misogynist. Someone who has never
been deeply moved by the sublime beauty of a sunset would be well advised not to give a course on
aesthetics.
What does Kierkegaard have to say on the topic of women? We shall examine his observations in
The Woman Who Was a Sinner, an "Edifying Discourse" he composed shortly before his death, and
in Either/ Or, a book in which the young Kierkegaard etches two radically different conceptions of
life: Either is sheer hedonism; Or is an ethical conception of life and marriage. We shall purposely
omit the unflattering remarks that he puts in the mouth of characters etched in The Banquet, and
those clearly influenced by Arthur Schopenhauer, the misogynist par excellence. My exclusive aim
is to show that the sublime things he has written about women prove that the true Kierkegaard —
the fiancé of Regina — had deep insights into the mystery of femininity and the crucial role that
women play in both human and religious life.
He refers to "that unspeakable blissful feeling, the eternal force in the world earthly love" (Or). He
puts the following words in the mouth of Judge William, the defender of love and marriage in Or:
"For what would all my love and all my effort avail if she did not come to my aid, and what would I
avail if she did not arouse in me the enthusiasm to will?" How profoundly has Kierkegaard
understood that feelings — powerful as they may be — have little chance of survival if they are not
backed up by the will, which gives them their full reality and validity (ibid.). Dietrich von
Hildebrand, in his Ethics, calls this "sanctioning" valid feelings, just as one is called upon to
disavow "illegitimate feelings." How far Kierkegaard is from cheap romanticism and the dangerous
wallowing in one's own emotions sought for their own enjoyment and in which the object
motivating them is purely instrumental to achieve this self-seeking purpose.
Kierkegaard addresses himself to the perennial topic, the weakness of the female sex, so strikingly
formulated by Shakespeare: "Frailty, woman is thy name." Kierkegaard comments: "Woman is
weak — no, she is humble, she is much closer to God than man is. Hence it is that love is
everything to her, and she will certainly not disdain the blessing and confirmation which God is
ready to bestow upon her . . . Man is proud, he would be everything, would have nothing above
him" (Or). These are certainly not the words of a misogynist!
Kierkegaard understands the crucial role that God intends love to play in a woman's life. The
degradation nurtured by the feminist movement is to convince women that their greatness resides
not in love — a self-giving abandonment — but in rivaling males in creativity and exterior
accomplishments. It is a repeat of the sin of Esau, who sold his birthright for a mess of pottage. A
woman's mission is essentially a religious one. The noble role of women is religious, "for to a
woman it belongs essentially to pray for others" (ibid.).
That it is easier (or rather less difficult) for a woman to be humble finds its expression in the
following words: "A first love is humble and therefore rejoices that there is a power higher than it.
If only for the reason that it has someone to thank. (It is for this cause one finds a pure first love
more rarely in men than in women)" (ibid.).
Kierkegaard has also intuited that love is the crucial factor in a woman's life. It is the value that
unifies her, that makes sense of her existence. It is easy for her to grasp the meaning of the famous
sentence in The Canticle of Canticles that he who gives up everything for love would consider this
donation as nothing. He writes: "It would be very difficult to convince a woman that earthly love in
general might be sin, since by this affirmation her whole existence is destroyed in its deepest root"
(Or).
That many women betray this calling is, of course, true, just as it is also true that many men lose
sight of their noble mission to help and protect the weak. But a philosopher's approach is not
sociological. He is not — or should not be — concerned with statistics, but with "essences" — the
metaphysical "secret" of a being, unveiling what it is called upon to be. How profoundly has
Kierkegaard grasped the admirable complementarity which God has established between man and
woman: "It ennobles the whole man by the blush of bashfulness which belongs to woman but is the
corrector of man; for woman is the conscience of man . . . His proud wrath is quelled by the fact
that he turns back constantly to her. Her weakness is made strong by the fact that she leans upon
him" (ibid.).
Wrath is weakness under the appearance of strength; to acknowledge one's weakness and call for
help is true strength. This is why St. Paul writes, "It is when I am weak that I am strong" (2 Cor.
12:10). Man needs woman; woman needs man. (This is an admirable teaching of Catholic theology,
illuminating the role that Mary — the woman par excellence — played in redemption.)
Kierkegaard remarks that, according to Genesis, it is the man who leaves his father and mother, not
the woman. This certainly indicated that the Bible does not look down upon the woman: "A man
shall leave his father and his mother and shall cleave unto his wife" (2:24). We would expect it
rather to say that woman shall leave her father and mother and shall cleave unto her husband, for
woman is in fact the weaker sex. In the scriptural expression there is a recognition of woman's
importance, and "no knight could be more gallant toward her" (Or).
Kierkegaard rejects the view that marriage is exclusively the necessary means to procreate. But one
should not draw the conclusion that he would favor artificial birth control or abortion. He sees the
child as a fruit of love, and not as the exclusive purpose of marriage, which, if it were so, would
render love an unnecessary addition: "And yet such a marriage [exclusively for the sake of
procreation] is as unnatural as it is arbitrary, nor has it any support in Holy Scripture. For in the
Bible we read that God established marriage because 'it is not good for man to be alone,' hence in
order to give him company" (ibid.). And: "it is always an insult to a girl to want to marry her for any
other reason than because one loves her" (ibid.).
That Kierkegaard understands the dignity of a child is expressed in the following words: "the
highest thing one person can owe another is . . . life" (ibid.). And: "Children belong to the inmost
and most hidden life of the family . . . every child has a halo around its head . . . the father will feel
with humility that the child is a trust, and that he is in the most beautiful sense of the word only a
stepfather" (ibid.).
Kierkegaard has a keen sense of the mystery of love. How far it is from a cold, rational calculation
in which one makes a careful list of the desirable qualities that a spouse should possess.
An objection that could be raised to what Sheldon Vanauken calls "the wrinkled of heart" (A Severe
Mercy) is that the Church does not ask the Bride and the Bridegroom whether they love each other,
but whether they are willing to bind themselves with the bonds of marriage. Kierkegaard has a
prompt answer: "If the Church does not ask if they love one another, this is by no means because it
would nullify earthly love, but because it assumes it" (Or). He adds: "all the talk about the
disparagement of love by the Church is utterly unfounded and exists only for him who has taken
offense at religion" (ibid.).
These quotations should be read in connection with Kierkegaard's claim that, for women, love is
everything. He sheds light on the role she is to play in marriage — a communion that should always
be lit by the light and warmth of love, for marriage is the pillar of society.
Not only is the woman the heart, but because the affective sphere is her anchor, she is given a great
talent to read into the soul of her mate. Kierkegaard writes: "who is such a judge of men as is a
woman?" (ibid.).
The importance of women is often downgraded or even denigrated because she is called upon to
deal with the small and indispensable tasks of human life — the tasks that the French poet Verlaine
calls "les travaux ennuyeux et faciles" (the boring and simple tasks). But Kierkegaard's sharp glance
makes him understand that a special loving talent is required to elevate small things through the
loving attention given them. A little French girl (St. Therese of Lisieux) who became a saint and
died some 40 years after him would unveil a secret of sainthood: Do everything with love, even
small tasks such as cleaning or cooking. Kierkegaard writes: "She [woman] was created to deal with
the small, and knows how to give it an importance, a dignity, a beauty which enchants. Marriage
liberates one from habits, from the tyranny of one-sidedness, from the yoke of whims" (ibid.).
One of Kierkegaard's deep insights is his understanding that "habit" is a deadly enemy. To say one's
prayers by rote while thinking about something else; to kiss one's spouse out of habit, or to go to
church because one has always done it is to inject a poison into meaningful things. This is why he
writes in Works of Love that "one hundred cannons should warn us against the danger of habit."
Habit puts dust on everything it touches. It kills poetry; it freezes the buds of spring.
Kierkegaard has also grasped the paradoxical character of women, a paradox which some men find
so difficult to understand, that a man is best equipped to understand a woman — and vice versa. But
this presupposes a deep mutual love. St. Claire of Assisi was no doubt the best disciple of St.
Francis of Assisi; St. Jeanne Françoise de Chantal had a unique understanding of the holiness of St.
Francis de Sales. This is a pattern that keeps repeating itself.
The mysterious side of women is expressed by Kierkegaard in the following words: "It belongs to
her nature to be more perfect and more imperfect than man. If one would indicate the purest and
most perfect quality, one says 'a woman'; if one would indicate the weakest, and most feeble thing,
one says 'a woman'; if one would give a notion of a spiritual quality raised above all sensuousness,
one says 'a woman'; if one would give a notion of the sensuous, one says 'a woman'; if one would
indicate innocence in all its lofty greatness, one says 'a woman'; if one would point to the depressing
feeling of sin, one says 'a woman.' In a certain sense, therefore, woman is more perfect than man,
and this the scripture expresses by saying that she has more guilt" (Or).
Kierkegaard confessed on his death bed that his life had been a long suffering. He knew its bitter
taste and he also knew its purifying effect if properly accepted and embraced. No doubt, this gave
him a deep insight into the fate of women to give birth in pain and anguish; he knew that it is
probably easier for a woman to understand that there is a deep bond between suffering and love,
suffering out of love: "Is she not as close to God as you? Will you deprive her of the opportunity of
finding God in the deepest and most heartfelt way — through pain and suffering?" (ibid.).
It also was his conviction that women have a religious mission toward men. Whereas Eve was a
temptress who led her husband to a fall, she finds in Christianity her true role — to help him toward
God: "above all have a little more reverence for women," Kierkegaard wrote, "believe me, from her
comes salvation, as surely as hardening comes from man. It is my conviction that if it was a woman
that ruined man, it was woman also that has fairly and honestly made reparation and still does so;
out of a hundred men who go astray in the world, ninety and nine are saved by women and one by
immediate divine grace . . . You can easily see that in my opinion woman [when she restores a man
to this state] makes due requital for the harm she has done" (ibid.).
Kierkegaard is a radical enemy of feminism. He views it as a diabolical plan to ruin both femininity
and the salvific role women are called upon to play. He writes: "I hate all talk about the
emancipation of woman. God forbid that ever it may come to pass. I cannot tell you with what pain
this thought is able to pierce my heart, nor what passionate exasperation, what hate I feel toward
everyone who gives vent to such talk" (ibid.).
Prophetically, Kierkegaard foresees the horror of a unisex society: 'But the poor wretches know not
what they do, they are not able to be men, and instead of learning to be that, they would ruin woman
and would be united with her on terms of remaining what they were, half-men . . ." (ibid.).
One could object that I am contradicting myself: I have mentioned above that Kierkegaard claimed
that his early works do not reflect his own views. But the same thing can be said of The Banquet,
which contained some very unflattering remarks about the weaker sex.
This is why I shall conclude by referring to an "Edifying Discourse" to his Training in Christianity
that Kierkegaard wrote shortly before his death and which I consider to be his "last will" on the
question of femininity. It is titled The Woman Who Was a Sinner. No one reading it could possibly
draw the conclusion that Kierkegaard was a misogynist.
The Woman Who Was a Sinner contains a sublime eulogy about a woman — the match of which is
not easy to find. It should be read by everyone who has a sincere interest in Kierkegaard's thought.
No commentary upon this text can be satisfactory, for what Kierkegaard writes is so admirably
formulated that grateful receptivity alone is called for. The "ungodly rage" of feminists might have
been somewhat quelled had they been acquainted with the insights of a thinker who through prayer
and suffering had understood the noble mission of those who are told to "keep silent in the
churches" (1 Cor.14:34). The calling of women is to piety and godliness. This is precisely what it
means to remain silent — for to keep silent in front of God is to drink at this holy fount of wisdom
which teaches one godliness.
The danger of many men be they professors Kierkegaard hated so much, be they contemporary
theologians who want to explain everything and irreverently tear the veil concealing holy mysteries
— is that they raise questions about things that God, in His infinite wisdom, has chosen not to
reveal. Instead of reverently dwelling on the rich fullness of revealed truths, they want to conquer
by reason "the secrets of the kingdom" (Mt. 13:11). The result being that because of their proud lack
of receptivity toward the con-tent of divine revelation, they arrogantly want to teach God — and
become very foolish in their worldly wisdom (1 Cor. 1).
How very different from Mary's attitude. And because of her faith and silence, her holy receptivity,
she was granted to become the mother of the Savior. Kierkegaard had already mentioned in Or that
"woman believes that with God all things are possible." Now, his theme is to praise Mary, the
blessed one among women who "kept all these things in her heart" though not understanding. No
doubt, for him, Mary was the model of femininity, and Mary Magdalene, the sinner, who was also
at the foot of the cross, learned from her that "one thing alone is necessary" (Lk. 10:42).
Feminism manifests its evil genius by offering a caricature of femininity and misreading the order
of St. Paul that women should "keep silent in the churches." To feminists it seals their inferiority. In
fact, the very opposite is true: To remain silent is to accept being fecundated, and to be fecundated
by God is to be blessed. It is written in the Gospel that men will be held responsible for every
unnecessary word they have uttered. One shudders at the thought of the endless perorations of some
pompous theologians who inundate libraries with "theories" that are at odds with God's revelation,
which, as Kierkegaard writes, should be read on one's knees — as one reads a letter from one's
fiancée.
Just as one thing alone is necessary, Mary Magdalene teaches us that there is one source of great
sorrow: grief over one's sinfulness. Real contrition is a response of profound grief because one has
offended the Holy One whom one now loves with every fiber of one's being. Mary Magdalene has
— through God's grace — ascended very high on the scale of perfection, but the higher she finds
herself, the more she will recall that she is "the woman who was a sinner." The more miserable she
sees herself to be, the more she loves the One who has come not for the righteous but to save
sinners. Mary Magdalene will not be forgotten because she did not forget — and did not want to
forget — that she was a sinner who has been forgiven.
Kierkegaard grants us that man is stronger than "weak woman." But this very weakness is
compensated — as he emphatically underlines — by the fact that she is "unified." Man has many
thoughts; Mary Magdalene has but one. She has one sorrow, that she is a sinner. She has only one
burning desire: to be forgiven. This burning desire to be forgiven is expressed by her tears, and the
gift of a precious perfume poured on the Holy One. The fact that she dries His feet with her hair,
expresses her religious "seriousness," for, Kierkegaard tells us, this is precisely what seriousness
means. Mary Magdalene's sorrow over her sinful life does not drive her to despair — the "sickness
unto death" — but to loving confidence that He who is love and mercy will cleanse her of her sins.
Responding to the "offense" taken by the disciples that the money spent on this precious ointment
should have been given to the poor, Christ says that there will always be poor among us, and that
wherever His Gospel will be preached, her deed of contrition and love will be proclaimed. This
precious perfume symbolizes an act of adoration — the only adequate response to God. Mary
Magdalene teaches us that this response to His holiness is the liturgical act par excellence. This is
what the Holy Liturgy teaches us. This is what is being forgotten today.
Mary Magdalene's loving repentance makes her scorn shame, disgrace, and humiliation: She is
publicly acknowledged to be a sinner. But all this she tramples under foot because she loves Him
who is love, and knows that there is greater joy in Heaven for a repentant sinner than for one
hundred "just" who have no need of repentance.
Kierkegaard tells us that Mary Magdalene (a model for all women) experiences "infinite
indifference" — an indifference which is at the antinodes of the cynical, diabolical "nothing
matters" attitude which has gained currency in some modern literature. What does it matter what
people think of her or say about her? She has conquered this holy indifference because she knows
that men tend to be chatterboxes who make noise but say nothing. She loves, and trusts that much
will be forgiven her because she has loved much.
To conclude, let me refer to Pastor Boesen's testimony about Kierkegaard, he who was
Kierkegaard's closest friend. Boesen tells us that Kierkegaard was the purest man he had ever
known, that he "stood in a finer, purer and higher relationship to women" than other men. It is
impossible to be pure and not to respect women.
In light of this, it should be evident that to compare Kierkegaard to Nietzsche — who, brutally,
advises men never to forget their whip when they go to a woman — is not only unfortunate but very
unjust.
Man-haters and woman-haters are to be pitied indeed because they are blind to the biblical teaching
that they are made for each other and are called to help each other to love the One who is the source
of all love.
Alice von Hildebrand is Professor Emerita of Philosophy at Hunter College of the City University
of New York. She is the author, most recently, of The Soul of a Lion (Ignatius), about her late
husband, the Catholic philosopher Dietrich von Hildebrand; The Privilege of Being a Woman
(Sapientia Press); and By Love Refined (Sophia Institute Press). She has written extensively for
many Catholic periodicals and appears frequently on Mother Angelica's EWTN.