The Kierkegaard boom of the last few years is showing the first signs of fatigue. For Kierkegaard's sake I hope it will burst soon. The Kierkegaard of the literary boom is a fellow wit and fellow modern, distinguished from the other members of the smart set mainly by his having lived a hundred years earlier. But this Kierkegaard of the psychologists, existentialists, and assorted ex-Marxists bears hardly any resemblance to the real Kierkegaard, who cared nothing for psychology or dialectics (save to show them to be inadequate and irrelevant), but concerned himself solely with religious experience. And it is this real Kierkegaard who is meaningful for the modern world in its agony. We have neither saint nor poet to make whole the shards of our experience; in Kierkegaard we have at least a prophet.