Kierkegaard understands himself to be, wants to be understood as, writing without authority. I’ve lately been mulling over whether it means anything, and if means anything whether it means anything sufficiently interesting, to say that Wittgenstein understands himself to be, wants to be understood as, writing PI without authority. The answer of course hinges on what it is to write without authority. For Kierkegaard we might say that writing without authority is, first and foremost, to abjure the role of preacher. But that is not all that it is for him: he clearly means not only to reject one form of relationship to his reader, but a panoply of forms–any form that would make it the case that the reader’s attention finds it easier, more natural, to perch on Kierkegaard than on the reader himself, any form that deflects self-attention. So Kierkegaard is always and forever side-stepping, ducking out, disappearing. He wants his reader to read as if the reader is reading what the reader has written. Reading as self-confrontation.
But how is that to work? Is the experience of such reading supposed to be like the experience of finding something you’ve written previously but forgotten, so that now its content seems news, as does the fact that you are its author? That seems too distanced a relationship to what is written. Is the experience supposed to be like the experience of re-writing something that you have written, editing, poking, patting and scraping? That seems a not-distanced-enough relationship to what is written. (Partly because there is, in an important sense, nothing written yet. You are still writing. Everything remains in the flux of composition.) So what is the experience supposed to be like?
Nearly all my writings are private conversations with myself. Things that I say to myself tete-a-tete.
And Kierkegaard prefaces For Self-Examination with this:
My dear reader! Read, if possible, aloud! If you do this, allow me to thank you. If you not only do it yourself, if you induce others to do it also, allow me to thank them severally, and you again and again! By reading aloud you will most powerfully receive the impression that you have only yourself to consider, not me, who am without authority, or others, the consideration of whom would be a distraction.
I reckon that what Kierkegaard wants from his reader is for the reader to experience the reading as private conversation with himself, as saying things to himself tete-a-tete. Doing so fastens the reader’s attention on himself, makes any examination the reading requires self-examination. We read Kierkegaard aright when we read in forgetfulness of him–and only read in remembrance of ourselves. I believe that this is something Wittgenstein aspires to as well. That is, I take his remark about conversations with himself as not purely descriptive but as also prescriptive, say as a registration of a realized writerly intention, realized in PI.
In this way, Wittgenstein aims to write without authority. And I think Wittgenstein signposts this aim: PI’s self-effacing (as I read it) epigraph leaves it to the reader what sort of advance, if any, and if any, how much, PI represents. His desire not to spare others the trouble of thinking and his hope that he would stimulate thinking seem not to target thinking about him (Wittgenstein) but rather thinking by the reader and for the reader and about the reader–specifically, about the reader in relationship to philosophical problems. (As Kierkegaard targets thinking by, for and about the reader–specifically, about the reader in relationship to existential problems.)
Here is what I find myself moved to say: PI exists as being-for-another. Wittgenstein writes it as a gift to his readers. It is a work of testimony, of confession, and Wittgenstein wrote it for those who are troubled as he is troubled. It is a gage of his friendship, even his love, for them, for his readers. But for it fully to exist as such, the reader must fully acknowledge it, fully acknowledge it as such. To fully acknowledge it is to answer its call to self-awakeness. Wittgenstein wrote a book to be acknowledged, not, if I may put it this way, a book to be known. (I judge this one of the deep similarities between Wittgenstein and Emerson and Thoreau. What they write puts the reader in the space of acknowledgement, and their reader answers the call of the writing, or not. Sometimes gifts are refused. And sometimes what looks like acceptance is still a form of refusal.)
Wittgenstein toyed seriously with the idea of prefacing his work with Bach’s epigraph to the Little Organ Book:
To the glory of the most high God, and that my neighbour may be benefited thereby.
He hesitated because he thought that in the darkness of our time such a remark would be misunderstood. And so it probably would. But why is that? What has gone wrong in a time when giving and receiving have soured, a time in which we have become so stuffy even while so indigent, a time so graceless as ours? Job endured the Lord taking back what He had given. We will never have to endure that. But only because we have made ourselves unreceptive, and so have never been given anything. Job got everything back, double; we go on and on with nothing.