orthodoxy-第12章
按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！
of this bookthe rough review of recent thought。 After this I
begin to sketch a view of life which may not interest my reader；
but which； at any rate； interests me。 In front of me； as I close
this page； is a pile of modern books that I have been turning
over for the purposea pile of ingenuity； a pile of futility。
By the accident of my present detachment； I can see the inevitable smash
of the philosophies of Schopenhauer and Tolstoy； Nietzsche and Shaw；
as clearly as an inevitable railway smash could be seen from
a balloon。 They are all on the road to the emptiness of the asylum。
For madness may be defined as using mental activity so as to reach
mental helplessness； and they have nearly reached it。 He who
thinks he is made of glass； thinks to the destruction of thought；
for glass cannot think。 So he who wills to reject nothing；
wills the destruction of will； for will is not only the choice
of something； but the rejection of almost everything。 And as I
turn and tumble over the clever； wonderful； tiresome； and useless
modern books； the title of one of them rivets my eye。 It is called
〃Jeanne d'Arc；〃 by Anatole France。 I have only glanced at it；
but a glance was enough to remind me of Renan's 〃Vie de Jesus。〃
It has the same strange method of the reverent sceptic。 It discredits
supernatural stories that have some foundation； simply by telling
natural stories that have no foundation。 Because we cannot believe
in what a saint did； we are to pretend that we know exactly what
he felt。 But I do not mention either book in order to criticise it；
but because the accidental combination of the names called up two
startling images of Sanity which blasted all the books before me。
Joan of Arc was not stuck at the cross…roads； either by rejecting
all the paths like Tolstoy； or by accepting them all like Nietzsche。
She chose a path； and went down it like a thunderbolt。 Yet Joan；
when I came to think of her； had in her all that was true either in
Tolstoy or Nietzsche； all that was even tolerable in either of them。
I thought of all that is noble in Tolstoy； the pleasure in plain
things； especially in plain pity； the actualities of the earth；
the reverence for the poor； the dignity of the bowed back。
Joan of Arc had all that and with this great addition； that she
endured poverty as well as admiring it； whereas Tolstoy is only a
typical aristocrat trying to find out its secret。 And then I thought
of all that was brave and proud and pathetic in poor Nietzsche；
and his mutiny against the emptiness and timidity of our time。
I thought of his cry for the ecstatic equilibrium of danger； his hunger
for the rush of great horses； his cry to arms。 Well； Joan of Arc
had all that； and again with this difference； that she did not
praise fighting； but fought。 We KNOW that she was not afraid
of an army； while Nietzsche； for all we know； was afraid of a cow。
Tolstoy only praised the peasant； she was the peasant。 Nietzsche only
praised the warrior； she was the warrior。 She beat them both at
their own antagonistic ideals； she was more gentle than the one；
more violent than the other。 Yet she was a perfectly practical person
who did something； while they are wild speculators who do nothing。
It was impossible that the thought should not cross my mind that she
and her faith had perhaps some secret of moral unity and utility
that has been lost。 And with that thought came a larger one；
and the colossal figure of her Master had also crossed the theatre
of my thoughts。 The same modern difficulty which darkened the
subject…matter of Anatole France also darkened that of Ernest Renan。
Renan also divided his hero's pity from his hero's pugnacity。
Renan even represented the righteous anger at Jerusalem as a mere
nervous breakdown after the idyllic expectations of Galilee。
As if there were any inconsistency between having a love for
humanity and having a hatred for inhumanity！ Altruists； with thin；
weak voices； denounce Christ as an egoist。 Egoists （with
even thinner and weaker voices） denounce Him as an altruist。
In our present atmosphere such cavils are comprehensible enough。
The love of a hero is more terrible than the hatred of a tyrant。
The hatred of a hero is more generous than the love of a philanthropist。
There is a huge and heroic sanity of which moderns can only collect
the fragments。 There is a giant of whom we see only the lopped
arms and legs walking about。 They have torn the soul of Christ
into silly strips； labelled egoism and altruism； and they are
equally puzzled by His insane magnificence and His insane meekness。
They have parted His garments among them； and for His vesture they
have cast lots； though the coat was without seam woven from the top
throughout。
IV THE ETHICS OF ELFLAND
When the business man rebukes the idealism of his office…boy； it
is commonly in some such speech as this： 〃Ah； yes； when one is young；
one has these ideals in the abstract and these castles in the air；
but in middle age they all break up like clouds； and one comes down
to a belief in practical politics； to using the machinery one has
and getting on with the world as it is。〃 Thus； at least； venerable and
philanthropic old men now in their honoured graves used to talk to me
when I was a boy。 But since then I have grown up and have discovered
that these philanthropic old men were telling lies。 What has really
happened is exactly the opposite of what they said would happen。
They said that I should lose my ideals and begin to believe in the
methods of practical politicians。 Now； I have not lost my ideals
in the least； my faith in fundamentals is exactly what it always was。
What I have lost is my old childlike faith in practical politics。
I am still as much concerned as ever about the Battle of Armageddon；
but I am not so much concerned about the General Election。
As a babe I leapt up on my mother's knee at the mere mention
of it。 No； the vision is always solid and reliable。 The vision
is always a fact。 It is the reality that is often a fraud。
As much as I ever did； more than I ever did； I believe in Liberalism。
But there was a rosy time of innocence when I believed in Liberals。
I take this instance of one of the enduring faiths because；
having now to trace the roots of my personal speculation；
this may be counted； I think； as the only positive bias。
I was brought up a Liberal； and have always believed in democracy；
in the elementary liberal doctrine of a self…governing humanity。
If any one finds the phrase vague or threadbare； I can only pause
for a moment to explain that the principle of democracy； as I
mean it； can be stated in two propositions。 The first is this：
that the things common to all men are more important than the
things peculiar to any men。 Ordinary things are more valuable
than extraordinary things； nay； they are more extraordinary。
Man is something more awful than men； something more strange。
The sense of the miracle of humanity itself should be always more vivid
to us than any marvels of power； intellect； art； or civilization。
The mere man on two legs； as such； should be felt as something more
heartbreaking than any music and more startling than any caricature。
Death is more tragic even than death by starvation。 Having a nose
is more comic even than having a Norman nose。
This is the first principle of democracy： that the essential
things in men are the things
