4. Dialogue and Indirect Communication

There was nothing very new to this. The whole romantic era had been marked by a deep concern for communicating that which for various reasons could not be said straightforwardly, and a fervent experimentation with styles and genres. Hegel employed a number of clever communicative and pedagogical devices in his philosophy, for example, the use of narrative forms and his dialectical style of reasoning, which gradually led the reader to see how apparently contradictory notions complement each other. Goethe theorized about symbolism as a process in which a phenomenon is transformed into an idea, which is again transformed into an image or symbol that both binds and expresses the otherwise inexpressible idea (von Goethe 1999a, 202). Romantic poets and essayists like Friedrich Schlegel wrote fragments and aphorisms, and the so-called romantic irony became a popular idiom. It was used extensively by Kierkegaard’s somewhat older contemporary, Heinrich Heine.

Yet Kierkegaard’s moral scruples were not the decisive factor. Like Kant, Kierkegaard did see that some kind of asymmetrical dependence between teacher and student, and some kind of external conditioning, was inevitable. His complex view of the responsibilities and obligations of the teacher is implied by his description of the challenge facing a lover in his later Works of Love:

What, then, is the greatest benefaction? … the lover knows to make himself unnoticed, so that the recipient does not become dependent on him – by crediting him with the greatest benefaction. This means that the greatest benefaction is precisely the mode in which the only true benefaction is accomplished …

Let us get this clear. When I say “This man, by my help, stands on his own” and what I say is true, have I done the best [for] him? … What do I mean by this? I say “He stands by himself, independent, by my help”. But then, of course, he does not stand by himself: then he has in fact not become his own, then he is indebted to my help for all this – and he is aware of this. To help a person in this way is really to deceive him …

Consequently the greatest benefaction cannot be accomplished in any way whereby the recipient gets to know that he is indebted. … On the other hand, if one says “This man stands alone – by my help,” and what he says is true – then he has done for the other person the highest that one man can do for another: he has made him free, independent, unto himself, unto his own, and simply by hiding his help helped him to stand alone (WL 255f., SKS 9, 272f.).

What makes the action justified is not that it is done for the good of the recipient (e.g. the student), at least not in any substantial, straightforward sense—Kierkegaard is not a consequentialist—but the way it is done, the mode in which it is accomplished. There does seem to be some kind of semi-consequentialist justification, though, in that the action should aim at enabling the recipient to ‘stand alone’. The goal is to foster authenticity. But even when an action is done for the sake of the other’s freedom, there are still reasons for moral scruples, as the fostering of freedom establishes a dependency and so also limits the freedom in question. Kierkegaard even speaks of this as ‘deception’. Interestingly, for Kierkegaard the problematically deceptive course of action is that which makes the recipient aware of the circumstances because it makes her consciously indebted, whereas what seems to be a more serious and ordinary form of deception,when the benefactor makes herself unnoticed and so gets the recipient to believe that she has achieved authenticity without any assistance, is considered by Kierkegaard to be the preferable approach. This indicates that Kierkegaard was not primarily motivated by moral scruples of an ordinary sort. Existential education has a certain moral cost, no matter what.

A more decisive factor behind Kierkegaard’s turn to indirect communication may have been his awareness that the ideal of cultivation could easily turn into a mere template for conventional, bourgeois existence or otherwise promote conformity rather than autonomy. Kant’s intentions may have been right; his notion of cultivation may have been one that gave ample room for self-development and self-assertion on part of the student. In practice, however, both the teacher and the student would be permanently tempted to reproduce conventional norms; especially so when these norms had developed to a point where their refinements and subtleties made them easy to mistake for genuine expressions of personal choice.

But Kierkegaard’s main motivation for seeking indirect means of communication went deeper. He worried that immersing a student into a process of cultivation would not merely fail to respect and further her autonomy, but that it would not work at all, at least not with regard to the central educational objective, the attainment of authenticity. Obviously, authenticity cannot be learned by instruction. This follows from Kierkegaard’s notion of authenticity as something that has to be enacted and performed, and which is essentially subjective and individual. Authenticity lies beyond the limits of theoretical knowledge. Kant and the romantic thinkers agreed on this to a certain extent. At least they did not depict the process of cultivation as one of instruction or training. They emphasized how it should be driven by the student’s own interests and curiosity, and described it as consisting in a continuous interplay between the student and her environment. But they still saw the attainment of authenticity as a gradual integration of subjectivity into a larger scheme of things, as a kind of fusion of the subjective and the objective point of view. The cultivation strategy thus did not pertain to the essentially subjective element in human existence, which Kierkegaard did not think could be synthesized with anything objective without losing its defining character (CUP 107; SKS 7, 121). It was the recognition that this element of essential subjectivity could not be captured by theoretical or propositional knowledge that led Kierkegaard to conclude that direct communication, however personally and culturally sensitive, could not help an individual to become authentic:

… existence-actuality [Existents-Virkelighed] cannot be communicated … When the actuality is understood by a third party, it must be understood as possibility, and a communicator aware of this will bear in mind accordingly that his existence-communication, precisely so that it must may be directed towards existence, must have the form of possibility. A communication in the form of a possibility brings the recipient, as close as is possible between one person and another, to existing in it (CUP 300; SKS 7, 327).

That existence-actuality cannot be communicated, follows more or less directly from Kierkegaard’s epistemological considerations. But in another respect, the view expressed here seems puzzling. Was Kierkegaard not first and foremost concerned with actuality? Did he not criticize Hegel, and more generally proponents of a scientific approach to existential questions, for remaining on the level of abstract possibility and so not really engaging with existence as such? He did, but the concept of possibility used in this passage from the Postscript is a different one, and characteristic of Kierkegaard’s own thinking. It is not the concept of an option-space or logical space of different un-actualized states of affairs. It is the existential notion of something that is not yet completely realized but confronts the individual as a determinate task or requirement. In Either-Or, Judge Vilhelm explicitly identifies the notion of existential possibility with that of a personal task (E/O 543; SKS 3, 240).

The special form of communication sought by Kierkegaard should not just envisage the possibility in question—that would misrepresent it—but make the recipient acquainted with it as a peculiar mode or way of existing, which has a basic normative force—it is imperative or urgent—but of a sort so intimately connected with the recipient’s own existence that it cannot be communicated in the form of a command. The imperative must come from the recipient herself, and cannot be a general requirement.

Irony was employed by the romantics as a means for communicating about important matters without mentioning them directly. For direct mention would almost inevitably trivialize them and thus miss the point. Romantic irony consists in puncturing the fictional character of a text, making its conventional and artificial nature explicit, for example by adding a more cynical meta-text to an otherwise conventionally beautiful or gripping story. It may thus function as means for expressing artistic and philosophical superiority. Schlegel saw it as an expression of the freedom of the author; in one place he defined it as ‘the thinking spirit’s amazement over itself, which so often dissolves into a quiet laugh’ (1830, 61). This is very similar to the attitude which Kierkegaard finds and criticizes in the aesthetic—and sometimes even in the ethical—character: a sort of self-contented, self-protective satisfaction with one’s own wit and self-critical skills.

Yet romantic irony was also used for less egocentric purposes. By playing with and apparently making fun of conventions and clichés, the romantic writers hoped to salvage a kernel of real beauty and poetic truth. They hoped that their message would come across implicitly. For example, Heine could actually rhyme Herz (heart) with Schmerz (pain) (‘Und wüssten’s die Blumen die Kleinen’, Buch der Lieder; Heine 1827, 128), as Goethe had done earlier with less irony (in ‘Reunion’, West-Östlicher Divan (Goethe 1999b)). Heine thereby indicated both the triviality of unrequited love that it is almost as common as muck, rather irrational too, and so nothing to write home about—and the fact that it remains really tragic and all-important to those who find themselves in the grip of it, and that it is at heart a unique experience which is not straightforwardly communicable.

Kierkegaard may be said to have used even subtler forms of irony, for example, in the passages from the Judge’s letter in Either/Or quoted earlier. Here, the beauty and pleasures of marital life are described in an apparently straightforward manner, but also in ways bordering on cliché—and in a way that makes it seem to say between the lines: ‘I do know that this sounds too simple and good to be true, but believe me, in reality, it is true, and actually not that simple’, but also (thereby, adding a further ironic layer as compared to Heine’s poetry): ‘Coming to terms with oneself in this way may, however, still be too easy’.

Irony was thus seen by Kierkegaard to have its limitations. He saw romantic irony as representing a spiritual freedom that threatened to become both irresponsible and a source of self-indulgence. In effect, the romantics distanced themselves from the matters of serious concern they communicated about, and so, in the end, they failed to achieve authenticity.

Kierkegaard was especially interested in the ancient Socratic irony. The character of Socrates plays a central role throughout Kierkegaard’s work. We have already seen how his youthful speculations about authentic teaching gave central importance to the use of Socratic questions. The maieutic (‘midwifery’) or genuinely Socratic method aims at getting others to produce ideas themselves. It does so by starting a conversation about the true meaning of a word of fundamental importance. An underlying assumption, which would become typical of most philosophy up untill the present day, is that if someone uses a word competently, she must also implicitly know what it means. By challenging the more or less spontaneous definitions produced by the conversation partners—while professing his own ignorance—Socrates would narrow down the range of possible meanings and lead the way towards a more appropriate and explicit understanding of the concept in question.

In some respects, this Socratic method fits extremely well with the basic tenets of Kierkegaard’s overall approach. Kierkegaard, as we have seen, stressed the way something is done rather than what is done (the content), and he gave prime importance to doing something oneself. The Socratic approach apparently meets Kierkegaard’s main concerns—most obviously, the concern for not trying to do for the student that which the student can only do for herself. It also meets his ethical concern, at least to a certain extent, as Socrates apparently respects his conversation partners and does not wish to dominate them. Certain reservations about this aspect remain, however, as Socrates’ self-professed ignorance can seem artificial at times—he does know where the discussion is going—and the conversation technique may resemble a kind of subtle manipulation. Later, Nietzsche would depict Socrates as a seducer. Kierkegaard remained more sympathetic but was aware of the dangers and limitations of the Socratic method.

It has been argued that Socrates’ own conception of maieutics was overly intellectualist; that although he did not consider it possible to teach by straightforward instruction, he did see teaching as a means for making the student acquire knowledge of the essence of ethical concepts (Coplestone 1993, 112). Whether or not this is something for which he should be criticized, there is an obvious difference to Kierkegaard inasmuch as the latter did not see knowledge of the content of concepts as guaranteeing right action. Socrates did care for the manner of teaching; but in contrast to Kierkegaard, he still assumed that some kind of content knowledge, if not of the propositional type then in the form of direct insight into an essential relationship, was the key to the solution of practical problems, including the problem of living well.

In any case, Socratic irony was seen by Kierkegaard as superior to Hegelian dialectics. As has already been amply exemplified, Kierkegaard did himself use something like Hegelian dialectics quite often. Yet, in his final view, he dismissed it as being merely a tool for conceptual mediation, that is, for making moves within the field of objective knowledge, which did not relate to existential question and prevented rather than supported the categorical and wholehearted decisions he thought were needed for authentic existence. By contrast, irony, and especially Socratic irony, for all its potential limitations, maintained a deeply personal character:

Dialectics as such is a determination all too impersonal for a character like Socrates to occupy himself with it, for on the contrary, while dialectics extends and diffuses infinitely into the extremes, irony leads it back into one’s personality and rounds it off in the personality (CI 122; SKS 1, 174).

A guarded commitment to dialectics is visible in this passage. The point is not that dialectics should be abandoned altogether, but that it should be practiced in the Socratic rather than the Hegelian manner; that is should be incorporated into the existential project and given a personal expression.

In his early writings, Kierkegaard was still strongly critical of irony as a mode of existence and fundamental attitude, and so also of the Socratic irony. He saw in it much of the same irresponsibility and egoism which he had criticized in the romantics and accused Socrates of in effect turning his back to his community (SKS 1, 307f.). Although he came to judge Socrates much more favourable in his later works, this does not mean that he changed his view of the ironic attitude as such. Rather it reflects the fact that he had come to identify personally with Socrates, seeing his own vocation of as that of a ‘midwife’—but not treating it as a paradigm of human existence in general. For Kierkegaard, a life given to helping others acquiring existential insight could not really be a happy one, but would remain a case of ‘human sacrifice’.

What is the significance of Kierkegaard’s critical treatment of irony and dialectics for education? For one thing, it further underscores the necessity or personal appropriation and engagement. As long as the goal is to foster mental flexibility or knowledge of limitations, they are very potent pedagogical tools indeed.

Kierkegaard demonstrates this more by using irony and dialectics than by describing their potential benefits. For example, Judge Vilhelm’s letter is written in a way that is both nuanced and dynamic—the reader is prompted to alternate between various, more or less sympathetic attitudes—and so personally gripping that the reader cannot concentrate merely on theoretically assessing the Judge’s standpoint, but must inevitably consider her own life as well. It is dialectical and ironic, but also goes beyond intellectual wavering and requires the reader to really invest herself. This makes it a pedagogical paradigm, regardless of its further philosophical significance or limitations.

Kierkegaard moreover points to some typical ways in which otherwise excellent pedagogical performances can fail. The student can be brought to grasp a subject to such an extent that she apparently sovereignly masters it. She may be able to play with it, turning and twisting it, or to correctly enumerate pros and cons—all usually reliable indications that she has indeed mastered it and that the teaching has been successful. But something may be missing; the success may be pyrrhic or spurious. A keen understanding of dialectical subtleties, or an agile handling of theoretical perspectives, can mask an underlying lack of orientation or interest, or a disability to engage properly with the issue under discussion.

… it also became clear to me that, if I wanted to communicate anything on this point [i.e. what it is to exist], the main thing was that my exposition be in the indirect form. For if inwardness is the truth, result is only junk that we should not trouble one another with, and wanting to impart the result an unnatural form of interpersonal association, in so far as every human being is spirit and truth is precisely the self-activity of appropriation, which a result hinders. Suppose a teacher in relation to the essential truth (for otherwise a direct relationship between teacher an pupil is quite in order) has, as one says, much inwardness and would preach his teaching day in and day out. If he assumes a direct relation between the learner and himself, his inwardness is not inwardness but a direct outpouring, for it is a respect for the learner precisely as one having inwardness in himself that is the teacher’s inwardness. Suppose a learner is enthusiastic and in the strongest terms preaches his teacher’s praises abroad, thus, as one says, laying bare his inwardness. His inwardness is not inwardness but immediate devotedness, for it is precisely the pious and silent accord by which the learner himself assimilates what is taught, distancing himself from the teacher because he turns inwards to himself, that is the inwardness (CUP 203: SKS 7, 220).

On the face of it, Kierkegaard here seems to limit the educational relevance of indirect communication quite considerably. A direct relationship between teacher and pupil is appropriate, he says, in ‘ordinary’ cases of learning, when the issue in question is not of existential import. We shall later consider the question of the general educational relevance of Kierkegaard’s thinking in more detail (see Chap. 5). It should suffice to note that inasmuch as Kierkegaard does make authenticity a basic requirement for successful self-cultivation and significant learning (and self-cultivation is an ongoing, never-ending affair), indirect communication maintains a certain relevance to education more generally.

It now becomes clear that the primary justification for choosing the indirect mode of communication is a concern for its intended result. It is supposed to foster a state of ‘inwardness’ (again, the Danish word is inderlighed, which carries connotations of passion and commitment, and less of seclusion or reflection). If any trace of the external source of learning is left in the learner, she will not experience a complete self-appropriation of the truth. And it is this mode of appropriation (and the subjective, albeit mostly implicit, realization of it as such by the individual) which teaching and communication are supposed to bring about.

Most Kierkegaard-scholars have assumed that indirect communication is required because the object of existential communication is so special that it eludes ordinary language. In line with the view that drove the romantics to use symbolism or irony, they assume that existential matters are virtually inexpressible, or at least cannot be described adequately in words and sentences. It should, however, be borne in mind that Kierkegaard is generally not concerned with the content of knowledge and learning, but almost exclusively with the attitude with which a content is appropriated, or the mode in which it is realized. This calls the standard interpretation into question. It has been challenged most notably by Poul Lübcke, who argues that indirect communication has nothing to do with semantics, with the meaning and reference of that which is communicated. According to Lübcke, it is all about pragmatics, more precisely about doing things with words (Lübcke 1990). Indirect communication aims at prompting a certain reaction in the listener, not of conveying any specific message. Kierkegaard does not, on Lübckes interpretation, regard existential matters as special or elusive in the sense that they cannot be captured in ordinary language or easily understood. The problem is all about motivation. Only by communicating indirectly can otherwise rather trivial, unproblematic matters be grasped by the listener as carrying real significance and thus acquire a motivating power.

There is much to be said for Lübcke’s interpretation. It highlights two fundamental aspects of Kierkegaard’s thinking, which I have also stressed repeatedly: His insistence that mode and attitude are more important than content; and his firm belief that existential and moral matters are really quite uncomplicated, and that grasping them appropriately does not require any kind of subtle reflection, smartness or mystic faculty of intuition.

Nevertheless, there may still be something to the standard interpretation. Lübcke overemphasizes the triviality of the existential and moral truths and focuses one-sidedly on the persuasive aspect of indirect communication. It is not all about motivation and attitude. Existential insight is a form of knowledge according to Kierkegaard, and its ‘object’ is not unproblematic or completely straightforward. In another passage in the Postscript, which I have already quoted, the challenges that call for indirect communication are described explicitly as stemming from the peculiar nature of its object:

… existence-actuality [Existents-Virkelighed] cannot be communicated, and in his own ethical existence the subjective thinker has his own actuality (CUP 300; SKS 7, 327).

It is because genuine self-realization requires one to grasp oneself in as essential subjectivity (see Sect. 1.​4) that indirect communication is needed. Direct communication, even of the most sophisticated kind, cannot but present the individual as a type and something objective (be it as the peculiar type ‘this individual person’, which still does not suffice to capture the individuality as such). Surely, such a grasp requires no particular smartness. A refinement of objective categories or deeper knowledge of objective relationships will be of no help but is likely to be more of an obstacle. But neither is it just a matter of recognizing a platitude. Subjectivity is in a way a special, highly elusive ‘object’. Coming to know it may not require any mystical insight or extraordinary intellectual powers, but it is a difficult epistemic task nonetheless, and the result is a distinctive kind of knowledge.

Admittedly, the motivational aspects are important, too. But Kierkegaard does think—deviating, in this one respect, from the standard view associated with David Hume—that an item of knowledge can be motivating as such. The motivating power of the ethical does not come from the intellectual justification of the ethical principles, neither does it come merely from the attitude of the individual. It comes from her self-realization, from experiencing herself as herself, and the act of becoming herself, which Kierkegaard sees as more or less the same (knowing oneself subjectively means being oneself, and being oneself authentically means becoming oneself). Hence self-knowledge is, for Kierkegaard, intrinsically motivating. And so indirect communication is not just a kind of persuasive ‘pragmatics’, a means for getting the listener to act on what she already knows. It does have a distinctive ‘content’, inasmuch as it aims at getting the listener to know something she did not know before.

Considering the educational relevance of the idea of indirect communication, much is not essentially different from what can be said of the use of the Socratic method in general. Indirect communication helps to make the student think for herself, and it prevents her from shunning important questions both by avoiding clichés and conventions and by leaving her no opportunity to flee into superficial learning activities.

So what is distinctive about it? Indirect communication in Kierkegaard’s sense is not just about making the student think for herself. It is more about ensuring that she also appropriates what is learned; that she approaches and adopts it in the right way. This is by no means guaranteed by the use of the Socratic method, or of irony and dialectics. For these forms of communication do not necessarily make the student invest herself in the process of learning or connect personally to what is to be learned. They function rather like intellectual showcases, urging students to consider the relative merits of different options, maybe challenging their existing beliefs, but also creating an impression of knowledge as a fundamentally impersonal affair. Irony may express the teacher’s personality, but it does not present it as completely authentic, nor does it address the student as an individual.

Indirect communication in Kierkegaard’s sense is directed more strongly at eliciting a personal commitment from the student, and at securing that she learns in the right way. Somewhat paradoxically, it also emphasizes the element of teaching, and so the role of the teacher, to a still greater extent. For the Socratic or romantic ironists hide themselves behind their communicative devices; irony is used as an incognito (CUP 422; SKS 7, 457). The indirect communicator in Kierkegaard’s sense may also have to hide herself, in order to make her contribution unnoticed as such. But this is a matter of discretion or self-effacing, and hence a completely different kind of concealment. The ironists and dialecticians are acknowledged as such; they display their ingenuity and intellectual cunning in the very act of communication. In doing so, they do not put their own personality at risk. It is just the opposite with indirect communication of the sort Kierkegaard envisages: Here, the teacher gets no credit, as she is either not noticed at all, or her own limitations and doubts are revealed. But she is very much present in the process of teaching and very much present to herself. Authenticity on part of the teacher is thus a necessary condition for educating for authenticity.