orthodoxy-第12章

按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！





also　sank　into　me　and　became　my　sentiment　towards　the　whole　world。　



I　felt　and　feel　that　life　itself　is　as　bright　as　the　diamond；



but　as　brittle　as　the　window…pane；　and　when　the　heavens　were



compared　to　the　terrible　crystal　I　can　remember　a　shudder。　



I　was　afraid　that　God　would　drop　the　cosmos　with　a　crash。







　　　　　Remember；　however；　that　to　be　breakable　is　not　the　same　as　to



be　perishable。　　Strike　a　glass；　and　it　will　not　endure　an　instant；



simply　do　not　strike　it；　and　it　will　endure　a　thousand　years。　



Such；　it　seemed；　was　the　joy　of　man；　either　in　elfland　or　on　earth；



the　happiness　depended　on　NOT　DOING　SOMETHING　which　you　could　at　any



moment　do　and　which；　very　often；　it　was　not　obvious　why　you　should



not　do。　　Now；　the　point　here　is　that　to　ME　this　did　not　seem　unjust。　



If　the　miller's　third　son　said　to　the　fairy；　〃Explain　why　I



must　not　stand　on　my　head　in　the　fairy　palace；〃　the　other　might



fairly　reply；　〃Well；　if　it　comes　to　that；　explain　the　fairy　palace。〃　



If　Cinderella　says；　〃How　is　it　that　I　must　leave　the　ball　at　twelve？〃



her　godmother　might　answer；　〃How　is　it　that　you　are　going　there



till　twelve？〃　　If　I　leave　a　man　in　my　will　ten　talking　elephants



and　a　hundred　winged　horses；　he　cannot　complain　if　the　conditions



partake　of　the　slight　eccentricity　of　the　gift。　　He　must　not　look



a　winged　horse　in　the　mouth。　　And　it　seemed　to　me　that　existence



was　itself　so　very　eccentric　a　legacy　that　I　could　not　complain



of　not　understanding　the　limitations　of　the　vision　when　I　did



not　understand　the　vision　they　limited。　　The　frame　was　no　stranger



than　the　picture。　　The　veto　might　well　be　as　wild　as　the　vision；



it　might　be　as　startling　as　the　sun；　as　elusive　as　the　waters；



as　fantastic　and　terrible　as　the　towering　trees。







　　　　　For　this　reason　（we　may　call　it　the　fairy　godmother　philosophy）



I　never　could　join　the　young　men　of　my　time　in　feeling　what　they



called　the　general　sentiment　of　REVOLT。　　I　should　have　resisted；



let　us　hope；　any　rules　that　were　evil；　and　with　these　and　their



definition　I　shall　deal　in　another　chapter。　　But　I　did　not　feel



disposed　to　resist　any　rule　merely　because　it　was　mysterious。　



Estates　are　sometimes　held　by　foolish　forms；　the　breaking　of　a　stick



or　the　payment　of　a　peppercorn：　　I　was　willing　to　hold　the　huge



estate　of　earth　and　heaven　by　any　such　feudal　fantasy。　　It　could　not



well　be　wilder　than　the　fact　that　I　was　allowed　to　hold　it　at　all。　



At　this　stage　I　give　only　one　ethical　instance　to　show　my　meaning。　



I　could　never　mix　in　the　common　murmur　of　that　rising　generation



against　monogamy；　because　no　restriction　on　sex　seemed　so　odd　and



unexpected　as　sex　itself。　　To　be　allowed；　like　Endymion；　to　make



love　to　the　moon　and　then　to　complain　that　Jupiter　kept　his　own



moons　in　a　harem　seemed　to　me　（bred　on　fairy　tales　like　Endymion's）



a　vulgar　anti…climax。　Keeping　to　one　woman　is　a　small　price　for



so　much　as　seeing　one　woman。　　To　complain　that　I　could　only　be



married　once　was　like　complaining　that　I　had　only　been　born　once。　



It　was　incommensurate　with　the　terrible　excitement　of　which　one



was　talking。　　It　showed；　not　an　exaggerated　sensibility　to　sex；



but　a　curious　insensibility　to　it。　　A　man　is　a　fool　who　complains



that　he　cannot　enter　Eden　by　five　gates　at　once。　　Polygamy　is　a　lack



of　the　realization　of　sex；　it　is　like　a　man　plucking　five　pears



in　mere　absence　of　mind。　　The　aesthetes　touched　the　last　insane



limits　of　language　in　their　eulogy　on　lovely　things。　　The　thistledown



made　them　weep；　a　burnished　beetle　brought　them　to　their　knees。　



Yet　their　emotion　never　impressed　me　for　an　instant；　for　this　reason；



that　it　never　occurred　to　them　to　pay　for　their　pleasure　in　any



sort　of　symbolic　sacrifice。　　Men　（I　felt）　might　fast　forty　days



for　the　sake　of　hearing　a　blackbird　sing。　　Men　might　go　through　fire



to　find　a　cowslip。　　Yet　these　lovers　of　beauty　could　not　even　keep



sober　for　the　blackbird。　　They　would　not　go　through　common　Christian



marriage　by　way　of　recompense　to　the　cowslip。　　Surely　one　might



pay　for　extraordinary　joy　in　ordinary　morals。　　Oscar　Wilde　said



that　sunsets　were　not　valued　because　we　could　not　pay　for　sunsets。　



But　Oscar　Wilde　was　wrong；　we　can　pay　for　sunsets。　　We　can　pay　for　them



by　not　being　Oscar　Wilde。







　　　　　Well；　I　left　the　fairy　tales　lying　on　the　floor　of　the　nursery；



and　I　have　not　found　any　books　so　sensible　since。　　I　left　the



nurse　guardian　of　tradition　and　democracy；　and　I　have　not　found



any　modern　type　so　sanely　radical　or　so　sanely　conservative。　



But　the　matter　for　important　comment　was　here：　　that　when　I



first　went　out　into　the　mental　atmosphere　of　the　modern　world；



I　found　that　the　modern　world　was　positively　opposed　on　two　points



to　my　nurse　and　to　the　nursery　tales。　　It　has　taken　me　a　long　time



to　find　out　that　the　modern　world　is　wrong　and　my　nurse　was　right。　



The　really　curious　thing　was　this：　　that　modern　thought　contradicted



this　basic　creed　of　my　boyhood　on　its　two　most　essential　doctrines。　



I　have　explained　that　the　fairy　tales　founded　in　me　two　convictions；



first；　that　this　world　is　a　wild　and　startling　place；　which　might



have　been　quite　different；　but　which　is　quite　delightful；　second；



that　before　this　wildness　and　delight　one　may　well　be　modest　and



submit　to　the　queerest　limitations　of　so　queer　a　kindness。　　But　I



found　the　whole　modern　world　running　like　a　high　tide　against　both



my　tendernesses；　and　the　shock　of　that　collision　created　two　sudden



and　spontaneous　sentiments；　which　I　have　had　ever　since　and　which；



crude　as　they　were；　have　since　hardened　into　convictions。







　　　　　First；　I　found　the　whole　modern　world　talking　scientific　fatalism；



saying　that　everything　is　as　it　must　always　have　been；　being　unfolded



without　fault　from　the　beginning。　　The　leaf　on　the　tree　is　green



because　it　could　never　have　been　anything　else。　　Now；　the　fairy…tale



philosopher　is　glad　that　the　leaf　is　green　precisely　because　it



might　have　been　scarlet。　　He　feels　as　if　it　had　turned　green　an



instant　before　he　looked　at　it。　　He　is　pleased　that　snow　is　white



on　the　strictly　reasonable　ground　that　it　might　have　been　black。　



Every　colour　has　in　it　a　bold　quality　as　of　choice；　the　red　of　garden



roses　is　not　only　decisive　but　dramatic；　like　suddenly　spilt　blood。　



He　feels　that　something　has　been　DONE。　　But　the　great　determinists



of　the　nineteenth　century　were　strongly　against　this　native



feeling　that　something　had　happened　an　instant　before。　　In　fact；



according　to　them；　nothing　ever　really　had　happened　since　the　beginning



of　the　world。　　Nothing　ever　had　happened　since　existence　had　happened；



and　even　about　the　date　of　that　they　were　not　very　sure。







　　　　　The　modern　world　as　I　found　it　was　solid　for　modern　Calvinism；



for　the　necessity　of　things　being　as　they　are。　　But　when　I　came



to　ask　them　I　found　they　had　really　no　proof　of　this　unavoidable



repetition　in　things　except　the　fact　that　the　things　were　repeated。　



Now；　the　mere　repetition　made　the　things　to　me　rather　more　weird



than　more　rational。　　It　was　as　if；　having　seen　a　curiously　shaped



nose　in　the　street　and　dismissed　it　as　an　accident；　I　had　then



seen　six　other　noses　of　the　same　astonishing　shape。　　I　should　have



fancied　for　a　moment　that　it　must　be　some　local　secret　society。　



So　one　elephant　having　a　trunk　was　odd；　but　all　elephants　having



trunks　looked　like　a　plot。　　I　speak　here　only　of　an　emotion；



and　of　an　emotion　at　once　stubborn　and　subtle。　　But　the　repetition



in　Nature　seemed　sometimes　to　be　an　excited　repetition；　like　that　of



an　angry　schoolmaster　saying　the　same　thing　over　and　over　again。　



The　grass　seemed　signalling　to　me　with　all　its　fingers　at　once；



the　crowded　stars　seemed　bent　upon　being　understood。　　The　sun　would



make　me　see　him　if　he　rose　a　thousand　times。　　The　recurrences　of　the



universe　rose　to　the　maddening　rhythm　of　an　incantation；　and　I　began



to　see　an　idea。







　　　　　All　the　towering　materialism　which　dominates　the　modern　mind



rests　ultimately　upon　one　assumption；　a　false　assumption。　　It　is



supposed　that　if　a　thing　goes　on　repeating　itself　it　is　probably　dead；



a　piece　of　clockwork。　　People　feel　that　if　the　universe　was　personal



it　would　vary；　if　the　sun　were　alive　it　would　dance。　　This　is　a



fallacy　even　in　relation　to　known　fact。　　For　the　variation　in　human



affairs　is　generally　brought　into　them；　not　by　life；　but　by　death；



by　the　dying　down　or　breaking　off　of　their　strength　or　desire。　



A　man　varies　his　movements　because　of　some　slight　element　of　failure



or　fatigue。　　He　gets　into　an　omnibus　because　he　is　tired　of　walking；



or　he　walks　because　he　is　tired　of　sitting　still。　　But　if　his　life



and　joy　were　so　gigantic　that　he　never　tired　of　going　to　Islington；



he　might　go　to　Islington　as　regularly　as　the　Thames　goes　to　Sheerness。　



The　very　speed　and　ecstasy　of　his　life　would　have　the　stillness



of　death。　　The　sun　rises　every　morning。　　I　do　not　rise　every　morning；



but　the　variation　is　due　not　to　my　activity；　but　to　my　inaction。　



Now；　to　put　the　matter　in　a　popular　phrase；　it　might　be　true　that



the　sun　rises　regularly　because　he　never　gets　tired　of　rising。　



His　routine　might　be　due；　not　to　a　lifelessness；　but　to　a　rush



of　life。　　The　thing　I　mean　can　be　seen；　for　instance；　in　children；



when　they　find　some　game　or　joke　that　they　specially　enjoy。　　A　child



kicks　his　legs　rhythmically　through　excess；　not　absence；　of　life。　



Because　children　have　abounding　vitality；　because　they　are　in　spirit



fierce　and　free；　therefore　they　want　things　repeated　and　unchanged。　



They　always　say；　〃Do　it　again〃；　and　the　grown…up　person　does　it



again　until　he　is　nearly　dead。　　For　grown…up　people　are　not　strong



enough　to　exult　in　monotony。　　But　perhaps　God　is　strong　enough



to　exult　in　monotony。　　It　is　possible　that　God　says　every　morning；



〃Do　it　again〃　to　the　sun；　and　every　evening；　〃Do　it　again〃　to　the　moon。　



It　may　not　be　automatic　necessity　that　makes　all　daisies　alike；



it　may　be　that　God　makes　every　daisy　separately；　but　has　never　got　tired



of　making　them。　　It　may　be　that　He　has　the　eternal　appetite　of　infancy；



for　we　have　sinned　and　grown　old；　and　our　Father　is　younger　than　we。　



The　repetition　in　Nature　may　not　be　a　mere　recurrence；　it　may　be



a　theatrical　ENCORE。　　Heaven　may　ENCORE　the　bird　who　laid　an　egg。　



If　the　human　being　conceives　and　brings　forth　a　human　child　instead