My Danishness, says W. as we sit on the grass for our picnic. The mystery of my Danishness. We need to become Danish in some way to be able to read Kierkegaard, he says. We need to approach his work from the inside, like a Dane. I'll need to show him how to think!
Of course, I'm only half Danish. Half Danish and half Indian, a peculiar combination, W. says. He, of course, is Irish on one side of his family and Polish – probably Polish – on the other. He's a mixture, too. He'll be able to bring his Jewish-Catholic approach to bear on our reading of Kierkegaard, he says, and I my Hindu-Protestant approach.
Where should we start? – 'Did you bring some Schnapps?' I brought some Schnapps, I tell him. – 'Is it chilled?' It's straight from the freezer, I tell W., as Danes serve it.
Aalborg akavit. Did Kierkegaard drink Aalborg akavit?, W. wonders. Undoubtedly! Kierkegaard would certainly have drunk it in his early years, his pagan years, W. says. He probably drank himself blind on Aalborg akavit before his return to his faith, just as we must drink ourselves blind on Aalborg akavit, we who are lacking in faith, in Kierkegaard's faith.
And did I bring the herrings? Yes, I brought the herrings. I took a special trip, out to Ikea, to get the herrings. We have herrings and cod roe sandwich paste from the grocery in Ikea. And we have some ryebread, too. Good, W. says, we're well prepared. To think like a Dane, you need to eat like a Dane and drink like a Dane. And here we are in the north of England, pretty much at the same line of latitude as Copenhagen, ready to eat and drink like a Dane. We're well prepared.
Now tell me, tell me about Denmark!, W. says.
Lars Iyer's Blog 