Fairytales

Chapter XVI of 'Tremendous Trifles' contains a delightful comparison between two sorts of literature:

Folk-lore means that the soul is sane, but that the universe is wild and full of marvels. Realism means that the world is dull and full of routine, but that the soul is sick and screaming. The problem of the fairy tale is - what will a healthy man do with a fantastic world? The problem of the modern novel is - what will a madman do with a dull world? In the fairy tale the cosmos goes mad; but the hero does not go mad. In the modern novels the hero is mad before the book begins, and suffers from the harsh steadiness and cruel sanity f the cosmos. 

'Everything is interesting'

Chapter XV of 'Tremendous Trifles' finds Chesterton in a railway carriage with nothing to do. He does not have a scrap of paper with him, there is no view due to rain, and there are not even advertisements on the walls of the railway carriage. Since he denies 'most energetically that anything is, or can be, uninteresting', he starts by contemplating the wood of the walls and seats, remembering Jesus was a carpenter. Then he remembers he could examine the unknown content of his own pockets.
The first item are tram tickets, suggesting 'that municipal patriotism which is now, perhaps, the greatest hope of England'. Furthermore, these tickets carry on them advertisements for a certain pill, which could be further analyzed. The second item is a pocket knife, suggesting battle. Then he finds matches, suggesting fire, chalk, suggesting art, a coin, suggesting government, etc.
When I will find myself without anything to do, and without any Chesterton to read, I may try this mental experiment for myself.

"Should shop assistants marry?"

I am puzzled to think what some periods and schools of human history would have made of such a question. The ascetics of the East or of some periods of the Early Church would have thought that the question meant, "Are not shop assistants too saintly, too much of another world, even to feel the emotions of the sexes?" But I suppose that is not what the purple poster means. In some pagan cities it might have meant, "Shall slaves so vile as shop assistants even be allowed to propagate their abject race?" But I suppose that is not what the purple poster meant. We must face, I fear, the full insanity of what it does mean. It does really mean that a section of the human race is asking whether the primary relations of the two human sexes are particularly good for modern shops. The human race is asking whether Adam and Eve are entirely suitable for Marshall and Snelgrove. If this is not topsy-turvy I cannot imagine what would be. We ask whether the universal institution will improve our (please God) temporary institution. Yet I have known many such questions.

As a sequel to 'The wind and the trees' (see below), Chesterton again exposes materialistic reasonings about what is really the essence of things in chapter XIV of 'Tremendous Trifles'.

The wind and the trees

Chapter XII of 'Tremendous Trifles' starts with a parable: a boy walks in severe wind and decides that he does not like the wind. He notices the trees moving and asks if the trees couldn't be cut down, so that the wind would stop blowing. Chesterton continues:

Nothing could be more intelligent or natural than this mistake. Any one looking for the first time at the trees might fancy that they were indeed vast and titanic fans, which by their mere waving agitated the air around them for miles. Nothing, I say, could be more human and excusable than the belief that it is the trees which make the wind. Indeed, the belief is so human and excusable that it is, as a matter of fact, the belief of about ninety-nine out of a hundred of the philosophers, reformers, sociologists, and politicians of the great age in which we live.

In this parable, 'the trees stand for all visible things and the wind for the invisible. The wind is the spirit which bloweth where it listeth'. Material things, like cities and civilizations, are actually moved by immaterial things, like philosophy, religion and revolution. 'You cannot see a wind; you can only see that there is a wind'.
This piece ties in nicely with Chesterton's observations in 'Heretics' that a man's beliefs are the most important thing about him: beliefs and philosophies actually cause more visible things to change.

Symbolic actions

Chapter IX of 'Tremendous Trifles' finds Chesterton still in France. While contemplating the destruction of the Bastille, he makes some interesting observations about (the lack of modern) architecture:

Architecture is a very good test of the true strength of a society, for the most valuable things in a human state are the irrevocable things - marriage, for instance. And architecture approaches nearer than any other art to being irrevocable, because it is so difficult to get rid of. [-] A building is akin to dogma; it is insolent, like a dogma. Whether or no it is permanent, it claims permanence like a dogma. People ask why we have no typical architecture of the modern world, like impressionism in painting. Surely is is obviously because we have not enough dogmas

Besancon

Sometimes Chesterton's 'Tremendous Trifles' make one wish to enter in his experiences (from 'the end of the world):

For some time I had been wandering in quiet streets in the curious town of Basancon, which stands like a sort of peninsula in a horse-shoe of river. You may learn from the guide books that it was the birthplace of Victor Hugo, and that it is a military station with many forts, near the French frontier. But you will not learn from guide books that the very tiles on the roofs seem to be of some quainter and more delicate colour than the tiles of all the other towns of the world; that the tiles look like the little clouds of some strange sunset, or like the lustrous scales of some strange fish. They will not tell you that in this town the eye cannot rest on anything without finding it in some way attractive and even elvish, a carved face at a street corner, a gleam of green fields through a stunted arch, or some unexpected colour fro the enamel of a spire or dome.

 I long to visit France again...

The ball and the cross

Today, I finished the surreal novel 'The ball and the cross'. After the beautiful introduction, I encountered Turnbull and MacIan and their travels through England in search of an opportunity to fight their duel. The conversations were interesting, their adventures by times hilarious.
With their arrival in the lunatic asylum, however, the novel continues on a slightly different note. Just as the other novels by Chesterton that I read ('The Napoleon of Notting Hill' and 'The man who was Thursday'), the story becomes more and more surreal. MacIan and Turnbull first encounter 'the Master' in their respective dreams/nightmares; then he turns out to be the head of the asylum. One by one, all the other characters from the book assemble together, and the story goes to its apotheosis.

A fascinating detail of the story is the reason the different persons are assembled in the asylum. For instance, we have Mr. Wilkinson. A few chapters ago, Turnbull and MacIan 'borrowed' his yacht. Now the doctor tells Turnbull that "he tells everybody that two people have taken his yacht. His account of how he lost it is quite incoherent. [-] It is a most melancholy case, and also fortunately a very rare one. It is so rare, in fact, that in one classification of these maladies it is entered under a heading by itself - Perdinavititis, mental inflammation creating the impression that one has lost a ship. Really, [-] it's rather a feather in my cap. I discovered the only existing case of perdinavititis." When Turnbull tells the doctor that he and MacIan actually took Wilkinson's yacht on their travels, he is quickly diagnosed with 'Rapinavititis', "the delusion that one has stolen a ship. First case ever recorded."

Interruptions

MacIan and Turnbull have had their lengthy discussions and find themselves in a secluded spot in chapter IX of 'The ball and the cross'. They decide to finally finish their duel. MacIan, though, notes that they have frequently been interrupted and that this might be a sign of God.
They start their duel, only to be interrupted again by a 'damsel in distress'. They come to the rescue of the lady, who takes them with her in her car. Then, we discover that the police is still looking for our heroes: they are to be transferred to the 'Westgate Adult Reformatory' to be cured, because they are 'incurable disturbers of the peace'. With help of the lady, MacIan and Turnbull escape again.
Finding a secluded spot on a beach surrounded by bluffs, they rejoin the swords. This time the interruption comes from the incoming tide; MacIan saves Turnbulls life by getting him in an abandoned boat. When they finally arrive ashore, they hope they can manage to disguise themselves and fight a duel about a socially accepted topic. So they pick a fight over a lady. Turnbull, however, is so impressed by this lady's simple, naive, Christianity that he gives up his disguise.  Subsequently, our heroes have to flee again.
Borrowing a yacht, they travel over the ocean to find an empty island. They decide to fight there, only to discover that it is not an island at all but a part of England. Again interrupted and chased by the police, they jump over a wall into a garden.
In this garden of 'lost souls', the garden of a lunatic asylum, they encounter someone who believes that he is God. Turnbull turns on him and asks: "Why does teething hurt? Why do growing pains hurt? Why are measles catching? Why does a rose have thorns?" etcetera. MacIan, in the meanwhile, finds someone who is clearly overly impressed by science: someone who cannot 'trust a God that you can't improve on'. This person believes that 'a man's doctor ought to decide what woman he marries', and that 'children ought not be be brought up by their parents'. This person, of course, turns out to be the doctor.

Discussions

After encountering two different kinds of philosophers, Turnbull and MacIan start their own discussion in chapter VII and VIII of 'The ball and the cross'. They start about nature and its existence; then they try to lay their problem before an ordinary man. This man does not solve their differences, so they argue further. MacIan attacks Turnbull as follows:

You hold that your heretics and sceptics have helped the world forward and handed on a lamp of progress. I deny it. Nothing is plainer from real history than that each of your heretics invented a complete cosmos of his own which the next heretic smashed entirely to pieces. [-] [Freethought] can never be progressive because it will accept nothing from the past; it begins every time again from the beginning; and it goes every time in a different direction. 

MacIan continues that there are only two things that can progress: strictly physical science and the Catholic Church. For the church, he specifically mentioned progress in the moral world. Turnbull, of course, does not see such progress. MacIan explains:

Catholic virtue is often invisible because it is the normal. Christianity is always out of fashion because it is always sane; and all fashions are mild insanities. When Italy is mad on art the Church seems to Puritanical; when England is mad on Puritanism the Church seems to artistic.[-] The Church always seems to be behind the times, when it is really beyond the times;

Dueling

After MacIan and Turnbull leave the police station (chapter III of 'The ball and the cross'), they immediately seek out a place to buy swords for a duel. They did not realize, though, that the press has had a field day with this story, and that the whole of London knows about it. Hence, their duel is interrupted.
Together, they flee in a hansom cab, purchase some victuals, and try to find a secluded spot to finish their duel. The two start to respect each other in this process, to the point of not really wanting to fight.
The renewed duel is immediately interrupted by a philosopher: a Tolstoyan who preaches Love. He tries to convince MacIan that violence is a sin; MacIan retorts that Christianity is much more than these watered-down philosophies. The peacemaker then walks away, breaks his own rule and calls the police. The two duelists flee again.
Running away from the police, they find a secluded place for shelter. Here, they encounter another philospher: a pagan proponent of violence and sacrifice. He is delighted with their duel. When MacIan, though, challenges him to take the sword himself, he flees.

A discussion somewhat in the air

Chesterton's novel 'The ball and the cross' starts with a discussion on a flying ship between the monk Michael and the scientist Lucifer. They encounter a cross on a ball at the top of St. Paul's cathedral. The discussion revolts around these symbols: the scientist insists that the ball is reasonable, inevitable, in unity with itself, a 'higher development', and it should stand on top of the cross, instead of being placed under it. The monk argues that man is a contradiction, just as the cross; he is irrational, just as the cross; and if the ball were placed on the cross, it would certainly fall of. Furthermore, it provides a practical means of support.
This first chapter appears to be introductory, for in the next chapter we are introduced to two new characters: the scotch atheist Turnbull, writer of a magazine, and a catholic boy from out of town, Evan McIan. When Evan encounters Turnbulls arguments, he immediately breaks his windows. When questioned by the police, we get some typical Chestertonian remarks. When Evan states that Turnbull is his enemy, the enemy of God, the policeman says that he "mustn't talk like that here, that has nothing to do with us.". He continues that "it is most undesirable that things of that sort should be spoken about - a - public [-]. Religion is - a - too personal a matter to be mentioned in such a place. [-] But to talk in a public place about the most sacred and private sentiments - well, I call it bad taste. I call it irreverent." He asks McIan if his views "are necessarily the right ones? Are you necessarily in possession of the truth?". On McIan's affirmative answer, he can only laugh contemptuously.
All in all, this discussion reminded me of Chesterton's beginning and final remarks in 'Heretics': a man's view of the universe is still 'the most practical and important thing about a man'. The people who passed Turnbulls shop with his atheistic arguments for twenty years are not necessarily more enlightened because they did not break his shopwindows: they do not care because they never formed an opinion for themselves about this matter.

Hansom cab

After reading the fifth and sixth essay in 'Tremendous Trifles', I looked up the hansom cab online. I knew that it was a sort of carriage, pulled by a horse, but I had not realized how common this type of transportation was. In Chesterton's time, thousands of these cabs drove around in London.
The exact shape of the cab is important to understand the accident Chesterton describes. A hansom cab has two wheels (so it is balanced by the horse); the cabman actually stands at the back of the cab. The customer sits quite low (so that the cab has a low point of gravity); he can see the horse but not the driver.
Apparently, it is not uncommon for cabhorses to stumble; Chesterton did not see anything unusual in it. He notices people looking odd, but does not know why. when the horse starts running. Chesterton realizes that the cabman has fallen off and the horse is running wild. In seconds, the cab crashes into an omnibus.
Chesterton uses this experience to describe his own reactions, both before and after the crash. These tales about 'trifles' again indicate some deeper understanding of the world around us.

Heretics

Today, I finally finished 'Heretics'. Though most chapters can be read as single essays, not necessarily read in the context of this book, there is in the end more cohesion then I thought. In chapter 20 Chesterton revisits some concepts he discussed in chapter 1: the importance of general ideals.
The eighteen chapters inbetween discuss various 'heretical' ideas: ideas Chesterton does not agree with. He is dissatisfied with Rudyard Kipling's cosmopolitanism and with Tolstoyan simplicity, with scientific anthropologists and with modern pagans, with 'smart' novelists and with 'slum' novelists.
In the last chapter, then, Chesterton challenges us to 'go upon a long journey and enter on a dreadful search. Let us, at least, dig and seek till we have discovered our own opinions'. We should not be vague about our beliefs; we should not be afraid to examine multiple ideas. We can avoid both extremes of bigotry and fanaticism by becoming people with definite, well-thought, opinions. 'Religious and philosophical ideas are, indeed, as dangerous as fire, and nothing can take from them that beauty of danger. But there is only one way of really guarding ourselves against the excessive danger of them, and that is to be steeped in philosophy and soaked in religion.'
After reading all these, one does not wonder that Chesterton was challenged to state his own beliefs (which he did in 'Orthodoxy').

Democracy

Chapter 19 of 'Heretics' reminded me of 'The Napoleon of Notting Hill' in its discussion of democracy. Chesterton starts with warning us that 'democracy is not philantropy; it is not even altruism or social reform. Democracy is not founded on pity for the common man; democracy is founded on reverence for the common man'.
Just as in the fore mentioned novel, Chesterton explains why a hereditary despotism is actually quite democratic: there is not selection who is the ruler, so 'any man' can be the ruler.
Chesterton stresses that in his time, some 'fundamental democratic quality' is missing. This is illustrated by the attitude of the educated middle class to the poor: in their condemnation of the sins of the poor (as if they themselves are blameless) and in their efforts to 'raise the poor' (as if a poor man is less a man, instead of just a man with less money).