Summary: Concluding Unscientific Postscript to Philosophical Fragments (page 7)

In reality, the very notion of a 'system of existence' is an oxymoron—a contradiction in terms. The reason is simple: a system is something closed, complete, eternal, necessary, in which perfect determinism reigns, so that each element can be deduced from another and find its place.

Existence, by contrast, is openness through and through: freedom, contingency. To exist is to expose oneself to the infinity of possibilities that opens before us; and this moment of openness, of freedom, ends only with death. At that point, one can say: 'the game is up'. But until then, there always remains the possibility of changing the course of events, of altering one's own destiny—which means that there is, precisely, no destiny:

To be a system and to be closed correspond to one another; but existence is precisely the opposite […] existence is what serves as an interval, what keeps things apart; the systematic is closure, the perfect joint. ¹

A system of existence is therefore a contradiction in terms, because systematic thought, in order to think existence, must think it as abolished—and therefore not yet as existing. In the end, only God can conceive such a system, since he stands outside existence.

The most illustrious example of a system in philosophy is probably Spinoza's. In its time, it provoked the indignation of religious believers and many philosophers, because it was thought to lead to pantheism, hence to heresy, and to abolish freedom and the difference between good and evil. In fact, Kierkegaard argues, every system of this kind fantastically volatilises the concept of existence—and not only pantheist systems: It is wrong to assert this only of pantheist systems; rather, one ought to have shown that every system, precisely because of its finite character, must be pantheist.

There is therefore no point in combating Spinoza's system by proposing, as Hegel does, a new system in which one inserts a paragraph insisting on the importance of the concept of existence. In doing so, one immediately loses what one was trying to preserve, because the form in which the thought is presented is not suited to its object—and betrays it: existence.

Kierkegaard sums up this conflict between system and existence, taking pleasure in aiming a small jab at Hegel:

Existence must be abolished in the eternal before the system can be closed; no residue must remain—not even the slightest trinket such as the honourable existing professor who closes the system.

Let us recall that Kierkegaard wrote in his Journal: Hegel is not a thinker, but a professor.

This brings the first section of the book to a close. As we have seen, it offered a critical exposition of the objective approach to the problem of the truth of Christianity. It is now time to turn to what, for Kierkegaard, is the truly significant problem: the subjective reception of Christianity.

A quite different kind of question now emerges—questions that alone have real substance: how can one have faith? How does one become a Christian? How does one open one's heart to God? These presuppose a prior question that underlies them all: how does one become subjective? This is what he calls the 'subjective problem'. We are not yet at the religious stage here, but in a more fundamental domain; and it is probably, once again, an inaugural gesture of existentialism to raise, for the first time, a question of this kind.

Second Section: The Subjective Problem, or How Subjectivity Must Be for the Problem to Be Able to Appear to It

For a partisan of the objective approach—speculation, science, and so on—the problem does not arise: an idea is set out, its truth is demonstrated, one accepts it, one gives it one's assent.

This assumes that subjectivity is transparent—merely a neutral receptacle that readily receives an objective truth. But this is false: To believe that the transition from something objective to a subjective acceptance occurs immediately, as a matter of course, may be regarded as a delusion; for it is precisely this transition that is decisive.

In reality, subjectivity is neither neutral nor transparent. If it were, there would be no subjectivity at all; everything would be objective. But we are subjects—and that is the essential point from which one must begin. The problem then becomes quite different: The question posed here is therefore not that of the truth of Christianity in the sense that, if it were resolved, subjectivity would gladly and quickly adopt it. No: the question is whether the subject accepts it.

In the religious sphere, subjectivity is the true point of departure, because faith is above all a decision—the free act of a subject, and the expression of a personality. Here, the problem is the decision, and […] every decision resides in subjectivity.

That is why Christianity thus protests against all objectivity and wants the subject to be infinitely concerned with himself. What it demands is subjectivity, in which alone—if there is any truth at all—Christianity's truth lies.

From this point of view, one may therefore oppose science and religion: Science wants to teach us that the way forward is to become objective, whereas Christianity teaches us that the way forward is to become subjective—that is, to become truly a subject.

¹ Our translation. The references for the quotations are available in the book Kierkegaard: A Close Reading