Government and the Rights of Man
G. K. Chesterton
Illustrated London News, July 30, 1921
I could never see why a man who is not free to open his mouth to drink should be free to open it to talk. Talking does far more direct harm to other people. The village suffers less directly from the village drunkard than it might from the village tale bearer, or the village tub-thumper, or the village villain who seduces the village maiden. These and twenty other types of evil are done simply by talking; it is certain that a vast amount of evil would be prevented if we all wore gags. And the answer is not to deny that slander is a social poison, or seduction a spiritual murder. The answer is that, unless a man is allowed to talk, he might as well be a chimpanzee who is only able to chatter. In other words, if a man loses the responsibility for these rudimentary functions and forms of freedom, he loses not only his citizenship, but his manhood.
But there are other personal liberties still permitted us, more elaborate and civilized than that simple human speech which is still closely akin to the chatter of the chimpanzees. By some official oversight, which I am quite unable to explain, we are still allowed to write private letters if we put them in public pillar-boxes. The Postmaster-General does not write all our letters for us; even the local postman has as yet no such local powers. I cannot conceive how it is that reformers have failed to note the need for uniting, reorganizing, coordinating, codifying, and linking up all this complex, chaotic, and wasteful system, or lack of system. There must be vast amounts of overlapping, with some six young gentlemen writing letters to one young lady. There must be a terribly low educational standard, with all sorts of poor people allowed to put into a private letter any spelling or grammar they like. There must be a number of bad psychological habits being formed, by foolish people writing their sons in the Colonies or their mothers in the workhouse. And all this anarchy and deterioration could be stopped by the simple process of standardisation of all correspondence. I know if I use the word “standardisation,” Mr. H.G. Wells will welcome it and begin to think of it seriously [indeed there opens before me a vista of vast social reform].
On the face of it, the first and most obvious method would be for the Government to send round official forms for our friendly correspondence, to be filled up like the forms about insurance or Income Tax. Here and there, even in the most model communication, there would be words left blank, which the individual might be allowed to fill out himself. I have a half-formed ideal of an official love letter, printed in the manner of “I __________you,” so that the citizen might insert “love,” or “like,” or “adore,” with a view to the new civil marriage; or “renounce,” or “repudiate,” or “execrate,” with a view to the newer and more civil divorce. But even these blanks for verbal variation must be admitted with caution; for the aim of the whole reform is to raise the general level of all correspondence to a height unattainable by the majority of the people as yet.
It may be hinted that I plead for this reform with the passion of self interest, for it would enable me to neglect my correspondence in theory as I already neglect it in practice. I very seldom write to anybody; and I never write to the people I like best. About them I do not trouble, for they understand. But there are unanswered letters from total strangers about which I feel a remorse. Some day I shall make a list of the people I should have liked to answer, or advertise for them by such details as I can remember them. If I had any money I should like to leave them millions of it when I die. It may be said that I should get off cheaply, if the government would sent round to all these people an official card in my name [instead].
But I am not really converted to my own project, even by my own failure. I am not really convinced of the necessity of standardised correspondence, either by the existence of criminal letters or my own criminal neglect of letters. If or when, in some strange mood at some distant date, I should actually answer a letter, I should still prefer to answer it myself. even if I had nothing to write except an apology for not writing, I should prefer my self-abasement to have the character of self-determination.
It is a most extraordinary fact that all modern talk about self-determination is applied to everything except the self. It is applied to the State but it is not applied to the very thing to which its verbal formula professes to apply. I, for one, do believe in that mystical doctrine of democracy, which pre-supposes that England has a soul, or that France has a self. But surely it is much more obvious and ordinary fact that Jones has a self and Robinson has a self. And the question I have here discussed under the parable of the Post Office is not the question of whether there are abuses in drink or diet, as there are calumny and blackmail in any pillar-box or postman’s bag. It is the question of whether in these days the claims of government are to leave anything whatever of the rights of man.
Government and the Rights of Man
G. K. Chesterton
Illustrated London News, July 30, 1921
I could never see why a man who is not free to open his mouth to drink should be free to open it to talk. Talking does far more direct harm to other people. The village suffers less directly from the village drunkard than it might from the village tale bearer, or the village tub-thumper, or the village villain who seduces the village maiden. These and twenty other types of evil are done simply by talking; it is certain that a vast amount of evil would be prevented if we all wore gags. And the answer is not to deny that slander is a social poison, or seduction a spiritual murder. The answer is that, unless a man is allowed to talk, he might as well be a chimpanzee who is only able to chatter. In other words, if a man loses the responsibility for these rudimentary functions and forms of freedom, he loses not only his citizenship, but his manhood.
But there are other personal liberties still permitted us, more elaborate and civilized than that simple human speech which is still closely akin to the chatter of the chimpanzees. By some official oversight, which I am quite unable to explain, we are still allowed to write private letters if we put them in public pillar-boxes. The Postmaster-General does not write all our letters for us; even the local postman has as yet no such local powers. I cannot conceive how it is that reformers have failed to note the need for uniting, reorganizing, coordinating, codifying, and linking up all this complex, chaotic, and wasteful system, or lack of system. There must be vast amounts of overlapping, with some six young gentlemen writing letters to one young lady. There must be a terribly low educational standard, with all sorts of poor people allowed to put into a private letter any spelling or grammar they like. There must be a number of bad psychological habits being formed, by foolish people writing their sons in the Colonies or their mothers in the workhouse. And all this anarchy and deterioration could be stopped by the simple process of standardisation of all correspondence. I know if I use the word “standardisation,” Mr. H.G. Wells will welcome it and begin to think of it seriously [indeed there opens before me a vista of vast social reform].
On the face of it, the first and most obvious method would be for the Government to send round official forms for our friendly correspondence, to be filled up like the forms about insurance or Income Tax. Here and there, even in the most model communication, there would be words left blank, which the individual might be allowed to fill out himself. I have a half-formed ideal of an official love letter, printed in the manner of “I __________you,” so that the citizen might insert “love,” or “like,” or “adore,” with a view to the new civil marriage; or “renounce,” or “repudiate,” or “execrate,” with a view to the newer and more civil divorce. But even these blanks for verbal variation must be admitted with caution; for the aim of the whole reform is to raise the general level of all correspondence to a height unattainable by the majority of the people as yet.
It may be hinted that I plead for this reform with the passion of self interest, for it would enable me to neglect my correspondence in theory as I already neglect it in practice. I very seldom write to anybody; and I never write to the people I like best. About them I do not trouble, for they understand. But there are unanswered letters from total strangers about which I feel a remorse. Some day I shall make a list of the people I should have liked to answer, or advertise for them by such details as I can remember them. If I had any money I should like to leave them millions of it when I die. It may be said that I should get off cheaply, if the government would sent round to all these people an official card in my name [instead].
But I am not really converted to my own project, even by my own failure. I am not really convinced of the necessity of standardised correspondence, either by the existence of criminal letters or my own criminal neglect of letters. If or when, in some strange mood at some distant date, I should actually answer a letter, I should still prefer to answer it myself. even if I had nothing to write except an apology for not writing, I should prefer my self-abasement to have the character of self-determination.
It is a most extraordinary fact that all modern talk about self-determination is applied to everything except the self. It is applied to the State but it is not applied to the very thing to which its verbal formula professes to apply. I, for one, do believe in that mystical doctrine of democracy, which pre-supposes that England has a soul, or that France has a self. But surely it is much more obvious and ordinary fact that Jones has a self and Robinson has a self. And the question I have here discussed under the parable of the Post Office is not the question of whether there are abuses in drink or diet, as there are calumny and blackmail in any pillar-box or postman’s bag. It is the question of whether in these days the claims of government are to leave anything whatever of the rights of man.
Il governo e i diritti dell’uomo
G. K. Chesterton
Illustrated London News, 30 luglio 1921
Non ho mai capito perché un uomo che non è libero di aprire la bocca per bere debba essere libero di aprirla per parlare. Il parlare fa agli altri un danno assai più diretto. Il villaggio soffre meno direttamente dell’ubriacone del villaggio di quanto potrebbe soffrire del pettegolo del villaggio, o del comiziante del villaggio, o del furfante del villaggio che seduce la fanciulla del villaggio. Questi e venti altri tipi di male si compiono semplicemente parlando; è certo che una vasta quantità di male sarebbe impedita se portassimo tutti un bavaglio. E la risposta non è negare che la calunnia sia un veleno sociale, o la seduzione un omicidio spirituale. La risposta è che, se non gli è permesso di parlare, un uomo tanto varrebbe che fosse uno scimpanzé capace soltanto di ciarlare. In altre parole, se un uomo perde la responsabilità di queste funzioni e forme rudimentali di libertà, perde non solo la sua cittadinanza, ma la sua virilità.
Ma vi sono altre libertà personali ancora concesseci, più elaborate e civili di quel semplice discorso umano che è tuttora così affine al cicaleccio degli scimpanzé. Per qualche svista ufficiale, che non sono affatto in grado di spiegare, ci è ancora consentito scrivere lettere private, purché le imbuchiamo in pubbliche cassette. Il Direttore Generale delle Poste non scrive per noi tutte le nostre lettere; nemmeno il postino locale ha per ora simili poteri locali. Non riesco a concepire come mai i riformatori non abbiano notato la necessità di unificare, riorganizzare, coordinare, codificare e collegare tutto questo complesso, caotico e dispendioso sistema, o mancanza di sistema. Vi devono essere immense quantità di sovrapposizioni, con una mezza dozzina di giovani gentiluomini che scrivono lettere a una sola giovane signora. Vi deve essere un livello educativo terribilmente basso, con ogni sorta di povera gente cui è permesso di mettere in una lettera privata l’ortografia e la grammatica che le aggrada. Vi deve essere un certo numero di cattive abitudini psicologiche che si formano, per opera di gente sciocca che scrive ai figli nelle Colonie o alle madri nell’ospizio. E tutta questa anarchia e questo deterioramento potrebbero essere fermati col semplice procedimento della standardizzazione di ogni corrispondenza. So bene che, se uso la parola «standardizzazione», il signor H.G. Wells la accoglierà con favore e comincerà a prenderla sul serio [e invero mi si apre dinanzi una prospettiva di vasta riforma sociale].
A prima vista, il primo e più ovvio metodo sarebbe che il Governo facesse circolare moduli ufficiali per la nostra corrispondenza amichevole, da riempire come i moduli sull’assicurazione o sull’imposta sul reddito. Qua e là, anche nella più esemplare delle comunicazioni, vi sarebbero parole lasciate in bianco, che al singolo sarebbe forse consentito di completare da sé. Ho un ideale ancora abbozzato di una lettera d’amore ufficiale, stampata alla maniera di «Io vi __________», così che il cittadino possa inserire «amo», o «apprezzo», o «adoro», in vista del nuovo matrimonio civile; oppure «rinnego», o «ripudio», o «esecro», in vista del più nuovo e più civile divorzio. Ma perfino questi spazi bianchi per la variazione verbale vanno ammessi con cautela; poiché lo scopo dell’intera riforma è di innalzare il livello generale di tutta la corrispondenza a un’altezza irraggiungibile finora dalla maggioranza della gente.
Si potrà insinuare che io perori questa riforma con la passione dell’interesse personale, poiché essa mi permetterebbe di trascurare la mia corrispondenza in teoria come già la trascuro in pratica. Scrivo assai di rado a chicchessia; e non scrivo mai alle persone che amo di più. Di esse non mi do pensiero, perché comprendono. Ma vi sono lettere senza risposta di perfetti sconosciuti, per le quali provo un rimorso. Un giorno farò una lista delle persone che avrei voluto poter rispondere, o le farò cercare per mezzo dei particolari con cui riesco a ricordarle. Se avessi del denaro, mi piacerebbe lasciarne loro milioni, alla mia morte. Si dirà che me la caverei a buon mercato, se il governo mandasse a tutta questa gente una cartolina ufficiale a mio nome [al mio posto].
Ma non sono davvero convertito al mio stesso progetto, nemmeno dal mio stesso fallimento. Non sono davvero convinto della necessità di una corrispondenza standardizzata, né dall’esistenza di lettere criminose né dalla mia stessa criminosa trascuratezza delle lettere. Se o quando, in qualche strano umore in una data lontana, dovessi effettivamente rispondere a una lettera, preferirei tuttavia rispondervi io stesso. Anche se non avessi nulla da scrivere se non le scuse per non aver scritto, preferirei che la mia auto-umiliazione avesse il carattere dell’auto-determinazione.
È un fatto quanto mai straordinario che tutto il moderno parlare di auto-determinazione venga applicato a tutto tranne che al sé. Viene applicato allo Stato, ma non viene applicato alla cosa stessa a cui la sua formula verbale professa di applicarsi. Io, per parte mia, credo davvero in quella dottrina mistica della democrazia, che presuppone che l’Inghilterra abbia un’anima, o che la Francia abbia un sé. Ma è certo fatto assai più ovvio e ordinario che Jones abbia un sé e che Robinson abbia un sé. E la questione che ho qui discusso sotto la parabola dell’Ufficio Postale non è la questione se vi siano abusi nel bere o nel mangiare, come vi sono calunnia e ricatto in ogni cassetta o borsa di postino. È la questione se, in questi giorni, le pretese del governo debbano lasciar sussistere alcunché dei diritti dell’uomo.