Winding

In the days of my youth did I hear the words of Chesterton, and they have never left me.

Dim drums throbbing, in the hills half-heard,
Where only on a nameless throne a crownless prince has stirred,
Where, risen from a doubtful seat and half attainted stall,
The last knight of Europe takes weapons from the wall,
The last and lingering troubadour to whom the bird has sung,
That once went singing southward when all the world was young.
In that enormous silence, tiny and unafraid,
Comes up along a winding road the noise of the Crusade.

The cross, it comes to the hill. And there, among thieves, it rests for a while. In the morning, a few days later, the white flowers bloom in the grey dawn.

I'd Rather Be A Publican

I've written before on the topic of faux nouveau Republicanism, the fake new idea of a grand old ideal. Then, in sudden serendipitous insight, I saw the link between two institutions of the ancient Pax Britannia.

In Chesterton's The Flying Inn, he pulls a similar trick to one he had played elsewhere and presents us with the conundrum of a tavern where there isn't one. This gets around the morbid stricture of compulsory abstinence inflicted by the villainous authorities.

Fast-forward to the very recent past, and we get The Economist's 16 Dec 2010 take on a similar problem. Except, of course, that the former was inflicted by authority without accountability, and this latter is inflicted by authority without identity.

The right to social gathering, lubricated by good food and drink, is an essential human right when taken in the context of what it means to be a human in a human society. If anybody discriminates against you because of your reasonable assertion of this right, that body deserves to be cast out of the civilised society you share.

It follows then that the gift and capacity of hosting such social gatherings, and providing the necessary and appropriate lubrication, must be a noble capability indeed. Given the choice of being a false new Republican or a true old Publican, I know where I must stand.

Crusade

Chesterton's Lepanto has been one of the greatest narrative poems in my life.

It concludes likes this:

The Pope was in his chapel before day or battle broke,
(Don John of Austria is hidden in the smoke.)
The hidden room in man's house where God sits all the year,
The secret window whence the world looks small and very dear.
He sees as in a mirror on the monstrous twilight sea
The crescent of his cruel ships whose name is mystery;
They fling great shadows foe-wards, making Cross and Castle dark,
They veil the plumèd lions on the galleys of St. Mark;
And above the ships are palaces of brown, black-bearded chiefs,
And below the ships are prisons, where with multitudinous griefs,
Christian captives sick and sunless, all a labouring race repines
Like a race in sunken cities, like a nation in the mines.
They are lost like slaves that sweat, and in the skies of morning hung
The stair-ways of the tallest gods when tyranny was young.
They are countless, voiceless, hopeless as those fallen or fleeing on
Before the high Kings' horses in the granite of Babylon.
And many a one grows witless in his quiet room in hell
Where a yellow face looks inward through the lattice of his cell,
And he finds his God forgotten, and he seeks no more a sign--
(But Don John of Austria has burst the battle-line!)
Don John pounding from the slaughter-painted poop,
Purpling all the ocean like a bloody pirate's sloop,
Scarlet running over on the silvers and the golds,
Breaking of the hatches up and bursting of the holds,
Thronging of the thousands up that labour under sea
White for bliss and blind for sun and stunned for liberty.

Vivat Hispania!
Domino Gloria!
Don John of Austria
Has set his people free!

Cervantes on his galley sets the sword back in the sheath
(Don John of Austria rides homeward with a wreath.)
And he sees across a weary land a straggling road in Spain,
Up which a lean and foolish knight for ever rides in vain,
And he smiles, but not as Sultans smile, and settles back the blade....
(But Don John of Austria rides home from the Crusade.)

It is nothing like the reality of history, and yet everything like that history. I memorized the whole poem when I was ten, all because of one Isaac Asimov, who wrote a short story about the generation of literature from first lines. Amazing.

The World is Not Flat

No, contrary to what many learned men have said, and others have frequently parroted, the world is not flat. With inequity and inequality of all kinds everywhere you look; with barriers to information, capital, services, and materials; the world is only flat looking down from Olympus. As Chesterton said so well, "One sees great things from the valley; only small things from the peak."

It is tempting to use the quote blandly as it is, without context. But the amazing story from which it comes, one of the finest detective tales of the entire English canon, was Chesterton's 'Hammer of God', in the collection The Innocence of Father Brown. It is a tale that bears reading, that demands you take the time to have a look.

The lesson in it is clear. Moral forces are as much part of the universe as physical forces. One may be tempered by conscience or thrown awry by the lack of it; the other seems immutable but may be misperceived. Both are incredible miracles when closely examined. But one is more of a miracle than the other.

The world is not flat. It is capable of both rotation and revolution as an oblate spheroid that moves in space. And this is true both morally and physically.

Wolfpack

It has been a year since Wolff, no longer a knight, was exiled from the Citadel of the Magistratum. He dresses simply now, no longer in the armour and colours of his ancient lineage or his knighthood. Although, of course, his blood runs coldly in those very colours, deep in the arterial wells and veinous labyrinths of his ageing frame. It is by chance that he comes upon a valiant veteran from another war — a 'lean and foolish knight', as the great Chesterton once called him.

Hail, my lord of the windmill! What brings you out of your sainted memory to this pleasant café?

That worthy knight grimaces, his long mustachios twirling gently as if they might catch the wind and make wheat into flour. He looks down into his espresso con panna and looks up again, a spark of icy fire in each eye. His tone is courteous as always. Unlike the so-called Lords of the Magistratum, he shows all the virtues of a knight, even in his late age.

Sir Wolff. I have been following your adventures from afar. Did you know that you have now a wolfpack behind you? "Don John's hunting, and his hounds have bayed."

Wolff is about to deny, for the hundredth time it seems, his knightly title. But he thinks better of that, realising that denying the word of such a famous knight as this worthy would be to sink even lower than the Magistratum desires him to sink.

No, my lord. I had not heard this news. Do you mix metaphors here? Or do both wolves and hounds hunt me now?

The old knight gives a lopsided grin. It is as if he relishes the cut-and-thrust, both implicit and explicit, even though he is not quite in a position to be the champion he used to be.

No... the wolves are your pups, so to say. There are dozens of them howling in the hills around the Citadel. They scent blood. They spread tidings of the indiscretions of the Grand Inquisitor and his cabal. And the hounds of Don John, the hounds of heaven, are with them. "It is Richard, it is Raymond, it is Godfrey at the gate!"

Wolff smiles. This is no longer his fight. He is beyond that, and now that he is not a knight, he cares less than he used to.

And this is supposed to mean something to me? The Will and the Power of the Highest, they will prevail. "St Michael's on his mountain in the sea-roads of the north"; he can shake his lance of iron and clap his wings of stone as much as he wants, for that is an archangel's right.

Then the old knight says something before he fades away, with a sad look in his eye that chills even Wolff.

Remember the little dwarfs and the crystal phial. Remember who you once were. "It is he whose loss is laughter when he counts the wager worth." The wyverns will fly, but only if the wyvern-keeper is bold and gives them wings.

'What did he mean by that?' Wolff ponders. But deep inside, he thinks he knows. And like an iron bell, the chambers of his heart toll deeply within him.

A Room In The Heart

In every heart there is a room, and it sometimes has more than one nature. To Chesterton, in his epic poem Lepanto, it is

The hidden room in man's house where God sits all the year,
The secret window whence the world looks small and very dear.

Chesterton, of course, speaks of the Pope in his chapel, at the centre of the storm that rages as the forces of the Caliphate collide head on with Don John of Austria's Christian navy at the Battle of Lepanto. But on a different level, he speaks of the place in our inmost being from which we look out and see that the world is beautiful and fragile. From this place, we see that the people we love, the things we delight in, the activities which are life to us, are all easily reft from us – and we learn to pray that we are protected from the fearful pain of their loss.

To Billy Joel, this place is also a sanctuary – but of a different kind. It is a refuge from that pain, not a window upon it; it is a place of healing in between the hurts. Perhaps he and Mr Chesterton were more alike than we can ever know. Here is Mr Joel's take on that room:

In every heart there is a room
A sanctuary safe and strong
To heal the wounds from lovers past
Until a new one comes along

I spoke to you in cautious tones
You answered me with no pretence
And still I feel I said too much
My silence is my self-defence

And every time I've held a rose
It seems I only felt the thorns
And so it goes, and so it goes
And so will you soon, I suppose

But if my silence made you leave
Then that would be my worst mistake
So I will share this room with you
And you can have this heart to break

And this is why my eyes are closed
It's just as well for all I've seen
And so it goes, and so it goes
And you're the only one who knows

So I would choose to be with you
That's if the choice were mine to make
But you can make decisions too
And you can have this heart to break

And so it goes, and so it goes
And you're the only one who knows.

For me, that place conceals both the painfully beautiful and the beautifully painful. I remember old roses of all kinds, their smiles, the planes of their faces, their curves of mind and body; I remember sexuality and spirituality and somatic intensity. For these some of all the kinds of beauty that have been given to mortal men doomed to die; and God has made all things beautiful in His time.

Why did He give us all this beauty, these things that we have died for, or felt like dying for, or felt that we have died from? It is clear that there are two gifts of doom (in the Anglo-Saxon sense, I suppose) – the two Trees in the Garden were of moral knowledge and eternal life. But in Ecclesiastes it is written that firstly, God has made everything beautiful in its time; and secondly, God has set eternity in the hearts of men. The two things to be contrasted are not beauty and eternity, but time and eternity. All beauty has been given to us to enjoy in its time, regardless of variety – but the enduring foundation of our secret room is eternity.

And so, now older and a little wiser, when I see the brightness – the beautiful intellect and power and grace and strength (and so many other wonderful things!) in each of my students – I think of eternity. I think of how each aspect, each attribute might decorate the vault of infinity, and I thank God that He has made us all beautiful.

Bookmeme: Answers To 'Ten Ends'

Here are the answers to my version of Hierophant's bookmeme, with some commentary and useful links.

1. The Tactics of Mistake by Gordon R Dickson

This book can be classed together with A E van Vogt's Null-A series and Frank Herbert's Bureau of Sabotage series (e.g. The Dosadi Experiment). All of these use philosophy as the driving force behind their interesting and strategically well-developed plots. The Tactics of Mistake tracks the career of young strategist Cletus Grahame and the mercenaries of the Dorsai. While drawing heavily on the lore of medieval warrior brotherhoods (without you noticing), it is also excellent preparation for working life. Read it, and watch your enemies fall into their own traps.

2. Neverwhere by Neil Gaiman

The story of Richard Mayhew, one-time dweller in London Above, is one which resonates creepily well with anyone who has lived in London. London, of all cities in the world, has one of the most chilling atmospheres for a person attuned to city culture in general. There is the subliminal threat of ancient and mysterious violence everywhere, and yet also great beauty and wonder. This makes Gaiman's little excursus rather too believable.

3.The City of Dreaming Books by Walter Moers

If you like odd occasions, cryptic creatures, peculiar pirates, nimble ninjas, that sort of thing – and Atlantean adventure too! – you should read Walter Moers. He writes like Susanna Clarke infiltrated by the worst childhood dreams of J K Rowling.

4. Bridge of Birds by Barry Hughart

This is indeed how Chinese legend should be written. It's either this style or Louis Cha's style. Apart from Wu Cheng'en and his amazing Hou or Monkey, I have read very little else which lures me back to my mythical heritage as much. And what a rip-roaring potboiler! Indiana Jones is nothing compared to Number Ten Ox and the scholar with the defect of character, Li Kao. Truly, ancient China as she never was, but ought to have been.

5. The Final Solution by Michael Chabon

This was my Book of the Year for 2005. It is the saddest, most powerful and moving, most incisive crime novel I have ever read. For students of history, it is likely to be even more gripping, as the age of the Great Detective gives way to the most horrific years of the 20th century. No more quiet beekeepers in pleasant Sussex downs, but barbed wire and torment.

6. Colonel Butler's Wolf by Anthony Price

The espionage thrillers of Oxford historian Anthony Price are vastly underrated. He has written 19 novels, all extremely clever, about secret historian Dr David Audley (acted ably by Terence Stamp, at least once!) One suspects that the reason he is not often reprinted (only about five of his books are still in print) despite his excellence is that his books are all like chess games – subtle little moves and dramatic moves leading to a simple result: win, lose or draw. And sometimes, the reader cannot tell which was which.

7. The Wasp Factory by Iain Banks

Iain Banks is Scotland's greatest writer. Like most of the authors represented on this list, I will buy any book that has been written by him. (That includes Raw Spirit, his adventure into the lore of Scotch whisky.) The Wasp Factory was his first novel, and when I first encountered it in 1984, I quite logically reasoned that all his subsequent novels would be worth buying. I was right.

8. The True Game by Sheri S Tepper

It is always hard for me to decide between Sheri Tepper and Julian May. The two write an awful lot of good fiction on the themes of human genetics, development and the eventual destiny of humankind. The True Game's first lines appear here, as one of the best con-jobs of all time. You think you're reading fantasy. And then it's not.

9. The Man Who Was Thursday by G K Chesterton

Herr Hierophant got the author right, but how could he not have located this book? It is a mystery to me... for this book is arguably Chesterton's best known. It has often been described as a metaphysical thriller. It is that, and more. It is also a call to arms, and a powerful argument about the true values of anarchy, democracy and theocracy.

10. The Prisoner of Zenda by Anthony Hope

This is the only traditional classic in the list, having been reprinted many times as such. It follows in the grand tradition of the fictional European kingdom school of writing, and is perhaps one of its best-loved exemplars. After reading Dumas' The Count of Monte Cristo and Baroness Orczy's The Scarlet Pimpernel, I am perhaps a bit spoilt. But I still think Prisoner is deft, adept, and dangerous to read.

The Greater Trumps: (23) The Lightning-Struck Tower

There is a great Tower standing on a cliff, a Tower on a high place where it looks down upon the plains and waters of the earth. The Tower is built by the hands of men, and years of falsity and human error have seeped into its stones. Some say this Tower is Babel, where God first confounded the languages - some say this edifice is the first pyramid, broken at the top and never completed because higher powers rose against it.

In the image, a mighty bolt of lightning strikes the Tower and casts its inhabitants out as it crumbles and falls. It is a sign that nothing made imperfectly by the faith and work of man will survive the wrath of God's truth and the dictates of Heaven - no matter how grand it seems. In the most ancient readings, it is the work of men who have forgotten the higher truths and raised themselves above others, proclaiming, "Let us build a tower to heaven." These are men who think they can be as God, and the sundering of their Tower denies that presumption.

At the same time, as the thunderbolt lays bare the insides of the Tower and casts its people out, it brings sudden and earth-shaking understanding to those below. What is Disaster in one way is also Revelation in another. It all depends on which side you are on, and what understanding you gain. Regardless, expect upheaval and a different order of things.

=====

I have a subtle appreciation for this image. I can feel the pain of having your foundations shattered, but it is like wound debridement or the re-setting of a broken bone that has healed badly. It will hurt a lot, but with a chance to begin again, and the enlightenment of having finally cleared out the rubbish, things will be better henceforth.

Here is the fourth stanza of a rare poem, translated from the Dutch by Cliff Crego. It is The Wanderer by Martinus Nijhoff (1894-1953).

I am a spectator looking out from a high tower,
A space divides me from the rest of the world,
That I see as small and as very far away
And that I cannot touch and cannot hear.

It reminds one of these lines from Chesterton's Lepanto:

The hidden room in man's house where God sits all the year,
The secret window whence the world looks small and very dear.

The breaking of the Tower brings both Disaster and Revelation, and yet this is where all things become new, and we can start afresh.