What, No Humor?

I find myself attracted to Kierkegaard, the more I read of him. But of course, I must also go-beyond him, or attack him. He is not faultless, but I can qualify him. Perhaps he was just a timely prophet, but then I cannot attack him. Nor should I emulate his prophesy, which is his alone. I can steal his ideas- that I had the courage to pawn them off as my own, perhaps I would be called original!- but that would do nothing for me. I am not satisfied till I have found the wellspring from which he drank. That same fruit is that which Adam ate (in his eating, we sinned, in our eating, we become great), that of the Knowledge of Good and Evil.
But because I have only one truth that I know and preach (that certainly all of life is a chasing after the wind), and that truth is so sobering, I find myself unable to laugh. I can laugh the nervous laugh of the melancholy man- but never the jovial laugh of Bacchus (although a sinner, he was so carefree). Why do I yet insist that God has a sense of humor? Because I don't believe to have myself reached humor. I can do anything but really laugh, because I do not know enough to laugh. The saint can laugh, but the damned cannot (even though the latter think they can). The damned do not know enough of truth to be able to laugh, so here I sit with them in our shared melancholy (I am not the transcended Christian).