When most people think of Søren Kierkegaard, they picture a gloomy Danish guy sitting in a candlelit room, writing about despair while wearing a cravat too tight for blood circulation. Fair enough. But hidden among the melancholy and the heavy coats, Kierkegaard had a secret superpower: he understood irony — not just as a literary device, but as a way of ripping the masks off reality.
And that, as it turns out, makes him a surprisingly excellent guide for writers — especially writers trying to land that perfect comedic punch that actually means something.
Let’s dive into it: irony, dialectic, and why the best laughter comes with just a little bit of existential whiplash.
Irony Is a Weapon, Not a Wink
To Kierkegaard, irony isn’t just a sarcastic tone of voice or a bad tweet. It’s a method of disruption — a way of creating a rift between the surface of things (the nice lies we tell ourselves) and the raw, often uncomfortable truth hiding underneath.
Irony reveals contradictions. It points at the Emperor’s new clothes and says, “Seriously?”
It forces us — or the story’s characters — to confront the messy gap between what we think reality should be and what it actually is.
In storytelling terms: a good comedic punchline doesn’t just pull a fast one. It punctures a false reality and demands that the audience reframe what they thought they knew.
Thus, irony is not just humor. It’s truth-delivery via surprise explosion.
Dialectic: The Art of Getting Smacked by Truth
Kierkegaard saw irony as the first step in a process called dialectic — the collision of two opposing ideas that forces the mind (and the soul) to grapple with truth.
Dialectic isn’t about arguing for argument’s sake. It’s about tension:
- What I want vs. what’s real.
- Who I pretend to be vs. who I am.
- The dream vs. the wake-up call.
In a good comedy, this tension is everywhere.
The naive hero gets a rude awakening.
The arrogant boss trips over their own schemes.
The couple in the romantic comedy realize they’re both idiots — but adorable idiots.
Each laugh, if it’s a good one, comes from that dialectical crash between illusion and reality.
What Kierkegaard Can Teach Writers About the Punch
If you want to write scenes — especially comedic scenes — that actually land, Kierkegaard offers a few lessons:
- Set up an expectation.
Let the character (or the audience) believe one version of reality. Let them get comfortable. - Reveal the contradiction.
Pull the rug. Show that what they believed was false, incomplete, or absurd. - Force a new awareness.
Good comedy doesn’t just end with “Gotcha!” It leaves the character — and the reader — seeing the world a little differently.
The best comedic beats aren’t random. They’re philosophical in disguise.
Some Modern Examples of Kierkegaardian Comedy
- The Office: Michael Scott’s tragic belief in his own coolness constantly slams into the reality of his awkwardness. Irony + dialectic = laughs + weird sadness.
- Parks and Rec: Leslie Knope’s relentless optimism crashes into the absurdity of small-town government, only for her to grow wiser without losing heart.
- Arrested Development turns irony into a running gag by trapping its characters in delusions about themselves, while the audience watches them flail and refuse to evolve.
Writing the Kierkegaardian Punch: A Quick How-To
- Start with a false belief. (The world is fair. I’m brilliant. Love conquers all.)
- Create a scene that tests it. (Spoiler: the test will fail.)
- Use irony to crack it open. (Usually with a sudden, sharp moment — like a punchline.)
- Leave the character — and the audience — a little more awake, a little more bruised, and somehow still laughing.
Conclusion: Comedy is Truth in Disguise
If you think comedy is easy, Kierkegaard would like a word.
Great comedy — the kind that sticks with people — isn’t just a series of gags. It’s dialectical warfare against illusion. It’s irony wielded like a surgeon’s scalpel, cutting away the polite stories we tell ourselves.
The next time you land a punchline that makes someone laugh and think, tip your (existential) hat to the gloomy Dane who saw it all coming.
