orthodoxy-第2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！





was　orthodoxy。







　　　　　It　may　be　that　somebody　will　be　entertained　by　the　account



of　this　happy　fiasco。　　It　might　amuse　a　friend　or　an　enemy　to



read　how　I　gradually　learnt　from　the　truth　of　some　stray　legend



or　from　the　falsehood　of　some　dominant　philosophy；　things　that　I



might　have　learnt　from　my　catechismif　I　had　ever　learnt　it。　



There　may　or　may　not　be　some　entertainment　in　reading　how　I



found　at　last　in　an　anarchist　club　or　a　Babylonian　temple　what　I



might　have　found　in　the　nearest　parish　church。　　If　any　one　is



entertained　by　learning　how　the　flowers　of　the　field　or　the



phrases　in　an　omnibus；　the　accidents　of　politics　or　the　pains



of　youth　came　together　in　a　certain　order　to　produce　a　certain



conviction　of　Christian　orthodoxy；　he　may　possibly　read　this　book。　



But　there　is　in　everything　a　reasonable　division　of　labour。　



I　have　written　the　book；　and　nothing　on　earth　would　induce　me　to　read　it。







　　　　　I　add　one　purely　pedantic　note　which　comes；　as　a　note



naturally　should；　at　the　beginning　of　the　book。　　These　essays　are



concerned　only　to　discuss　the　actual　fact　that　the　central　Christian



theology　（sufficiently　summarized　in　the　Apostles'　Creed）　is　the



best　root　of　energy　and　sound　ethics。　　They　are　not　intended



to　discuss　the　very　fascinating　but　quite　different　question



of　what　is　the　present　seat　of　authority　for　the　proclamation



of　that　creed。　　When　the　word　〃orthodoxy〃　is　used　here　it　means



the　Apostles'　Creed；　as　understood　by　everybody　calling　himself



Christian　until　a　very　short　time　ago　and　the　general　historic



conduct　of　those　who　held　such　a　creed。　　I　have　been　forced　by



mere　space　to　confine　myself　to　what　I　have　got　from　this　creed；



I　do　not　touch　the　matter　much　disputed　among　modern　Christians；



of　where　we　ourselves　got　it。　　This　is　not　an　ecclesiastical　treatise



but　a　sort　of　slovenly　autobiography。　　But　if　any　one　wants　my



opinions　about　the　actual　nature　of　the　authority；　Mr。　G。S。Street



has　only　to　throw　me　another　challenge；　and　I　will　write　him　another　book。















II　THE　MANIAC











　　　　　Thoroughly　worldly　people　never　understand　even　the　world；



they　rely　altogether　on　a　few　cynical　maxims　which　are　not　true。　



Once　I　remember　walking　with　a　prosperous　publisher；　who　made



a　remark　which　I　had　often　heard　before；　it　is；　indeed；　almost　a



motto　of　the　modern　world。　　Yet　I　had　heard　it　once　too　often；



and　I　saw　suddenly　that　there　was　nothing　in　it。　　The　publisher



said　of　somebody；　〃That　man　will　get　on；　he　believes　in　himself。〃　



And　I　remember　that　as　I　lifted　my　head　to　listen；　my　eye　caught



an　omnibus　on　which　was　written　〃Hanwell。〃　　I　said　to　him；



〃Shall　I　tell　you　where　the　men　are　who　believe　most　in　themselves？　



For　I　can　tell　you。　　I　know　of　men　who　believe　in　themselves　more



colossally　than　Napoleon　or　Caesar。　　I　know　where　flames　the　fixed



star　of　certainty　and　success。　　I　can　guide　you　to　the　thrones　of



the　Super…men。　The　men　who　really　believe　in　themselves　are　all　in



lunatic　asylums。〃　　He　said　mildly　that　there　were　a　good　many　men　after



all　who　believed　in　themselves　and　who　were　not　in　lunatic　asylums。　



〃Yes；　there　are；〃　I　retorted；　〃and　you　of　all　men　ought　to　know　them。　



That　drunken　poet　from　whom　you　would　not　take　a　dreary　tragedy；



he　believed　in　himself。　　That　elderly　minister　with　an　epic　from



whom　you　were　hiding　in　a　back　room；　he　believed　in　himself。　



If　you　consulted　your　business　experience　instead　of　your　ugly



individualistic　philosophy；　you　would　know　that　believing　in　himself



is　one　of　the　commonest　signs　of　a　rotter。　　Actors　who　can't



act　believe　in　themselves；　and　debtors　who　won't　pay。　　It　would



be　much　truer　to　say　that　a　man　will　certainly　fail；　because　he



believes　in　himself。　　Complete　self…confidence　is　not　merely　a　sin；



complete　self…confidence　is　a　weakness。　　Believing　utterly　in　one's



self　is　a　hysterical　and　superstitious　belief　like　believing　in



Joanna　Southcote：　　the　man　who　has　it　has　‘Hanwell'　written　on　his



face　as　plain　as　it　is　written　on　that　omnibus。〃　　And　to　all　this



my　friend　the　publisher　made　this　very　deep　and　effective　reply；



〃Well；　if　a　man　is　not　to　believe　in　himself；　in　what　is　he　to　believe？〃　



After　a　long　pause　I　replied；　〃I　will　go　home　and　write　a　book　in　answer



to　that　question。〃　　This　is　the　book　that　I　have　written　in　answer



to　it。







　　　　　But　I　think　this　book　may　well　start　where　our　argument　started



in　the　neighbourhood　of　the　mad…house。　Modern　masters　of　science　are



much　impressed　with　the　need　of　beginning　all　inquiry　with　a　fact。　



The　ancient　masters　of　religion　were　quite　equally　impressed　with



that　necessity。　　They　began　with　the　fact　of　sina　fact　as　practical



as　potatoes。　　Whether　or　no　man　could　be　washed　in　miraculous



waters；　there　was　no　doubt　at　any　rate　that　he　wanted　washing。　



But　certain　religious　leaders　in　London；　not　mere　materialists；



have　begun　in　our　day　not　to　deny　the　highly　disputable　water；



but　to　deny　the　indisputable　dirt。　　Certain　new　theologians　dispute



original　sin；　which　is　the　only　part　of　Christian　theology　which　can



really　be　proved。　　Some　followers　of　the　Reverend　R。J。Campbell；　in



their　almost　too　fastidious　spirituality；　admit　divine　sinlessness；



which　they　cannot　see　even　in　their　dreams。　　But　they　essentially



deny　human　sin；　which　they　can　see　in　the　street。　　The　strongest



saints　and　the　strongest　sceptics　alike　took　positive　evil　as　the



starting…point　of　their　argument。　　If　it　be　true　（as　it　certainly　is）



that　a　man　can　feel　exquisite　happiness　in　skinning　a　cat；



then　the　religious　philosopher　can　only　draw　one　of　two　deductions。　



He　must　either　deny　the　existence　of　God；　as　all　atheists　do；　or　he



must　deny　the　present　union　between　God　and　man；　as　all　Christians　do。　



The　new　theologians　seem　to　think　it　a　highly　rationalistic　solution



to　deny　the　cat。







　　　　　In　this　remarkable　situation　it　is　plainly　not　now　possible



（with　any　hope　of　a　universal　appeal）　to　start；　as　our　fathers　did；



with　the　fact　of　sin。　　This　very　fact　which　was　to　them　（and　is　to　me）



as　plain　as　a　pikestaff；　is　the　very　fact　that　has　been　specially



diluted　or　denied。　　But　though　moderns　deny　the　existence　of　sin；



I　do　not　think　that　they　have　yet　denied　the　existence　of　a



lunatic　asylum。　　We　all　agree　still　that　there　is　a　collapse　of



the　intellect　as　unmistakable　as　a　falling　house。　　Men　deny　hell；



but　not；　as　yet；　Hanwell。　　For　the　purpose　of　our　primary　argument



the　one　may　very　well　stand　where　the　other　stood。　　I　mean　that　as



all　thoughts　and　theories　were　once　judged　by　whether　they　tended



to　make　a　man　lose　his　soul；　so　for　our　present　purpose　all　modern



thoughts　and　theories　may　be　judged　by　whether　they　tend　to　make



a　man　lose　his　wits。







　　　　　It　is　true　that　some　speak　lightly　and　loosely　of　insanity



as　in　itself　attractive。　　But　a　moment's　thought　will　show　that　if



disease　is　beautiful；　it　is　generally　some　one　else's　disease。　



A　blind　man　may　be　picturesque；　but　it　requires　two　eyes　to　see



the　picture。　　And　similarly　even　the　wildest　poetry　of　insanity　can



only　be　enjoyed　by　the　sane。　　To　the　insane　man　his　insanity　is



quite　prosaic；　because　it　is　quite　true。　　A　man　who　thinks　himself



a　chicken　is　to　himself　as　ordinary　as　a　chicken。　　A　man　who　thinks



he　is　a　bit　of　glass　is　to　himself　as　dull　as　a　bit　of　glass。　



It　is　the　homogeneity　of　his　mind　which　makes　him　dull；　and　which



makes　him　mad。　　It　is　only　because　we　see　the　irony　of　his　idea



that　we　think　him　even　amusing；　it　is　only　because　he　does　not　see



the　irony　of　his　idea　that　he　is　put　in　Hanwell　at　all。　　In　short；



oddities　only　strike　ordinary　people。　　Oddities　do　not　strike



odd　people。　　This　is　why　ordinary　people　have　a　much　more　exciting　time；



while　odd　people　are　always　complaining　of　the　dulness　of　life。　



This　is　also　why　the　new　novels　die　so　quickly；　and　why　the　old



fairy　tales　endure　for　ever。　　The　old　fairy　tale　makes　the　hero



a　normal　human　boy；　it　is　his　adventures　that　are　startling；



they　startle　him　because　he　is　normal。　　But　in　the　modern



psychological　novel　the　hero　is　abnormal；　the　centre　is　not　central。　



Hence　the　fiercest　adventures　fail　to　affect　him　adequately；



and　the　book　is　monotonous。　　You　can　make　a　story　out　of　a　hero



among　dragons；　but　not　out　of　a　dragon　among　dragons。　　The　fairy



tale　discusses　what　a　sane　man　will　do　in　a　mad　world。　　The　sober



realistic　novel　of　to…day　discusses　what　an　essential　lunatic　will



do　in　a　dull　world。







　　　　　Let　us　begin；　then；　with　the　mad…house；　from　this　evil　and　fantastic



inn　let　us　set　forth　on　our　intellectual　journey。　　Now；　if　we　are



to　glance　at　the　philosophy　of　sanity；　the　first　thing　to　do　in　the



matter　is　to　blot　out　one　big　and　common　mistake。　　There　is　a　notion



adrift　everywhere　that　imagination；　especially　mystical　imagination；



is　dangerous　to　man's　mental　balance。　　Poets　are　commonly　spoken　of　as



psychologically　unreliable；　and　generally　there　is　a　vague　association



between　wreathing　laurels　in　your　hair　and　sticking　straws　in　it。　



Facts　and　history　utterly　contradict　this　view。　　Most　of　the　very



great　poets　have　been　not　only　sane；　but　extremely　business…like；



and　if　Shakespeare　ever　really　held　horses；　it　was　because　he　was　much



the　safest　man　to　hold　them。　　Imagination　does　not　breed　insanity。　



Exactly　what　does　breed　insanity　is　reason。　　Poets　do　not　go　mad；



but　chess…players　do。　　Mathematicians　go　mad；　and　cashiers；



but　creative　artists　very　seldom。　　I　am　not；　as　will　be　seen；



in　any　sense　attacking　logic：　　I　only　say　that　this　danger　does



lie　in　logic；　not　in　imagination。　　Artistic　paternity　is　as



wholesome　as　physical　paternity。　　Moreover；　it　is　worthy　of　remark



that　when　a　poet　really　was　morbid　it　was　commonly　because　he　had



some　weak　spot　of　rationality　on　his　brain。　　Poe；　for　instance；



really　was　morbid；　not　because　he　was　poetical；　but　because　he



was　specially　analytical。　　Even　chess　was　too　poetical　for　him；



he　disliked　chess　because　it　was　full　of　knights　and　castles；



like　a　poem。　　He　avowedly　preferred　the　black　discs　of　draughts；



because　they　were　more　like　the　mere　black　dots　on　a　diagram。　



Perhaps　the　strongest　case　of　all　is　this：　　that　only　one　great　English



poet　went　mad；　Cowper。　　And　he　was　definitely　driven　mad　by　logic；



by　the　ugly　a