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Authenticity is always betrayed and reduced to the market that it creates. The Christian's Christ is a hart's head on a hunter's wall with it's afterbirth crown of thorns and nystagmus; the kind of trophy that sings Dickensian Christmas carols when the quality of huntsman who gets it's meat at a supermarket decides to press a button. There is still blood everywhere but a bath in that ocean is invisible to the disciplined eye.
Kierkegaard died of authenticity, knowing full well that faith always comes before ethics. Authentic faith is a horror that breaks the fourth wall, infects epistemology and creates a perfect imitation.
***
I hear one thousand Joy Division's whispering around the epileptic silence of Ian Curtis.
