Concerning a Strange City
G. K. Chesterton
From The Common Man (Originally in The New Witness, 11-25-21)
Everyone has his own private and almost secret selection among the examples of the mysterious power of words, the power which a certain verbal combination has over the emotions and even the soul. It is commonplace that literature has a charm, not merely in the sense of the charm of a woman, but of the charms of a witch. Historical scholars question how the ignorant imagination of the Dark Ages distorted the poet Virgil into a magician. One answer to the question, possibly, is that he was one. Theologians and philosophers debate about the inspiration of scripture, but perhaps the most philosophical argument, for saying that certain scriptural sayings are inspired, is simply that they sound like it. The great lines of the poets are like landscapes or visions, but the same strange light can be found not only in the high places of poetry but also in quite obscure corners of prose.
I can only express what I mean by saying that it is the finite part of the image that really suggests infinity. Most worthy and serious people, instead of saying the spiritual place, would say the spiritual world. Some dismal and disgusting people, instead of saying the spiritual place, would say the spiritual plane. The immediate chill and disenchantment of this change is due to a vague but vivid sense that the spiritual thing has become less real. A world sounds like an astronomical diagram, and a plane sounds like a geometrical diagram. Both of these are abstractions, but a place is not an abstraction, but a reality. The spiritual thrill is all in the idea that the place is a place, however spiritual, that it is some strange city where the sky touches the earth, or where eternity contrives to live on: the borderland of time and space.
In the mind of man, if not in the nature of things, there seems to be some connection between concentration and reality. When we want to ask, in natural language, whether a thing really exists or not, we ask if it is really “there” or not. We say “there”, even if we do not clearly understand where. A man cannot enter a house by five doors at once; he might do it if he were in an atmosphere. But he does not want to be in an atmosphere. He has a stubborn sub-conscious belief that an animal is greater than an atmosphere. As a thing rises in the scale of things, it tends to localize and even narrow its natural functions. A man cannot absorb his sustenance through all his pores like a sponge or some low sea-organisms; he cannot take in an atmosphere of beef, or an abstract essence of buns. Any buns thrown at him, as at the bear at the zoo, must be projected with such skill as to hit a particular hole in his head. In nature, in a sense, there is choice even before there is will . The plant or bulb narrows itself and pierces at one place rather than at another and all growth is a pattern of such green wedges. But however it be with these lower things, there has always been this spearlike selection and concentration in man¹s conception of higher things. Compared with that, there is something not only vague but vulgar in most of the talk about infinity. The pantheist is right up to a certain point, but so is the sponge.
Both vitally and verbally, this infinity is the enemy of all that is fine. Such philological points are sometimes more than pedantries or mere puns. And it is more than a pedantic pun to say that most things that are fine are finite. We testify to it when we talk of a beautiful thing having refinement or having finish. It is brought to an end like the blade of a beautiful sword, not only to its end in the sense of its cessation but to its end in the sense of its aim. All fine things are in this sense finished, even when they are eternal.
Poetry is committed to this concentration fully as much as religion: fairyland has always been as local, one might say as parochial, as Heaven. And if religion were removed tomorrow the poets would only begin to act as the pagans acted. They would begin to say “Lo, here”, and “Lo, there”, from the incurable itch of the idea that something must be somewhere, and not merely anywhere. Even if it were in some sense found to be in everything, it would still be in everything and not merely in all.
Concerning a Strange City
G. K. Chesterton
From The Common Man (Originally in The New Witness, 11-25-21)
Everyone has his own private and almost secret selection among the examples of the mysterious power of words, the power which a certain verbal combination has over the emotions and even the soul. It is commonplace that literature has a charm, not merely in the sense of the charm of a woman, but of the charms of a witch. Historical scholars question how the ignorant imagination of the Dark Ages distorted the poet Virgil into a magician. One answer to the question, possibly, is that he was one. Theologians and philosophers debate about the inspiration of scripture, but perhaps the most philosophical argument, for saying that certain scriptural sayings are inspired, is simply that they sound like it. The great lines of the poets are like landscapes or visions, but the same strange light can be found not only in the high places of poetry but also in quite obscure corners of prose.
I can only express what I mean by saying that it is the finite part of the image that really suggests infinity. Most worthy and serious people, instead of saying the spiritual place, would say the spiritual world. Some dismal and disgusting people, instead of saying the spiritual place, would say the spiritual plane. The immediate chill and disenchantment of this change is due to a vague but vivid sense that the spiritual thing has become less real. A world sounds like an astronomical diagram, and a plane sounds like a geometrical diagram. Both of these are abstractions, but a place is not an abstraction, but a reality. The spiritual thrill is all in the idea that the place is a place, however spiritual, that it is some strange city where the sky touches the earth, or where eternity contrives to live on: the borderland of time and space.
In the mind of man, if not in the nature of things, there seems to be some connection between concentration and reality. When we want to ask, in natural language, whether a thing really exists or not, we ask if it is really “there” or not. We say “there”, even if we do not clearly understand where. A man cannot enter a house by five doors at once; he might do it if he were in an atmosphere. But he does not want to be in an atmosphere. He has a stubborn sub-conscious belief that an animal is greater than an atmosphere. As a thing rises in the scale of things, it tends to localize and even narrow its natural functions. A man cannot absorb his sustenance through all his pores like a sponge or some low sea-organisms; he cannot take in an atmosphere of beef, or an abstract essence of buns. Any buns thrown at him, as at the bear at the zoo, must be projected with such skill as to hit a particular hole in his head. In nature, in a sense, there is choice even before there is will . The plant or bulb narrows itself and pierces at one place rather than at another and all growth is a pattern of such green wedges. But however it be with these lower things, there has always been this spearlike selection and concentration in man¹s conception of higher things. Compared with that, there is something not only vague but vulgar in most of the talk about infinity. The pantheist is right up to a certain point, but so is the sponge.
Both vitally and verbally, this infinity is the enemy of all that is fine. Such philological points are sometimes more than pedantries or mere puns. And it is more than a pedantic pun to say that most things that are fine are finite. We testify to it when we talk of a beautiful thing having refinement or having finish. It is brought to an end like the blade of a beautiful sword, not only to its end in the sense of its cessation but to its end in the sense of its aim. All fine things are in this sense finished, even when they are eternal.
Poetry is committed to this concentration fully as much as religion: fairyland has always been as local, one might say as parochial, as Heaven. And if religion were removed tomorrow the poets would only begin to act as the pagans acted. They would begin to say “Lo, here”, and “Lo, there”, from the incurable itch of the idea that something must be somewhere, and not merely anywhere. Even if it were in some sense found to be in everything, it would still be in everything and not merely in all.
Su una Strana Città
G. K. Chesterton
Da The Common Man (Originariamente in The New Witness, 25-11-21)
Ognuno ha la propria selezione privata e quasi segreta tra gli esempi del misterioso potere delle parole, il potere che una certa combinazione verbale esercita sulle emozioni e persino sull’anima. È luogo comune che la letteratura possieda un incanto, non soltanto nel senso dell’incanto di una donna, ma degli incantesimi di una strega. Gli studiosi di storia si domandano come l’ignorante immaginazione dei Secoli Bui abbia deformato il poeta Virgilio in un mago. Una risposta alla domanda, forse, è che lo fosse davvero. Teologi e filosofi dibattono sull’ispirazione delle scritture, ma forse l’argomento più filosofico, per affermare che certi detti scritturali sono ispirati, è semplicemente che ne hanno il suono. I grandi versi dei poeti sono come paesaggi o visioni, ma la stessa strana luce si può trovare non solo negli alti luoghi della poesia, bensì anche in angoli assai oscuri della prosa.
Non so esprimere ciò che intendo se non dicendo che è la parte finita dell’immagine a suggerire davvero l’infinito. Le persone più degne e serie, invece di dire il luogo spirituale, direbbero il mondo spirituale. Certe persone tetre e disgustose, invece di dire il luogo spirituale, direbbero il piano spirituale. L’immediato gelo e disincanto di questo mutamento è dovuto a una vaga ma vivida sensazione che la cosa spirituale sia divenuta meno reale. Un mondo suona come un diagramma astronomico, e un piano suona come un diagramma geometrico. Entrambi sono astrazioni, ma un luogo non è un’astrazione, bensì una realtà. Il brivido spirituale è tutto nell’idea che il luogo sia un luogo, per quanto spirituale, che sia una qualche strana città dove il cielo tocca la terra, o dove l’eternità riesce in qualche modo a sopravvivere: la terra di confine del tempo e dello spazio.
Nella mente dell’uomo, se non nella natura delle cose, pare esservi un qualche legame tra concentrazione e realtà. Quando vogliamo chiedere, nel linguaggio naturale, se una cosa esista davvero oppure no, domandiamo se sia davvero “lì” oppure no. Diciamo “lì”, anche se non comprendiamo chiaramente dove. Un uomo non può entrare in una casa da cinque porte insieme; potrebbe farlo se fosse un’atmosfera. Ma non vuole essere un’atmosfera. Ha una testarda convinzione subconscia che un animale sia più grande di un’atmosfera. Man mano che una cosa sale nella scala degli esseri, tende a localizzare e persino a restringere le sue funzioni naturali. Un uomo non può assorbire il proprio nutrimento attraverso tutti i pori, come una spugna o certi organismi marini inferiori; non può assumere un’atmosfera di manzo, o un’astratta essenza di focacce. Qualsiasi focaccia gli sia gettata, come all’orso allo zoo, dev’essere lanciata con tale abilità da colpire un particolare foro nella sua testa. Nella natura, in un certo senso, c’è scelta ancor prima che vi sia volontà. La pianta o il bulbo si restringe e perfora in un punto piuttosto che in un altro, e ogni crescita è un disegno di simili cunei verdi. Ma comunque stiano le cose con questi esseri inferiori, vi è sempre stata questa selezione e concentrazione simile a una lancia nella concezione umana delle cose superiori. In confronto a ciò, c’è qualcosa non soltanto di vago ma di volgare in gran parte dei discorsi sull’infinito. Il panteista ha ragione fino a un certo punto, ma ce l’ha anche la spugna.
Sia vitalmente sia verbalmente, questo infinito è il nemico di tutto ciò che è fine. Simili punti filologici sono talvolta più che pedanterie o meri giochi di parole. Ed è più di un pedante gioco di parole dire che gran parte delle cose fini sono finite. Ne diamo testimonianza quando parliamo di una cosa bella che ha raffinatezza o rifinitura. Essa è portata a compimento come la lama di una bella spada, non solo al suo fine nel senso della sua cessazione, ma al suo fine nel senso del suo scopo. Tutte le cose fini sono in questo senso finite, anche quando sono eterne.
La poesia è votata a questa concentrazione tanto quanto la religione: il paese delle fate è sempre stato tanto locale, si potrebbe dire tanto parrocchiale, quanto il Cielo. E se la religione fosse rimossa domani, i poeti comincerebbero soltanto ad agire come agivano i pagani. Comincerebbero a dire “Ecco, qui” ed “Ecco, là”, per l’inguaribile prurito dell’idea che qualcosa debba pur essere in qualche luogo, e non semplicemente ovunque. Anche se in un certo senso si scoprisse che è in ogni cosa, sarebbe pur sempre in ogni cosa e non semplicemente in tutto.