Myths and Metaphors
Myths and Metaphors
by G. K. Chesterton
Originally published in The Illustrated London News, 26th January 1929.
(Source: G. K. Chesterton, Collected Works, Volume XXXV, The Illustrated London News 1929-1931, Ignatius Press, San Francisco, 1991. Pages 29-33.)
What I venture to criticize in certain men, whom some call scientists and I call materialists, is their perpetual use of Mythology. One half of what they say is so true as to be trite; the other half of what they say is so untrue as to be transparent. But they cover both their platitudes and their pretenses by an elaborate parade of legendary and allegorical images. I read this in some remarks on Darwinism by one of the last surviving Darwinians: “Among the individuals of every species there goes on, as Malthus had realised, a competition of struggle for the means of life, and Nature selects the individuals which vary in the most successful direction.” Now when men of the old religions said that God chose a people and raised up a prophet, at least they meant something; and they meant what they said. They meant that a being with a mind and a will used them in an act of selection. But who is Nature, and how does she, or he, or it, manage to select anything or anybody? All that the writer actually has to say is that some individuals do emerge when other individuals are extinguished. It hardly needed either Darwin or Darwinians to tell us that. But Nature selecting those that vary in the most successful direction means nothing whatever, except that the successful succeed. But this tautological truism is wrapped up in clouds of mythology, by the introduction of a mythical being whom even the writer regards as a myth. The reader is to be impressed and deluded by the vision of a vast stone goddess sitting on a mountain throne, and pointing at a particular frog or rabbit saying, in tones of thunder, that this alone is to survive. All we know is that it does survive (for the moment), and then we pride ourselves on being able to repeat the mere fact that it does survive in half a hundred variegated and flowery expressions: as that it has survival value; or that it is naturally selected for survival; or that it survives because it is the fittest for survival; or that Nature’s great law of the survival of the fittest sternly commands it to survive. The critics of religion used to say that its mysteries were mummeries; but these things are in the special and real sense mummeries. They are things offered to a credulous congregation by priests who know them to be mummeries. It is impossible to prove that the priest knows that there is no god in the shrine, or no truth in the oracle. But we know that the materialist knows that there is no such things as a large fastidious lady, called Nature, who points a finger at a frog.
The particular case in which this mythological metaphor was used is of course another matter. It is, indeed, a matter which has involved at various times a great deal of this element of materialist mythology. To see what truth was really in it we should have to go back to the old Darwinian debate; which I have not the least intention of doing here. But I may observe, in passing, that this notion of Nature selecting things is specially incompatible with all that can really be said for their own case; and that the very name of natural selection is a most unnatural name for it. For it is their whole case that everything happened, in the ordinary human sense, by accident. We should rather call it coincidence; and some of us call it quite incredible coincidence. But, anyhow, the whole case for it is that one quadruped happened to have a long neck, and happened to live at a moment when it was necessary to reach a taller tree or shrub. If these happenings happen to happen about a hundred times in succession, in exactly the same way, you can by that process turn some sort of sheep or goat into a giraffe. Whether this is probable or not is another question. But the whole Darwinian argument is that it is NOT a case of Nature selecting, any more than of God selecting, or anyone else selecting, but a case of things falling out in that fashion. We are quite ready to discuss trees and giraffes in their place, without perpetual references to God. Could the materialists not so far control their rhetorical and romantic sentimentalism as to do it without perpetual reference to Nature? Shall we make a bargain; that we will for the moment leave out our theology, if they will leave out their mythology?
But the mythological habit is not entirely and exclusively confined to men of science, or even to materialists. This sort of mythology is rather generally scattered over the modern world. The popular form of the mythological is the metaphorical. Certain figures of speech are fixed in the modern mind, exactly as the fables of the gods and nymphs were fixed in the mind of pagan antiquity. It is astonishing to note how often, when we address a man with anything resembling an idea, he answers with some recognised metaphor, supposed to be appropriate to the case. If you say to him, “I myself prefer the principle of the Guild to the principle of the Trust,” he will not answer you by talking about principles. He can be counted on to say: “You can’t put the clock back,” with all the regularity of a ticking clock. This is a very extreme example of the mental breakdown that goes with a relapse into metaphor. For the man is actually understanding his own case out of sheer love of metaphor. It may be that you cannot put time back, but you can put the clock back. He would be in a stronger position if he talked about the abstraction called time; but an all-devouring appetite for figurative language forces him to talk abut clocks. Of course the real question raised has nothing to do with either clocks or time. It is the question of whether certain abstract principles, which may or may not have been observed in the past, ought to be observed in future. But the point is here that even the man who means that we cannot reconstruct the past can hardly ever reconstruct his own sentence in any other form except this figurative form. Without his myth, or his metaphor, he is lost.
Another mass of metaphors is drawn from the phenomena of morning, or the fact that the sun rises; or, rather (I grovel in apology to the man of science), appears to rise. It is a perfectly natural metaphor for poets; or indeed, for all men, in that aspect in which all men are mystics. That there is mystery in these natural things, which the imagination understands more subtly than the reason, is true enough. Nor have I any contempt even for mythology considered mythology. But when we want to know what somebody wants to do, when we ask a free-thinker what he thinks, and why he thinks it, it is a little tiresome to be told that he is waiting for the Dawn, or engaged at the moment in singing Songs Before Sunrise. [Footnote 1] One is tempted to retort that Dawn is not always an entirely cheerful thing, even for those who have exercised their free thought upon the conventional tradition of their own society. There is such a thing as being shot at Dawn.
I do not mean for a moment, of course, that we should do without myths and metaphors altogether. I am constantly using them myself, and shall continue to do so. But I think we ought all to be on guard against depending on them as a substitute for reason. Perhaps it would be well to have a Fast Day, on which we undertook to abstain from everything but abstract terms, Let us all agree that every Friday we will do without metaphors as without meat. I am sure it would be good for the intellectual digestion.
Footnote 1: This is the title of a collection of Swinburne’s poems (1871) with a strongly political cast.
= End =
Myths and Metaphors
Myths and Metaphors
by G. K. Chesterton
Originally published in The Illustrated London News, 26th January 1929.
(Source: G. K. Chesterton, Collected Works, Volume XXXV, The Illustrated London News 1929-1931, Ignatius Press, San Francisco, 1991. Pages 29-33.)
What I venture to criticize in certain men, whom some call scientists and I call materialists, is their perpetual use of Mythology. One half of what they say is so true as to be trite; the other half of what they say is so untrue as to be transparent. But they cover both their platitudes and their pretenses by an elaborate parade of legendary and allegorical images. I read this in some remarks on Darwinism by one of the last surviving Darwinians: “Among the individuals of every species there goes on, as Malthus had realised, a competition of struggle for the means of life, and Nature selects the individuals which vary in the most successful direction.” Now when men of the old religions said that God chose a people and raised up a prophet, at least they meant something; and they meant what they said. They meant that a being with a mind and a will used them in an act of selection. But who is Nature, and how does she, or he, or it, manage to select anything or anybody? All that the writer actually has to say is that some individuals do emerge when other individuals are extinguished. It hardly needed either Darwin or Darwinians to tell us that. But Nature selecting those that vary in the most successful direction means nothing whatever, except that the successful succeed. But this tautological truism is wrapped up in clouds of mythology, by the introduction of a mythical being whom even the writer regards as a myth. The reader is to be impressed and deluded by the vision of a vast stone goddess sitting on a mountain throne, and pointing at a particular frog or rabbit saying, in tones of thunder, that this alone is to survive. All we know is that it does survive (for the moment), and then we pride ourselves on being able to repeat the mere fact that it does survive in half a hundred variegated and flowery expressions: as that it has survival value; or that it is naturally selected for survival; or that it survives because it is the fittest for survival; or that Nature’s great law of the survival of the fittest sternly commands it to survive. The critics of religion used to say that its mysteries were mummeries; but these things are in the special and real sense mummeries. They are things offered to a credulous congregation by priests who know them to be mummeries. It is impossible to prove that the priest knows that there is no god in the shrine, or no truth in the oracle. But we know that the materialist knows that there is no such things as a large fastidious lady, called Nature, who points a finger at a frog.
The particular case in which this mythological metaphor was used is of course another matter. It is, indeed, a matter which has involved at various times a great deal of this element of materialist mythology. To see what truth was really in it we should have to go back to the old Darwinian debate; which I have not the least intention of doing here. But I may observe, in passing, that this notion of Nature selecting things is specially incompatible with all that can really be said for their own case; and that the very name of natural selection is a most unnatural name for it. For it is their whole case that everything happened, in the ordinary human sense, by accident. We should rather call it coincidence; and some of us call it quite incredible coincidence. But, anyhow, the whole case for it is that one quadruped happened to have a long neck, and happened to live at a moment when it was necessary to reach a taller tree or shrub. If these happenings happen to happen about a hundred times in succession, in exactly the same way, you can by that process turn some sort of sheep or goat into a giraffe. Whether this is probable or not is another question. But the whole Darwinian argument is that it is NOT a case of Nature selecting, any more than of God selecting, or anyone else selecting, but a case of things falling out in that fashion. We are quite ready to discuss trees and giraffes in their place, without perpetual references to God. Could the materialists not so far control their rhetorical and romantic sentimentalism as to do it without perpetual reference to Nature? Shall we make a bargain; that we will for the moment leave out our theology, if they will leave out their mythology?
Miti e metafore
Miti e metafore
di G. K. Chesterton
Originariamente pubblicato su The Illustrated London News, 26 gennaio 1929.
(Fonte: G. K. Chesterton, Collected Works, Volume XXXV, The Illustrated London News 1929-1931, Ignatius Press, San Francisco, 1991. Pagine 29-33.)
Ciò che oso criticare in certi uomini, che alcuni chiamano scienziati e io chiamo materialisti, è il loro perpetuo uso della Mitologia. Metà di ciò che dicono è tanto vero da essere banale; l’altra metà di ciò che dicono è tanto falsa da essere trasparente. Ma entrambe le loro ovvietà e le loro impunture le ammantano con un’elaborata sfilata di immagini leggendarie e allegoriche. Ho letto questo in certe osservazioni sul darwinismo di uno degli ultimi darwiniani superstiti: “Tra gli individui di ogni specie si svolge, come Malthus aveva capito, una competizione di lotta per i mezzi di vita, e la Natura seleziona gli individui che variano nella direzione di maggiore successo.” Ora, quando gli uomini delle antiche religioni dicevano che Dio scelse un popolo e suscitò un profeta, almeno intendevano qualcosa; e intendevano ciò che dicevano. Intendevano che un essere dotato di mente e di volontà li usava in un atto di selezione. Ma chi è la Natura, e come fa lei, o lui, o esso, a selezionare qualcosa o qualcuno? Tutto ciò che lo scrittore ha realmente da dire è che alcuni individui emergono mentre altri individui vengono estinti. Non c’era certo bisogno di Darwin o dei darwiniani per dircelo. Ma la Natura che seleziona quelli che variano nella direzione di maggiore successo non significa assolutamente nulla, tranne che chi ha successo ha successo. Ma questo truismo tautologico è avvolto in nubi di mitologia, con l’introduzione di un essere mitico che perfino lo scrittore considera un mito. Il lettore deve restare impressionato e ingannato dalla visione di una vasta dea di pietra assisa su un trono montano, che addita una particolare rana o coniglio dicendo, con tono di tuono, che questa sola deve sopravvivere. Tutto ciò che sappiamo è che sopravvive (per il momento), e poi ci vantiamo di essere capaci di ripetere il mero fatto che sopravvive in una cinquantina di espressioni variopinte e fiorite: come che ha valore di sopravvivenza; o che è naturalmente selezionata per la sopravvivenza; o che sopravvive perché è la più adatta alla sopravvivenza; o che la grande legge della Natura della sopravvivenza del più adatto le comanda severamente di sopravvivere. I critici della religione solevano dire che i suoi misteri erano buffonate; ma queste cose sono nel senso speciale e reale delle buffonate. Sono cose offerte a una congregazione credula da sacerdoti che le sanno buffonate. È impossibile provare che il sacerdote sappia che non c’è dio nel sacrario, o nessuna verità nell’oracolo. Ma sappiamo che il materialista sa che non esiste alcuna cosa simile a una grande e schizzinosa signora, chiamata Natura, che punta un dito verso una rana.
Il caso particolare in cui questa metafora mitologica fu usata è naturalmente un’altra faccenda. È, invero, una faccenda che ha coinvolto in varie epoche una gran quantità di questo elemento di mitologia materialista. Per vedere quale verità vi fosse davvero dentro dovremmo risalire al vecchio dibattito darwiniano; cosa che non ho la minima intenzione di fare qui. Ma posso osservare, di passaggio, che questa nozione della Natura che seleziona le cose è specialmente incompatibile con tutto ciò che si può davvero dire a favore della loro stessa tesi; e che il nome stesso di selezione naturale è un nome quanto mai innaturale per essa. Poiché la loro intera tesi è che tutto è accaduto, nell’ordinario senso umano, per caso. Dovremmo piuttosto chiamarla coincidenza; e alcuni di noi la chiamano una coincidenza del tutto incredibile. Ma, comunque sia, l’intera tesi a suo favore è che un quadrupede si trovò ad avere un collo lungo, e si trovò a vivere in un momento in cui era necessario raggiungere un albero o un arbusto più alto. Se questi accadimenti si danno a caso un centinaio di volte di seguito, esattamente allo stesso modo, con quel processo si può trasformare qualche sorta di pecora o capra in una giraffa. Se ciò sia probabile o no è un’altra questione. Ma l’intero argomento darwiniano è che NON è un caso di Natura che seleziona, più di quanto sia un caso di Dio che seleziona, o di chiunque altro che seleziona, ma un caso di cose che capitano in quel modo. Siamo prontissimi a discutere di alberi e giraffe al posto loro, senza perpetui riferimenti a Dio. Non potrebbero i materialisti controllare almeno un poco il loro sentimentalismo retorico e romantico da farlo senza perpetui riferimenti alla Natura? Facciamo un patto: che noi per il momento tralasceremo la nostra teologia, se essi tralasceranno la loro mitologia?
But the mythological habit is not entirely and exclusively confined to men of science, or even to materialists. This sort of mythology is rather generally scattered over the modern world. The popular form of the mythological is the metaphorical. Certain figures of speech are fixed in the modern mind, exactly as the fables of the gods and nymphs were fixed in the mind of pagan antiquity. It is astonishing to note how often, when we address a man with anything resembling an idea, he answers with some recognised metaphor, supposed to be appropriate to the case. If you say to him, “I myself prefer the principle of the Guild to the principle of the Trust,” he will not answer you by talking about principles. He can be counted on to say: “You can’t put the clock back,” with all the regularity of a ticking clock. This is a very extreme example of the mental breakdown that goes with a relapse into metaphor. For the man is actually understanding his own case out of sheer love of metaphor. It may be that you cannot put time back, but you can put the clock back. He would be in a stronger position if he talked about the abstraction called time; but an all-devouring appetite for figurative language forces him to talk abut clocks. Of course the real question raised has nothing to do with either clocks or time. It is the question of whether certain abstract principles, which may or may not have been observed in the past, ought to be observed in future. But the point is here that even the man who means that we cannot reconstruct the past can hardly ever reconstruct his own sentence in any other form except this figurative form. Without his myth, or his metaphor, he is lost.
Another mass of metaphors is drawn from the phenomena of morning, or the fact that the sun rises; or, rather (I grovel in apology to the man of science), appears to rise. It is a perfectly natural metaphor for poets; or indeed, for all men, in that aspect in which all men are mystics. That there is mystery in these natural things, which the imagination understands more subtly than the reason, is true enough. Nor have I any contempt even for mythology considered mythology. But when we want to know what somebody wants to do, when we ask a free-thinker what he thinks, and why he thinks it, it is a little tiresome to be told that he is waiting for the Dawn, or engaged at the moment in singing Songs Before Sunrise. [Footnote 1] One is tempted to retort that Dawn is not always an entirely cheerful thing, even for those who have exercised their free thought upon the conventional tradition of their own society. There is such a thing as being shot at Dawn.
I do not mean for a moment, of course, that we should do without myths and metaphors altogether. I am constantly using them myself, and shall continue to do so. But I think we ought all to be on guard against depending on them as a substitute for reason. Perhaps it would be well to have a Fast Day, on which we undertook to abstain from everything but abstract terms, Let us all agree that every Friday we will do without metaphors as without meat. I am sure it would be good for the intellectual digestion.
Footnote 1: This is the title of a collection of Swinburne’s poems (1871) with a strongly political cast.
= End =
Ma l’abitudine mitologica non è interamente ed esclusivamente confinata agli uomini di scienza, e nemmeno ai materialisti. Questa sorta di mitologia è piuttosto diffusa in generale nel mondo moderno. La forma popolare del mitologico è il metaforico. Certe figure retoriche sono fissate nella mente moderna, esattamente come le favole degli dèi e delle ninfe erano fissate nella mente dell’antichità pagana. È stupefacente notare quanto spesso, quando ci rivolgiamo a un uomo con qualcosa che somigli a un’idea, egli risponda con qualche metafora consacrata, che si suppone appropriata al caso. Se gli dite: “Io stesso preferisco il principio della Corporazione al principio del Trust,” non vi risponderà parlando di principii. Si può contare sul fatto che dirà: “Non si può riportare indietro l’orologio,” con tutta la regolarità di un orologio che ticchetta. Questo è un esempio molto estremo del crollo mentale che accompagna una ricaduta nella metafora. Poiché l’uomo sta effettivamente comprendendo il proprio caso per puro amore della metafora. Può darsi che non si possa riportare indietro il tempo, ma si può riportare indietro l’orologio. Sarebbe in una posizione più solida se parlasse dell’astrazione chiamata tempo; ma un appetito onnivoro per il linguaggio figurato lo costringe a parlare di orologi. Naturalmente la vera questione sollevata non ha nulla a che fare né con gli orologi né con il tempo. È la questione se certi principii astratti, che possono o meno essere stati osservati in passato, debbano essere osservati in futuro. Ma il punto è qui: che perfino l’uomo che intende dire che non possiamo ricostruire il passato non riesce quasi mai a ricostruire la propria frase in altra forma se non in questa forma figurata. Senza il suo mito, o la sua metafora, è perduto.
Un’altra massa di metafore è tratta dai fenomeni del mattino, o dal fatto che il sole sorge; o, piuttosto (mi prostro chiedendo scusa all’uomo di scienza), sembra sorgere. È una metafora perfettamente naturale per i poeti; o invero per tutti gli uomini, in quell’aspetto in cui tutti gli uomini sono mistici. Che vi sia mistero in queste cose naturali, che l’ immaginazione comprende più sottilmente della ragione, è abbastanza vero. Né provo alcun disprezzo neppure per la mitologia considerata come mitologia. Ma quando vogliamo sapere ciò che qualcuno vuole fare, quando chiediamo a un libero pensatore cosa pensa, e perché lo pensa, è un po’ fastidioso sentirsi dire che sta aspettando l’Alba, o che è al momento intento a cantare Songs Before Sunrise. [Nota 1] Si è tentati di ribattere che l’alba non è sempre una cosa del tutto lieta, anche per coloro che hanno esercitato il loro libero pensiero sulla tradizione convenzionale della propria società. Esiste una cosa come l’essere fucilati all’alba.
Non intendo affatto, si capisce, che dovremmo fare a meno del tutto di miti e metafore. Io stesso li uso di continuo, e continuerò a farlo. Ma penso che dovremmo tutti stare in guardia dal dipendere da essi come sostituto della ragione. Forse sarebbe bene istituire un Giorno di Digiuno, in cui ci impegnassimo ad astenerci da tutto tranne che dai termini astratti. Mettiamoci tutti d’accordo che ogni venerdì faremo a meno delle metafore come della carne. Sono certo che gioverebbe alla digestione intellettuale.
Nota 1: Questo è il titolo di una raccolta di poesie di Swinburne (1871) di forte impronta politica.
= Fine =