Complaint (by Kierkegaard)



“One sticks one’s fingers into the soil to tell by the smell in what land one is:
 I stick my finger into existence – it smells of nothing. Where am I? 
How came I here? 
What is this thing called the world?
 What does this world mean? 
Who is it that has lured me into this thing and now leaves me there? … How did I come into the world? Why was I not consulted? 
… but thrust into the ranks as though as I had been bought of a kidnapper, a dealer in souls? How did I obtain an interest in this big enterprise they call reality?
 Why should I have an interest in it?
 Is it not a voluntary concern? 
And if I am compelled to take part in it, where is the director?
 … Whither shall I turn with my complaint?”


Kierkegaard


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