If I hear one more thing about Søren Kierkegaard, I think my head’s going to explode. I’m not sure I enjoy this habit we’ve developed of celebrating the birthday (Kierkegaard's Bicentenary starts today) of someone who’s long gone, although I guess it started with Jesus and we’re lumped with it.
Philosophy has never really done anything for me. I’d much rather go through life discovering stuff for myself. Tripping out as a teenager marvelling at the futility of our existence wouldn’t have been the same had there been somebody present pointing out that Descartes said exactly the same thing in the 1630s.
It was during my teens that I read The Catcher in the Rye and first came across existentialism, but I didn’t then feel I had to read up on it to fully appreciate the novel in the same way I might devour some historical context.
Funnily enough, the same is true of salsa (Copehagen Salsa Festival is this weekend). While I would never choose to go out to dance at a venue where they play only one type of music – particularly not salsa, which I’ve always had down as a vulgar pastime practised by the sleazy and vacuous – I’ve always preferred to take the interpretative approach. Grab a girl, listen to the music and let your senses respond. There will be mistakes and there will be triumphs. And if you inadvertently pick up the steps along the way, note it down next to your achievement of matching Descartes.
So in a nutshell, philosophy and learning dance moves bore me, a bit like conversations about tattoos (Copenhagen Ink Festival starts May 9). My greatest fear isn’t getting one, it’s having to have the same conversation about it for the rest of my life. My imagined tedium is the same I feel listening to a man (the more handsome and youthful than me, the worse the feeling) telling a woman (that I used to respect) about a tattoo he has in an intimate area and her responding like it’s the most exciting thing ever. It’s a subtext he started rehearsing well in advance of getting one.
Yes, a subtext with a subtext. Once again, you don’t need to be Kierkegaard, or even Sigmund Freud, to recognise a clear-cut case of penis envy when you see one.
