The Books Most Responsible Part 3 - Issue #30
Orthodoxy by G.K. Chesterton
I discovered this book in my dad's study over ten years ago. It is a Christian apologetic of sorts. At least, that seems to have been the purpose Chesterton gives for writing it. For me, it acted less like a proof for Christianity. As I read it, I was once more inspired with the love of living. I became convinced that life, not some abstract theoretical concept of it, but with feet planted firmly on the ground on this concrete reality of earth, could be beautiful. And it can only be beautiful because God is real, shedding His beauty on even this sin-cursed, suffering-filled world. The character of Jessica in my novel is the one who eventually embodies the deep joy this book invokes. (There's another little novel teaser for you!)
As with all of the books I have listed, Chesterton speaks uncannily to the trends of the present even though he wrote this book as a contemporary of Bernard Shaw, the famous playwright. It is well over one hundred years old. But enough of this. On to the quotes you have come to expect. Here are some of my favorites:
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.
I think the reason this book speaks to me so profoundly is because I have suffered a lot in my short life, physically and psychologically. I have, for instance, been in pain of one sort or another without a break for the last two weeks. This book has reminded me over and over again that life is worth the living even though it hurts. Sometimes because it hurts, the pain illuminates things about this beautiful life that I would not have seen if I had always felt well. I can see God working His patience in me, His deep abiding joy that is present even when my tears are flowing, and the beauty of this thing that is life becomes more and more obvious with time and more pain. When I see the world around me, the hummingbirds in the air, the strange green of the grass and the wind in the tree limbs, I know deep inside that I am meant for some place different, a place that all these things testify of.
But the important matter was this, that it entirely reversed the reason for optimism. And the instant the reversal was made, it felt like the abrupt ease when a bone is put back in the socket. I had often called myself an optimist, to avoid the too evident blasphemy of pessimism. But all the optimism of the age had been false and disheartening for this reason, that it had always been trying to prove that we fit in to the world. The Christian optimism is based on the fat that we do not fit in to the world. I had tried to be happy by telling myself that man is an animal, like any other which sought its meat from God. But now I really was happy, for I had learnt that man is a monstrosity. I had been right in feeling all things as odd, for I myself was at once worse and better than all things. The optimists's pleasure was prosaic, for it dwelt on the naturalness of everything; the Christian pleasure was poetic, for it dwelt on the unnaturalness of everything in the light of the supernatural. The modern philosopher had told me again and again that I was in the right place, and I had still felt depressed even in acquiescence. But I had heard that I was in the wrong place, and my soul sang for joy, like a bird in spring. The knowledge found out and illuminated forgotten chambers in the dark house of infancy. I knew now why grass had always seemed to me as queer as the green beard of a giant, and why I could feel homesick at home.
I still keep that book I found in my dad's study. He gave it to me when he moved to a different house. I still pick it up, like an old friend, and read it as if we never left off talking. You should read it, too.
Ten Ways to Destroy the Imagination of Your Child by Anthony Esolen
This is the sole new book I spoke of at the beginning. Everyone who has children, and everyone who is going to raise children should read this book. It is, of course, a tongue-in-cheek title. Anthony Esolen wants all children to have robust imaginations. Because a robust imagination is the strongest defense against tyrannical despots. Here are the ten ways our unfortunate society at large attempts to destroy every child's imagination:
Keep your children indoors as much as possible.
Never leave children to themselves.
Keep children away from machines and machinists. Or "All unauthorized personnel prohibited."
Replace the fairy tale with political cliches and fads.
Cast aspersions upon the heroic and patriotic.
Cut all heroes down to size.
Reduce all talk of love to narcissism and sex.
Level distinctions between man and woman.
Distract the child with the shallow and unreal.
Deny the transcendent.
Well, that's quite a list, and unless you've been living in a cave somewhere, you may have noticed that most of this, if not all, is currently happening. In my novel, the society my main characters bumble about in has mastered the art of imagination dulling--until Jessica. As their tidy little system gets upended by an imaginative little creature with a limp, the professionals in charge rush around sticking their fingers into the holes of the edifice they've created which is in danger of crashing down in a deluge of water.
Here are some of my favorite quotes from this gem of a book:
We want a deadening routine without order, acts of affability without love, rebukes without anger, and schedules, timetables, five-year-plans, objectives, and output assessments. This is what we get in schools. It is indeed what schools are for: to habituate people to a world of routine, affable impersonality, schedules, timetables, five-year plans, objectives, and output assessments.
Esolen is extremely hard on public education. Public education deserves all of his criticisms. I will never forget the differences I observed between my homeschooled music students and my public educated music students. My homeschooled students lived in the moment and became proficient in their music to varying degrees. They were quirky and fun and always had something on their minds they wanted to tell me. My public educated students got to places on time, but could not push the schedule out of their brains long enough to actually learn music. They had their whole consciousness tuned into the clock and knew exactly when it was time to pack up and leave. None of my public educated students became proficient in their music. Not one. Worse yet, there was a constant frenetic activity in their heads. When you looked into their eyes, nothing looked back that was purely them. I could nearly see the schedule running inexorably through their heads along with deep, deadening fatigue. It was tragic.
We cannot do this without building large schools--institutions in fact, where no one will know everyone else, and therefore where a superficiality of acquaintance and anonymity will rule the day. The child is to be hustled from this group to that group, mainly among other children whom he will never get to know, developing a passing familiarity with a few teachers, and generally muddling through his clocked hours without anybody ever noticing that he has memorized the records of the 1927 Yankees, or can sing songs from the Civil War. He will have a name--we have not yet found a way conveniently to dispense with those--but he will be treated as if he were a counter in a vast board game, and will learn to treat other people similarly.
When the Covid hysteria reached peak levels, and schools began implementing mask policies, I thought to myself, "This will never work. They're talking about implementing mask protocols, something I've even seen medical professionals in hospitals screw up, with little kids." But it did work, sort of. With some browbeating and peer pressure, they got the kids to keep the masks on. And then I remembered. These kids are used to being cogs in wheels. Of course, they will do what they're told. And the adults did this to them for months, no matter how detrimental it was for their development as human beings. It was cruelty masked in smiles "for the greater good." But it was nothing if not predictable.
I will, most likely, hear from teachers who will tell me I'm all wet. It's not like that in their school. Teachers do know the kids. Their kids are thriving. My public educated music students were thriving, too--in the world the school system had created for them. The town was small and everybody knew everyone else. But the deadened eyes and the dead imaginations in those kids was as plain as the nose on my face and it was painful to witness. The adults believed the kids were well-adjusted. But that was because they had no one else to compare them to.
At any rate, get the book and read it. You'll find it fascinating.
That's all for now. Until next time, folks...
