orthodoxy-第39部分

快捷操作: 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! 如果本书没有阅读完，想下次继续接着阅读，可使用上方 "收藏到我的浏览器" 功能 和 "加入书签" 功能！





is　a　rigid　guard　of　ethical　abnegations　and　professional　priests；



but　inside　that　inhuman　guard　you　will　find　the　old　human　life



dancing　like　children；　and　drinking　wine　like　men；　for　Christianity



is　the　only　frame　for　pagan　freedom。　　But　in　the　modern　philosophy



the　case　is　opposite；　it　is　its　outer　ring　that　is　obviously



artistic　and　emancipated；　its　despair　is　within。







　　　　　And　its　despair　is　this；　that　it　does　not　really　believe



that　there　is　any　meaning　in　the　universe；　therefore　it　cannot



hope　to　find　any　romance；　its　romances　will　have　no　plots。　　A　man



cannot　expect　any　adventures　in　the　land　of　anarchy。　　But　a　man　can



expect　any　number　of　adventures　if　he　goes　travelling　in　the　land



of　authority。　　One　can　find　no　meanings　in　a　jungle　of　scepticism；



but　the　man　will　find　more　and　more　meanings　who　walks　through



a　forest　of　doctrine　and　design。　　Here　everything　has　a　story　tied



to　its　tail；　like　the　tools　or　pictures　in　my　father's　house；



for　it　is　my　father's　house。　　I　end　where　I　beganat　the　right　end。　



I　have　entered　at　last　the　gate　of　all　good　philosophy。　　I　have　come



into　my　second　childhood。







　　　　　But　this　larger　and　more　adventurous　Christian　universe　has



one　final　mark　difficult　to　express；　yet　as　a　conclusion　of　the　whole



matter　I　will　attempt　to　express　it。　　All　the　real　argument　about



religion　turns　on　the　question　of　whether　a　man　who　was　born　upside



down　can　tell　when　he　comes　right　way　up。　　The　primary　paradox　of



Christianity　is　that　the　ordinary　condition　of　man　is　not　his　sane



or　sensible　condition；　that　the　normal　itself　is　an　abnormality。　



That　is　the　inmost　philosophy　of　the　Fall。　　In　Sir　Oliver　Lodge's



interesting　new　Catechism；　the　first　two　questions　were：　



〃What　are　you？〃　and　〃What；　then；　is　the　meaning　of　the　Fall　of　Man？〃　



I　remember　amusing　myself　by　writing　my　own　answers　to　the　questions；



but　I　soon　found　that　they　were　very　broken　and　agnostic　answers。　



To　the　question；　〃What　are　you？〃　　I　could　only　answer；　〃God　knows。〃　



And　to　the　question；　〃What　is　meant　by　the　Fall？〃　　I　could　answer



with　complete　sincerity；　〃That　whatever　I　am；　I　am　not　myself。〃　



This　is　the　prime　paradox　of　our　religion；　something　that　we　have



never　in　any　full　sense　known；　is　not　only　better　than　ourselves；



but　even　more　natural　to　us　than　ourselves。　　And　there　is　really



no　test　of　this　except　the　merely　experimental　one　with　which　these



pages　began；　the　test　of　the　padded　cell　and　the　open　door。　　It　is　only



since　I　have　known　orthodoxy　that　I　have　known　mental　emancipation。　



But；　in　conclusion；　it　has　one　special　application　to　the　ultimate　idea



of　joy。







　　　　　It　is　said　that　Paganism　is　a　religion　of　joy　and　Christianity



of　sorrow；　it　would　be　just　as　easy　to　prove　that　Paganism　is　pure



sorrow　and　Christianity　pure　joy。　　Such　conflicts　mean　nothing　and



lead　nowhere。　　Everything　human　must　have　in　it　both　joy　and　sorrow；



the　only　matter　of　interest　is　the　manner　in　which　the　two　things



are　balanced　or　divided。　　And　the　really　interesting　thing　is　this；



that　the　pagan　was　（in　the　main）　happier　and　happier　as　he　approached



the　earth；　but　sadder　and　sadder　as　he　approached　the　heavens。　



The　gaiety　of　the　best　Paganism；　as　in　the　playfulness　of　Catullus



or　Theocritus；　is；　indeed；　an　eternal　gaiety　never　to　be　forgotten



by　a　grateful　humanity。　　But　it　is　all　a　gaiety　about　the　facts　of　life；



not　about　its　origin。　　To　the　pagan　the　small　things　are　as　sweet



as　the　small　brooks　breaking　out　of　the　mountain；　but　the　broad　things



are　as　bitter　as　the　sea。　　When　the　pagan　looks　at　the　very　core　of　the



cosmos　he　is　struck　cold。　　Behind　the　gods；　who　are　merely　despotic；



sit　the　fates；　who　are　deadly。　　Nay；　the　fates　are　worse　than　deadly；



they　are　dead。　　And　when　rationalists　say　that　the　ancient　world



was　more　enlightened　than　the　Christian；　from　their　point　of　view



they　are　right。　　For　when　they　say　〃enlightened〃　they　mean　darkened



with　incurable　despair。　　It　is　profoundly　true　that　the　ancient　world



was　more　modern　than　the　Christian。　　The　common　bond　is　in　the　fact



that　ancients　and　moderns　have　both　been　miserable　about　existence；



about　everything；　while　mediaevals　were　happy　about　that　at　least。　



I　freely　grant　that　the　pagans；　like　the　moderns；　were　only　miserable



about　everythingthey　were　quite　jolly　about　everything　else。　



I　concede　that　the　Christians　of　the　Middle　Ages　were　only　at



peace　about　everythingthey　were　at　war　about　everything　else。　



But　if　the　question　turn　on　the　primary　pivot　of　the　cosmos；



then　there　was　more　cosmic　contentment　in　the　narrow　and　bloody



streets　of　Florence　than　in　the　theatre　of　Athens　or　the　open　garden



of　Epicurus。　　Giotto　lived　in　a　gloomier　town　than　Euripides；



but　he　lived　in　a　gayer　universe。







　　　　　The　mass　of　men　have　been　forced　to　be　gay　about　the　little　things；



but　sad　about　the　big　ones。　　Nevertheless　（I　offer　my　last　dogma



defiantly）　it　is　not　native　to　man　to　be　so。　　Man　is　more　himself；



man　is　more　manlike；　when　joy　is　the　fundamental　thing　in　him；



and　grief　the　superficial。　　Melancholy　should　be　an　innocent　interlude；



a　tender　and　fugitive　frame　of　mind；　praise　should　be　the　permanent



pulsation　of　the　soul。　　Pessimism　is　at　best　an　emotional　half…holiday；



joy　is　the　uproarious　labour　by　which　all　things　live。　　Yet；　according　to



the　apparent　estate　of　man　as　seen　by　the　pagan　or　the　agnostic；



this　primary　need　of　human　nature　can　never　be　fulfilled。　



Joy　ought　to　be　expansive；　but　for　the　agnostic　it　must　be　contracted；



it　must　cling　to　one　corner　of　the　world。　　Grief　ought　to　be



a　concentration；　but　for　the　agnostic　its　desolation　is　spread



through　an　unthinkable　eternity。　　This　is　what　I　call　being　born



upside　down。　　The　sceptic　may　truly　be　said　to　be　topsy…turvy；



for　his　feet　are　dancing　upwards　in　idle　ecstasies；　while　his　brain



is　in　the　abyss。　　To　the　modern　man　the　heavens　are　actually　below



the　earth。　　The　explanation　is　simple；　he　is　standing　on　his　head；



which　is　a　very　weak　pedestal　to　stand　on。　　But　when　he　has　found



his　feet　again　he　knows　it。　　Christianity　satisfies　suddenly



and　perfectly　man's　ancestral　instinct　for　being　the　right　way　up；



satisfies　it　supremely　in　this；　that　by　its　creed　joy　becomes



something　gigantic　and　sadness　something　special　and　small。　



The　vault　above　us　is　not　deaf　because　the　universe　is　an　idiot；



the　silence　is　not　the　heartless　silence　of　an　endless　and　aimless　world。　



Rather　the　silence　around　us　is　a　small　and　pitiful　stillness　like



the　prompt　stillness　in　a　sick…room。　We　are　perhaps　permitted　tragedy



as　a　sort　of　merciful　comedy：　　because　the　frantic　energy　of　divine



things　would　knock　us　down　like　a　drunken　farce。　　We　can　take　our



own　tears　more　lightly　than　we　could　take　the　tremendous　levities



of　the　angels。　　So　we　sit　perhaps　in　a　starry　chamber　of　silence；



while　the　laughter　of　the　heavens　is　too　loud　for　us　to　hear。







　　　　　Joy；　which　was　the　small　publicity　of　the　pagan；　is　the　gigantic



secret　of　the　Christian。　　And　as　I　close　this　chaotic　volume　I　open



again　the　strange　small　book　from　which　all　Christianity　came；　and　I



am　again　haunted　by　a　kind　of　confirmation。　　The　tremendous　figure



which　fills　the　Gospels　towers　in　this　respect；　as　in　every　other；



above　all　the　thinkers　who　ever　thought　themselves　tall。　　His　pathos



was　natural；　almost　casual。　　The　Stoics；　ancient　and　modern；



were　proud　of　concealing　their　tears。　　He　never　concealed　His　tears；



He　showed　them　plainly　on　His　open　face　at　any　daily　sight；　such　as



the　far　sight　of　His　native　city。　　Yet　He　concealed　something。　



Solemn　supermen　and　imperial　diplomatists　are　proud　of　restraining



their　anger。　　He　never　restrained　His　anger。　　He　flung　furniture



down　the　front　steps　of　the　Temple；　and　asked　men　how　they　expected



to　escape　the　damnation　of　Hell。　　Yet　He　restrained　something。　



I　say　it　with　reverence；　there　was　in　that　shattering　personality



a　thread　that　must　be　called　shyness。　　There　was　something　that　He　hid



from　all　men　when　He　went　up　a　mountain　to　pray。　　There　was　something



that　He　covered　constantly　by　abrupt　silence　or　impetuous　isolation。　



There　was　some　one　thing　that　was　too　great　for　God　to　show　us　when



He　walked　upon　our　earth；　and　I　have　sometimes　fancied　that　it　was



His　mirth。











End