Panegyric for Kierkegaard

It makes me happy that the world is beautiful enough to have allowed Kierkegaard to write Fear and Trembling. It is like philsosophy etched in stained glass. When I read Kant or Heidegger, I almost have to feel the print with my fingers to keep track of their reasoning, but it is impossible to read Kierkegaard like that. He reminds me of Virginia Woolf: the only way to comprehend it is to jump into the text feet first and spin around in the ideas until you have no idea which way the surface lies and are in imminent danger of drowning. I feel the ideas pressing on my skin like wind--pressure without weight. It makes me want to venture out from the fjord of my consciousness into the terrifying open ocean of God. And I want the sinking feeling of looking behind me and realizing that all is surely lost, for the beach from which I departed is no longer in sight.

One of my life goals is to polish my consciousness to such a fine albedo that it reflects the mind of the universe recognizably. For just a moment as I was reading the Prelude to Fear and Trembling (and who gives their book a prelude? Fabulous! Beautiful!) I glimpsed that my consciousness is only a segment of the enormous armillary bloom of the universe and that, if I polish it well enough, it will become transparent and I will see the neighboring petals.