Roots of the World
The Roots of the World
G.K. Chesterton
[In Chesterton’s journalism, he was fond of using parables as a way of teaching moral truths. The following uncollected Chesterton piece was originally published in The Daily News (August 17, 1907) as one of his famous Saturday columns in that newspaper.]
Once upon a time a little boy lived in a garden in which he was permitted to pick the flowers but forbidden to pull them up by the roots. There was, however, one particular plant, insignificant, somewhat thorny, with a small, star-like flower, which he very much wanted to pull up by the roots. His tutors and guardians, who lived in the house with him, were worthy, formal people, and they gave him reasons why he should not pull it up. They were silly reasons as a rule. But none of the reasons against doing the thing were quite so silly as the little boy’s reason for wanting to do it; for his reason was that Truth demanded that he should pull the thing up by the roots to see how it was growing. Still it was a sleepy, thoughtless kind of house, and nobody gave him the real answer to his argument, which was that it would kill the plant, and that there is no more Truth about a dead plant than about a live one. So one dark night, when clouds sealed the moon like a secret too good or too bad to be told, the little boy came down the old creaking stairs of his farmhouse and crept into the garden in his nightgown. He told himself repeatedly that there was no more reason against his pulling this plant off the garden than against his knocking off a thistle top idly in a lane. Yet the darkness which he had chosen contradicted him, and also his own throbbing pulse, for he told himself continually that next morning he might be crucified as the blasphemer who had tom up the sacred tree.
Perhaps he might have been so crucified if he had so torn it up. I cannot say. But he did not tear it up; and it was not for want of trying. For when he laid hold of the little plant in the garden he tugged and tugged, and found the thing held as if clamped to the earth with iron. And when he strained himself a third time there came a frightful noise behind him, and either nerves or (which he would have denied) conscience made him leap back and stagger and stare around. The house he lived in was a mere bulk of blackness against a sky almost as black. Yet after staring long he saw that the very outline had grown unfamiliar, for the great chimney of the kitchen had fallen crooked and calamitous. Desperately he gave another pull at the plant, and heard far off the roof of the stables fall in and the horses shriek and plunge. Then he ran into the house and rolled himself in the bedclothes. Next morning found the kitchen ruined, the day’s food destroyed, two horses dead, and three broken loose and lost. But the boy still kept a furious curiosity, and a little while after, when a fog from the sea had hidden home and garden, he dragged again at the roots of the indestructible plant. He hung on to it like a boy on the rope of a tug of war, but it did not give. Only through the grey sea-fog came choking and panic-stricken cries; they cried that the King’s castle had fallen, that the towers guarding the coast were gone; that half the great sea-city had split away and slid into the sea. Then the boy was frightened for a little while, and said no more about the plant, but when he had come to a strong and careless manhood, and the destruction in the district had been slowly repaired, he said openly before the people, “Let us have done with the riddle of this irrational weed. In the name of Truth let us drag it up.” And he gathered a great company of strong men, like an army to meet invaders, and they all laid hold of the little plant and they tugged night and day. And the Great Wall fell down in China for forty miles. And the Pyramids were split up into jagged stones. And the Eiffel Tower in Paris went over like a ninepin, killing half the Parisians; and the Statue of Liberty in New York harbour fell forward suddenly and smashed the American fleet; and St. Paul’s Cathedral killed all the journalists in Fleetstreet, and Japan had a record series of earthquakes and then sank into the sea. Some have declared that these last two incidents were not calamities properly so called; but into that I will not enter. The point, was that when they had tugged for about twenty-four hours the strong men of that country had pulled down about half of the civilized world, but had not pulled up the plant. I will not weary the reader with the full facts of this realistic story, with how they used first elephants and then steam engines to tear up the flower, and how the only result was that the flower stuck fast, but that the moon began to be agitated and even the sun was a bit dicky. At last the human race interfered, as it always does at last, by means of a revolution. But long before that the boy, or man, who is the hero of this tale had thrown up the business, merely saying to his pastors and masters, “You gave me a number of elaborate and idle reasons why I should not pull up this shrub. Why did you not give me the two good reasons: first, that I can’t; second, that I should damage everything else if I even tried it on?”
All those who have sought in the name of science to uproot religion seem to me very like the little boy in the garden. Skeptics do not succeed in pulling up the roots of Christianity; but they do succeed in pulling up the roots of every man’s ordinary vine and fig tree, of every man’s garden and every man’s kitchen garden. Secularists have not succeeded in wrecking divine things; but Secularists have succeeded in wrecking secular things. A religion cannot be shown to be monstrous at the last; a religion is monstrous from the beginning. It announces itself as extraordinary. It offers itself as extravagant. The sceptics at the most can only ask us to reject our creed as something wild. And we have accepted it as something wild. So far one would think there would be a mere impasse, a block between us and those who cannot feel as we do. But then follows the curious practical experience which has ratified religion in our reason for ever. For the enemies of religion cannot leave it alone. They laboriously attempt to smash religion. They cannot smash religion; but they do smash everything else. With your queries and dilemmas you have made no havoc in faith,: from the first it was a transcendental conviction; it cannot be made any more transcendental than it was. But you have (if that is any comfort to you) made a certain havoc in common morals and common sense.
The opponents of our religion do not commit us to accepting their axioms; our axioms remain what they were before; but they do commit themselves to every doctrine of insanity and despair. They do not hit us, but they do plunge past us into the marsh and the abyss. Mr. Blatchford cannot commit us to the comment that man is not the image of his maker for that statement is as dogmatic as its denial. But he can and does commit himself to the statement, humanly ludicrous and intolerable, that I must not blame a bully or praise the man who knocks him down. Evolutionists cannot drive us, because of the nameless gradation in Nature, to deny the personality of God, for a personal God might as well work by gradations as in any other way; but they do drive themselves, through those gradations, to deny the existence of a personal Mr. Jones, because he is within the scope of evolution and his edges are rubbed away. The evolutionists uproot the world, but not the flowers. The Titans never scaled heaven, but they laid waste the earth.
Roots of the World
The Roots of the World
G.K. Chesterton
[In Chesterton’s journalism, he was fond of using parables as a way of teaching moral truths. The following uncollected Chesterton piece was originally published in The Daily News (August 17, 1907) as one of his famous Saturday columns in that newspaper.]
Once upon a time a little boy lived in a garden in which he was permitted to pick the flowers but forbidden to pull them up by the roots. There was, however, one particular plant, insignificant, somewhat thorny, with a small, star-like flower, which he very much wanted to pull up by the roots. His tutors and guardians, who lived in the house with him, were worthy, formal people, and they gave him reasons why he should not pull it up. They were silly reasons as a rule. But none of the reasons against doing the thing were quite so silly as the little boy’s reason for wanting to do it; for his reason was that Truth demanded that he should pull the thing up by the roots to see how it was growing. Still it was a sleepy, thoughtless kind of house, and nobody gave him the real answer to his argument, which was that it would kill the plant, and that there is no more Truth about a dead plant than about a live one. So one dark night, when clouds sealed the moon like a secret too good or too bad to be told, the little boy came down the old creaking stairs of his farmhouse and crept into the garden in his nightgown. He told himself repeatedly that there was no more reason against his pulling this plant off the garden than against his knocking off a thistle top idly in a lane. Yet the darkness which he had chosen contradicted him, and also his own throbbing pulse, for he told himself continually that next morning he might be crucified as the blasphemer who had tom up the sacred tree.
Perhaps he might have been so crucified if he had so torn it up. I cannot say. But he did not tear it up; and it was not for want of trying. For when he laid hold of the little plant in the garden he tugged and tugged, and found the thing held as if clamped to the earth with iron. And when he strained himself a third time there came a frightful noise behind him, and either nerves or (which he would have denied) conscience made him leap back and stagger and stare around. The house he lived in was a mere bulk of blackness against a sky almost as black. Yet after staring long he saw that the very outline had grown unfamiliar, for the great chimney of the kitchen had fallen crooked and calamitous. Desperately he gave another pull at the plant, and heard far off the roof of the stables fall in and the horses shriek and plunge. Then he ran into the house and rolled himself in the bedclothes. Next morning found the kitchen ruined, the day’s food destroyed, two horses dead, and three broken loose and lost. But the boy still kept a furious curiosity, and a little while after, when a fog from the sea had hidden home and garden, he dragged again at the roots of the indestructible plant. He hung on to it like a boy on the rope of a tug of war, but it did not give. Only through the grey sea-fog came choking and panic-stricken cries; they cried that the King’s castle had fallen, that the towers guarding the coast were gone; that half the great sea-city had split away and slid into the sea. Then the boy was frightened for a little while, and said no more about the plant, but when he had come to a strong and careless manhood, and the destruction in the district had been slowly repaired, he said openly before the people, “Let us have done with the riddle of this irrational weed. In the name of Truth let us drag it up.” And he gathered a great company of strong men, like an army to meet invaders, and they all laid hold of the little plant and they tugged night and day. And the Great Wall fell down in China for forty miles. And the Pyramids were split up into jagged stones. And the Eiffel Tower in Paris went over like a ninepin, killing half the Parisians; and the Statue of Liberty in New York harbour fell forward suddenly and smashed the American fleet; and St. Paul’s Cathedral killed all the journalists in Fleetstreet, and Japan had a record series of earthquakes and then sank into the sea. Some have declared that these last two incidents were not calamities properly so called; but into that I will not enter. The point, was that when they had tugged for about twenty-four hours the strong men of that country had pulled down about half of the civilized world, but had not pulled up the plant. I will not weary the reader with the full facts of this realistic story, with how they used first elephants and then steam engines to tear up the flower, and how the only result was that the flower stuck fast, but that the moon began to be agitated and even the sun was a bit dicky. At last the human race interfered, as it always does at last, by means of a revolution. But long before that the boy, or man, who is the hero of this tale had thrown up the business, merely saying to his pastors and masters, “You gave me a number of elaborate and idle reasons why I should not pull up this shrub. Why did you not give me the two good reasons: first, that I can’t; second, that I should damage everything else if I even tried it on?”
Le radici del mondo
Le radici del mondo
G.K. Chesterton
[Nel suo giornalismo, Chesterton amava servirsi delle parabole come mezzo per insegnare verità morali. Il seguente pezzo chestertoniano, mai raccolto in volume, fu pubblicato originariamente nel The Daily News (17 agosto 1907) come una delle sue celebri rubriche del sabato in quel giornale.]
Una volta, in un tempo remoto, un bambino viveva in un giardino nel quale gli era concesso di cogliere i fiori ma proibito di strapparli con le radici. C’era però una pianta particolare, insignificante, alquanto spinosa, con un piccolo fiore a forma di stella, che egli desiderava moltissimo strappare con le radici. I suoi precettori e tutori, che abitavano con lui nella casa, erano gente dabbene e formale, e gli davano ragioni per cui non doveva strapparla. Erano, di regola, ragioni sciocche. Ma nessuna delle ragioni contro il compiere quell’atto era così sciocca quanto la ragione del bambino per volerlo compiere; poiché la sua ragione era che la verità esigeva che egli strappasse la cosa con le radici per vedere come cresceva. Eppure era una casa sonnolenta e sventata, e nessuno gli diede la vera risposta al suo argomento, ossia che ciò avrebbe ucciso la pianta, e che non c’è più verità in una pianta morta che in una viva. Così una buia notte, quando le nubi sigillavano la luna come un segreto troppo bello o troppo brutto per essere detto, il bambino scese le vecchie scale scricchiolanti della sua fattoria e sgusciò nel giardino in camicia da notte. Si ripeteva di continuo che non c’era più ragione contro lo strappare quella pianta dal giardino di quanta ce ne fosse contro il decapitare oziosamente un cardo in un viottolo. Eppure le tenebre che aveva scelto lo contraddicevano, e così pure il suo pulsare affannoso, poiché si diceva di continuo che l’indomani mattina avrebbe potuto essere crocifisso come il bestemmiatore che aveva divelto l’albero sacro.
Forse sarebbe stato davvero crocifisso, se l’avesse così divelto. Non saprei dire. Ma non lo divelse; e non fu per mancanza di tentativi. Poiché quando afferrò la piccola pianta nel giardino tirò e tirò, e trovò che la cosa resisteva come se fosse serrata alla terra con il ferro. E quando si sforzò una terza volta si levò dietro di lui un rumore spaventoso, e i nervi o (cosa che egli avrebbe negato) la coscienza lo fecero balzare indietro, barcollare e guardarsi intorno. La casa in cui viveva non era che una mole di nerezza contro un cielo quasi altrettanto nero. Eppure, dopo aver fissato a lungo, vide che perfino il profilo era divenuto irriconoscibile, poiché il grande camino della cucina era crollato storto e rovinoso. Disperato, diede un altro strattone alla pianta, e udì lontano il tetto delle stalle sfondarsi e i cavalli nitrire e impennarsi. Allora corse nella casa e si avvolse nelle coltri. L’indomani mattina trovò la cucina in rovina, il cibo del giorno distrutto, due cavalli morti, e tre sciolti e perduti. Ma il bambino conservava ancora una furiosa curiosità, e poco tempo dopo, quando una nebbia venuta dal mare ebbe nascosto casa e giardino, trascinò di nuovo le radici dell’indistruttibile pianta. Vi si aggrappò come un ragazzo alla fune di un tiro alla fune, ma essa non cedette. Solo, attraverso la grigia nebbia marina, giunsero grida soffocate e prese dal panico; gridavano che il castello del re era caduto, che le torri a guardia della costa non c’erano più; che metà della grande città marina si era staccata ed era scivolata in mare. Allora il bambino ebbe paura per un poco, e non parlò più della pianta, ma quando fu giunto a una virilità forte e noncurante, e la distruzione del distretto era stata lentamente riparata, disse apertamente davanti alla gente: «Facciamola finita con l’enigma di questa irrazionale erbaccia. Nel nome della verità, strappiamola su.» E radunò una grande compagnia di uomini forti, come un esercito per affrontare gli invasori, e tutti afferrarono la piccola pianta e tirarono notte e giorno. E la Grande Muraglia in Cina crollò per quaranta miglia. E le Piramidi furono spaccate in pietre frastagliate. E la Torre Eiffel a Parigi cadde come un birillo, uccidendo metà dei parigini; e la Statua della Libertà nel porto di New York cadde in avanti all’improvviso e fracassò la flotta americana; e la cattedrale di San Paolo uccise tutti i giornalisti di Fleet Street, e il Giappone ebbe una serie da primato di terremoti e poi sprofondò in mare. Alcuni hanno dichiarato che questi ultimi due episodi non erano propriamente calamità; ma in ciò non entrerò. Il punto è che, quando ebbero tirato per circa ventiquattr’ore, gli uomini forti di quel paese avevano abbattuto circa metà del mondo civile, ma non avevano estirpato la pianta. Non stancherò il lettore con tutti i fatti di questa storia realistica, con il come usarono prima elefanti e poi macchine a vapore per divellere il fiore, e come l’unico risultato fu che il fiore rimase saldo, ma la luna cominciò ad agitarsi e perfino il sole fu un po’ malfermo. Alla fine il genere umano intervenne, come sempre fa alla fine, per mezzo di una rivoluzione. Ma molto prima di ciò il bambino, o l’uomo, che è l’eroe di questo racconto aveva gettato la spugna, dicendo soltanto ai suoi pastori e maestri: «Mi avete dato una serie di ragioni elaborate e oziose per cui non dovevo strappare questo arbusto. Perché non mi avete dato le due buone ragioni: primo, che non posso; secondo, che danneggerei tutto il resto anche solo a provarci?»
All those who have sought in the name of science to uproot religion seem to me very like the little boy in the garden. Skeptics do not succeed in pulling up the roots of Christianity; but they do succeed in pulling up the roots of every man’s ordinary vine and fig tree, of every man’s garden and every man’s kitchen garden. Secularists have not succeeded in wrecking divine things; but Secularists have succeeded in wrecking secular things. A religion cannot be shown to be monstrous at the last; a religion is monstrous from the beginning. It announces itself as extraordinary. It offers itself as extravagant. The sceptics at the most can only ask us to reject our creed as something wild. And we have accepted it as something wild. So far one would think there would be a mere impasse, a block between us and those who cannot feel as we do. But then follows the curious practical experience which has ratified religion in our reason for ever. For the enemies of religion cannot leave it alone. They laboriously attempt to smash religion. They cannot smash religion; but they do smash everything else. With your queries and dilemmas you have made no havoc in faith,: from the first it was a transcendental conviction; it cannot be made any more transcendental than it was. But you have (if that is any comfort to you) made a certain havoc in common morals and common sense.
The opponents of our religion do not commit us to accepting their axioms; our axioms remain what they were before; but they do commit themselves to every doctrine of insanity and despair. They do not hit us, but they do plunge past us into the marsh and the abyss. Mr. Blatchford cannot commit us to the comment that man is not the image of his maker for that statement is as dogmatic as its denial. But he can and does commit himself to the statement, humanly ludicrous and intolerable, that I must not blame a bully or praise the man who knocks him down. Evolutionists cannot drive us, because of the nameless gradation in Nature, to deny the personality of God, for a personal God might as well work by gradations as in any other way; but they do drive themselves, through those gradations, to deny the existence of a personal Mr. Jones, because he is within the scope of evolution and his edges are rubbed away. The evolutionists uproot the world, but not the flowers. The Titans never scaled heaven, but they laid waste the earth.
Tutti coloro che hanno cercato, in nome della scienza, di sradicare la religione mi paiono molto simili al fanciullo nel giardino. Gli scettici non riescono a strappare le radici del Cristianesimo; ma riescono a strappare le radici della comune vite e del fico d’ogni uomo, del giardino d’ogni uomo e dell’orto d’ogni uomo. I secolaristi non sono riusciti a demolire le cose divine; ma i secolaristi sono riusciti a demolire le cose secolari. Una religione non può essere dimostrata mostruosa alla fine; una religione è mostruosa fin dall’inizio. Si annuncia come straordinaria. Si offre come stravagante. Gli scettici, al più, non possono che chiederci di rigettare il nostro credo come qualcosa di folle. E noi l’abbiamo accettato come qualcosa di folle. Fin qui si penserebbe che ci sarebbe un mero vicolo cieco, un blocco tra noi e coloro che non sanno sentire come noi. Ma poi segue la curiosa esperienza pratica che ha ratificato la religione nella nostra ragione per sempre. Perché i nemici della religione non possono lasciarla in pace. Si affannano a fracassare la religione. Non possono fracassare la religione; ma fracassano tutto il resto. Con i vostri quesiti e dilemmi non avete fatto scempio nella Fede,: essa fu, fin dal principio, una convinzione trascendentale; non può essere resa più trascendentale di quanto già fosse. Ma avete (se questo può esservi di conforto) fatto un certo scempio nella comune morale e nel comune buon senso.
Gli avversari della nostra religione non ci obbligano ad accettare i loro assiomi; i nostri assiomi restano quel che erano prima; ma essi obbligano se stessi a ogni dottrina di follia e di disperazione. Non colpiscono noi, ma precipitano oltre noi nella palude e nell’abisso. Il signor Blatchford non può obbligarci al commento che l’uomo non è l’immagine del suo creatore, poiché tale affermazione è tanto dogmatica quanto la sua negazione. Ma può, e si obbliga, all’affermazione, umanamente ridicola e intollerabile, che io non debba biasimare un prepotente né lodare l’uomo che lo atterra. Gli evoluzionisti non possono spingerci, per via dell’innominata gradazione nella Natura, a negare la personalità di Dio, poiché un Dio personale potrebbe ben operare per gradazioni come in ogni altro modo; ma spingono se stessi, attraverso quelle gradazioni, a negare l’esistenza di un personale signor Jones, perché egli è entro la portata dell’evoluzione e i suoi contorni si sfumano. Gli evoluzionisti sradicano il mondo, ma non i fiori. I Titani non scalarono mai il cielo, ma devastarono la terra.