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I either bought this by mistake years ago thinking it was either a) a Hunter S. Thompson book and I was drunk or b) It was a new James Bond novel written by someone who sounded like a James Bond villain.
This won't be much of a review because I didn't understand most of it. Plus, I had a kind of Abrahamic epiphany trying to slog through this, which is probably more important to me than the actual work itself. The epiphany went something like this: I hate philosophy.
This isn't meant to disparage the effort of folks like Kierkegaard, but let's be honest, philosophy is like less-fun religion. Even when it's borrowing from religion. I just find so little to enjoy in trying to penetrate the dense, dingleberry-ridden thickets of things like this, that I have to wonder, is it really worth it? I mean, Kierkegaard had a lot of personal problems, his girlfriend was lost to him, whatever, I'm sure he was having a bad time. Maybe this was his epiphany? I guess some of the ideas are nice, like you can choose to do stuff, like, "I can choose not to finish this book". But this isn't enlightening. I dunno. The guy just seems really upset about something and he has to Derrida poor ol' Abraham to do it.
I hate philosophy because I can't even make myself make sense trying to talk about. That's a bad sign.