The Methuselahite
I saw in a newspaper paragraph the other day the following entertaining and deeply philosophical incident. A man was enlisting as a soldier at Portsmouth, and some form was put before him to be filled up, common, I suppose, to all such cases, in which was, among other things, an inquiry about what was his religion. With an equal and ceremonial gravity the man wrote down the word “Methuselahite.” Whoever looks over such papers must, I should imagine, have seen some rum religions in his time; unless the Army is going to the dogs. But with all his specialist knowledge he could not “place” Methuselahism among what Bossuet called the variations of Protestantism. He felt a fervid curiosity about the tenets and tendencies of the sect; and he asked the soldier what it meant. The soldier replied that it was his religion “to live as long as he could.”
Now, considered as an incident in the religious history of Europe, that answer of that soldier was worth more than a hundred cartloads of quarterly and monthly and weekly and daily papers discussing religious problems and religious books. Every day the daily paper reviews some new philosopher who has some new religion; and there is not in the whole two thousand words of the whole two columns one word as witty or as wise as that word “Methuselahite.” The whole meaning of literature is simply to cut a long story short; and that is why our modern books of philosophy are never literature. That soldier had in him the very soul of literature; he was one of the great phrase-makers of modern thought, like Victor Hugo or Disraeli. He found one word that defines the paganism of to-day.
Henceforward, when the modern philosophers come to me with their new religions (and there is always a kind of queue of them waiting all the way down the street) I shall anticipate their circumlocutions and be able to cut them short with a single inspired word. One of them will begin, “The New Religion, which is based upon that Primordial Energy in Nature…” “Methuselahite,” I shall say sharply; “good morning.” “Human Life,” another will say, “Human Life, the only ultimate sanctity, freed from creed and dogma…” “Methuselahite!” I shall yell. “Out you go!” “My religion is the Religion of Joy,” a third will explain (a bald old man with a cough and tinted glasses), “the Religion of Physical Pride and Rapture, and my…” “Methuselahite!” I shall cry again, and I shall slap him boisterously on the back, and he will fall down. Then a pale young poet with serpentine hair will come and say to me (as one did only the other day): “Moods and impressions are the only realities, and these are constantly and wholly changing. I could hardly therefore define my religion…” “I can,” I should say, somewhat sternly. “Your religion is to live a long time; and if you stop here a moment longer you won’t fulfill it.”
A new philosophy generally means in practice the praise of some old vice. We have had the sophist who defends cruelty, and calls it masculinity. We have had the sophist who defends profligacy, and calls it the liberty of the emotions. We have had the sophist who defends idleness, and calls it art. It will almost certainly happen—it can almost certainly be prophesied—that in this saturnalia of sophistry there will at some time or other arise a sophist who desires to idealize cowardice. And when we are once in this unhealthy world of mere wild words, what a vast deal there would be to say for cowardice! “Is not life a lovely thing and worth saving?” the soldier would say as he ran away. “Should I not prolong the exquisite miracle of consciousness?” the housekeeper would say as he hid under the table. “As long as there are roses and lilies on the earth shall I not remain there?” would come the voice of the citizen from under the bed. It would be quite as easy to defend the coward as a kind of poet and mystic as it has been, in many recent books, to defend the emotionalist as a kind of poet and mystic, or the tyrant as a kind of poet and mystic. When the last grand sophistry and morbidity is preached in a book or on a platform, you may depend upon it there will be a great stir among the little people who live among books and platforms. There will be a new great Religion, the Religion of Methuselahism: with pomps and priest and altars. Its devout crusaders will vow themselves in thousands with a great vow to live long. But there is one comfort: they won’t.
For, indeed, the weakness of this worship of mere natural life (which is a common enough creed to-day) is that it ignores the paradox of courage and fails in its own aim. As a matter of fact, no men would be killed quicker than the Methuselahites. The paradox of courage is that a man must be a little careless of his life even in order to keep it. And in the very case I have quoted we may see an example of how little the theory of Methuselahism really inspires our best life. For there is one riddle in that case which cannot easily be cleared up. If it was the man’s religion to live as long as he could, why on earth was he enlisting as a soldier?
[Entered by Jonathan Franklin (memryslin@excite.com)]
The Methuselahite
I saw in a newspaper paragraph the other day the following entertaining and deeply philosophical incident. A man was enlisting as a soldier at Portsmouth, and some form was put before him to be filled up, common, I suppose, to all such cases, in which was, among other things, an inquiry about what was his religion. With an equal and ceremonial gravity the man wrote down the word “Methuselahite.” Whoever looks over such papers must, I should imagine, have seen some rum religions in his time; unless the Army is going to the dogs. But with all his specialist knowledge he could not “place” Methuselahism among what Bossuet called the variations of Protestantism. He felt a fervid curiosity about the tenets and tendencies of the sect; and he asked the soldier what it meant. The soldier replied that it was his religion “to live as long as he could.”
Now, considered as an incident in the religious history of Europe, that answer of that soldier was worth more than a hundred cartloads of quarterly and monthly and weekly and daily papers discussing religious problems and religious books. Every day the daily paper reviews some new philosopher who has some new religion; and there is not in the whole two thousand words of the whole two columns one word as witty or as wise as that word “Methuselahite.” The whole meaning of literature is simply to cut a long story short; and that is why our modern books of philosophy are never literature. That soldier had in him the very soul of literature; he was one of the great phrase-makers of modern thought, like Victor Hugo or Disraeli. He found one word that defines the paganism of to-day.
Henceforward, when the modern philosophers come to me with their new religions (and there is always a kind of queue of them waiting all the way down the street) I shall anticipate their circumlocutions and be able to cut them short with a single inspired word. One of them will begin, “The New Religion, which is based upon that Primordial Energy in Nature…” “Methuselahite,” I shall say sharply; “good morning.” “Human Life,” another will say, “Human Life, the only ultimate sanctity, freed from creed and dogma…” “Methuselahite!” I shall yell. “Out you go!” “My religion is the Religion of Joy,” a third will explain (a bald old man with a cough and tinted glasses), “the Religion of Physical Pride and Rapture, and my…” “Methuselahite!” I shall cry again, and I shall slap him boisterously on the back, and he will fall down. Then a pale young poet with serpentine hair will come and say to me (as one did only the other day): “Moods and impressions are the only realities, and these are constantly and wholly changing. I could hardly therefore define my religion…” “I can,” I should say, somewhat sternly. “Your religion is to live a long time; and if you stop here a moment longer you won’t fulfill it.”
A new philosophy generally means in practice the praise of some old vice. We have had the sophist who defends cruelty, and calls it masculinity. We have had the sophist who defends profligacy, and calls it the liberty of the emotions. We have had the sophist who defends idleness, and calls it art. It will almost certainly happen—it can almost certainly be prophesied—that in this saturnalia of sophistry there will at some time or other arise a sophist who desires to idealize cowardice. And when we are once in this unhealthy world of mere wild words, what a vast deal there would be to say for cowardice! “Is not life a lovely thing and worth saving?” the soldier would say as he ran away. “Should I not prolong the exquisite miracle of consciousness?” the housekeeper would say as he hid under the table. “As long as there are roses and lilies on the earth shall I not remain there?” would come the voice of the citizen from under the bed. It would be quite as easy to defend the coward as a kind of poet and mystic as it has been, in many recent books, to defend the emotionalist as a kind of poet and mystic, or the tyrant as a kind of poet and mystic. When the last grand sophistry and morbidity is preached in a book or on a platform, you may depend upon it there will be a great stir among the little people who live among books and platforms. There will be a new great Religion, the Religion of Methuselahism: with pomps and priest and altars. Its devout crusaders will vow themselves in thousands with a great vow to live long. But there is one comfort: they won’t.
For, indeed, the weakness of this worship of mere natural life (which is a common enough creed to-day) is that it ignores the paradox of courage and fails in its own aim. As a matter of fact, no men would be killed quicker than the Methuselahites. The paradox of courage is that a man must be a little careless of his life even in order to keep it. And in the very case I have quoted we may see an example of how little the theory of Methuselahism really inspires our best life. For there is one riddle in that case which cannot easily be cleared up. If it was the man’s religion to live as long as he could, why on earth was he enlisting as a soldier?
[Entered by Jonathan Franklin (memryslin@excite.com)]
Ho letto l’altro giorno, in un trafiletto di giornale, il seguente episodio divertente e profondamente filosofico. Un uomo si stava arruolando come soldato a Portsmouth, e gli fu posto davanti un modulo da compilare, comune, suppongo, a tutti i casi del genere, in cui figurava, tra le altre cose, una domanda su quale fosse la sua religione. Con pari e cerimoniale gravità l’uomo scrisse la parola «Matusalemmita». Chi passa in rassegna simili carte deve, immagino, aver visto nel suo tempo certe bizzarre religioni; a meno che l’Esercito non stia andando in malora come i cani. Ma con tutta la sua competenza specialistica costui non riuscì a «collocare» il Matusalemmismo tra quelle che Bossuet chiamava le variazioni del Protestantesimo. Fu preso da una fervida curiosità circa i dogmi e le tendenze della setta; e chiese al soldato che cosa significasse. Il soldato rispose che la sua religione era «vivere il più a lungo possibile».
Ora, considerata come episodio nella storia religiosa d’Europa, quella risposta di quel soldato valeva più di cento carrettate di riviste trimestrali e mensili e settimanali e quotidiani che discutono di problemi religiosi e di libri religiosi. Ogni giorno il giornale quotidiano recensisce qualche nuovo filosofo che ha una nuova religione; e in tutte le duemila parole delle due intere colonne non c’è una sola parola tanto arguta o tanto sapiente quanto quella parola «Matusalemmita». Tutto il significato della letteratura sta semplicemente nell’accorciare una lunga storia; ed è per questo che i nostri moderni libri di filosofia non sono mai letteratura. Quel soldato aveva in sé la vera anima della letteratura; era uno dei grandi coniatori di frasi del pensiero moderno, come Victor Hugo o Disraeli. Trovò una sola parola che definisce il paganesimo d’oggi.
D’ora innanzi, quando i filosofi moderni verranno da me con le loro nuove religioni (e ce n’è sempre una specie di coda ad aspettare per tutta la lunghezza della strada), anticiperò le loro circonlocuzioni e saprò tagliar corto con una sola ispirata parola. Uno di loro comincerà: «La Nuova Religione, che si fonda su quella Energia Primordiale della Natura…». «Matusalemmita», dirò seccamente; «buongiorno». «La Vita Umana», dirà un altro, «la Vita Umana, unica sacralità ultima, affrancata da credo e dogma…». «Matusalemmita!», urlerò. «Fuori di qui!». «La mia religione è la Religione della Gioia», spiegherà un terzo (un vecchio calvo con la tosse e gli occhiali colorati), «la Religione dell’Orgoglio Fisico e del Rapimento, e il mio…». «Matusalemmita!», griderò di nuovo, e gli darò una gioviale manata sulla schiena, ed egli cadrà a terra. Poi verrà un pallido giovane poeta dai capelli serpentini e mi dirà (come uno fece proprio l’altro giorno): «Gli stati d’animo e le impressioni sono le sole realtà, e mutano costantemente e per intero. A malapena, dunque, potrei definire la mia religione…». «Io sì», dirò, con una certa severità. «La tua religione è vivere a lungo nel tempo; e se ti fermi qui un momento di più non la realizzerai».
Una nuova filosofia significa in pratica, di solito, l’elogio di qualche vecchio vizio. Abbiamo avuto il sofista che difende la crudeltà, e la chiama virilità. Abbiamo avuto il sofista che difende la dissolutezza, e la chiama libertà delle emozioni. Abbiamo avuto il sofista che difende l’ozio, e lo chiama arte. Accadrà quasi certamente — si può quasi certamente profetizzarlo — che in questi saturnali della sofistica sorgerà, prima o poi, un sofista che desideri idealizzare la codardia. E una volta che ci troviamo in questo malsano mondo di sole parole sfrenate, quante mai cose ci sarebbero da dire in favore della codardia! «Non è forse la vita una cosa deliziosa e degna di essere salvata?», direbbe il soldato mentre fugge. «Non dovrei prolungare lo squisito miracolo della coscienza?», direbbe il padrone di casa nascondendosi sotto il tavolo. «Finché vi sono rose e gigli sulla terra, non dovrò io rimanervi?», verrebbe la voce del cittadino di sotto il letto. Sarebbe altrettanto facile difendere il codardo come una sorta di poeta e mistico quanto lo è stato, in molti libri recenti, difendere l’emotivo come una sorta di poeta e mistico, o il tiranno come una sorta di poeta e mistico. Quando l’ultima grande sofistica e morbosità sarà predicata in un libro o da una tribuna, potete star certi che vi sarà un gran fermento tra la piccola gente che vive tra libri e tribune. Vi sarà una nuova grande Religione, la Religione del Matusalemmismo: con pompe e sacerdoti e altari. I suoi devoti crociati si voteranno a migliaia con un gran voto di vivere a lungo. Ma c’è una consolazione: non lo faranno.
Perché, in verità, la debolezza di questo culto della mera vita naturale (che è un credo abbastanza comune al giorno d’oggi) è che esso ignora il paradosso del Coraggio e fallisce nel proprio scopo. Di fatto, nessuno verrebbe ucciso più in fretta dei Matusalemmiti. Il paradosso del Coraggio è che un uomo, per conservare la propria vita, deve esserne un poco incurante. E proprio nel caso che ho citato possiamo vedere un esempio di quanto poco la teoria del Matusalemmismo ispiri realmente la nostra vita migliore. Perché in quel caso c’è un enigma che non è facile chiarire. Se la religione di quell’uomo era vivere il più a lungo possibile, perché diamine si stava arruolando come soldato?
[Entered by Jonathan Franklin (memryslin@excite.com)]