Authors closer in death than in life

By Ken West
Published: August 11, 2008

What was your favorite experience visiting Denmark? My answer may sound strange.

In Copenhagen, I walked alone for three miles to see the graves of Hans Christian Andersen and, more importantly to me, Soren Kierkegaard. I will never forget the experience.

The writer of beloved fairy tales and the founder of existentialism were buried within a few hundred yards of each other — closer in death than in life. They were not friends. Both wrote during the 19th century golden age of Danish literature. Andersen’s works were more beloved than the author was, at least by other writers. Once Andersen visited Charles Dickens who found him to be a “bony bore” whom he could not get out of his house soon enough. Dickens is said to have based the obnoxious character Uriah Heep in “David Copperfield” on Andersen’s personality.

Kierkegaard found Andersen’s serious writing to be as joyless as Andersen: “The same joyless fight that Andersen himself has fought in life is now repeated in his poetry.” Kierkegaard was never one to share false praise. Nevertheless, I admire much of Andersen’s work, and I spent years and a dissertation studying Kierkegaard’s psychological and religious views. Visiting their graves taught me more.
Hans Christian Andersen

I was not the only person at Hans Christian Andersen’s grave. A photojournalist was taking pictures of Andersen’s desecrated gravestone.

“It is ruined with graffiti that can’t be removed,” he explained.

“Who did it? Why?” I asked.

“Left-wing youth are destroying neighborhoods with their graffiti. Hundreds of them were squatters in a building the city tore down. They are taking their anger out on the city. They don’t actually object to Andersen’s work.”

How ironic. Denmark’s ugly ducklings made their statement by destroying the tomb of an author who believed ducklings like them could transform into swans.

Soren Kierkegaard
Called the “father of existentialism,” Kierkegaard was a Christian existentialist who fought the organized church of Denmark with his pen. Kierkegaard’s belief that each individual must stand alone before God led him to write with cold disdain about ministers and congregations. He believed individuals felt safety in the “herd” and mistook following concrete church dogma for true faith.  Kierkegaard insisted that only by abandoning the safety of reason could an individual make a “leap of faith” to believe in the “absurd” notion that God exists. On his deathbed, Kierkegaard refused to take communion from clergy members; he believed they had no power to mediate between God and the individual.

The warfare between the Danish church and Kierkegaard’s followers escalated during his funeral and burial. The very church leaders the philosopher so disdained took over his body and planned a service in Copenhagen’s largest church — one that Kierkegaard had publicly railed against. Large crowds sympathetic to Kierkegaard filled the church planning to disrupt the service. At the last moment, students streamed into the church to surround the coffin and prevent a riot from disrupting the funeral.

At the cemetery conflict erupted again. By law, only ordained ministers could speak. Kierkegaard’s nephew disrupted the service by demanding to speak against the church that had “appropriated” his uncle. Emotions ran hot. The ordained minister in charge silently walked away, and the protest died down. Kierkegaard’s brother buried him in the family plot but told no one the exact location, fearing the body might be disturbed.

Standing before the two graves, I could only imagine those who stood there before me. There were angry youth who desecrated the grave of a writer who would have believed in them. There were outraged relatives and followers who believed it was wrong for the institutional church to take over the remains of a man who detested the institutional church. On the day I visited, the quiet seemed strangely out of place.

On my return, I passed by one of the great stone churches of Copenhagen. Surrounding the perimeter of the church were statues of famous theologians including Soren Kierkegaard. I smiled to myself, knowing that Kierkegaard’s statue stood alone outside of the church — just as he might have wished.