The Death of the Poet

At the 2018 Eurovision Song Contest, one of the most surprising, fresh entries was that of the Hungarian band AWS, with their “metalcore” song, Viszlát Nyár (Goodbye, Summer). What caught one’s attention, besides the attractiveness of the piece (within the confines of the genre), was the raw emotion and energy of the song and of the performance. Fittingly so, since the lyrics, written by the band’s front man, Örs Siklósi, had autobiographical connotations, speaking (in metaphorical terms) about the recent passing of his father:

Goodbye summer, you’re too late now;
because you lied to me that you’d be mine,
but you never came!

Bittersweet, poetic, raw, angry, sincere – all these sentiments and states expressed through the fitting musical language of the “metalcore” style.

While I must confess that this isn't a musical style with which I am very familiar, or that I commonly listen to, I really liked the band and the song – which led me to look into their other works, as well. And thus I listened to their two most recent albums, Kint a Vízből (Out of the Water, 2016, YouTube, Spotify) and Fekete Részem (My Dark Dimension, 2018, YouTube, Spotify).

And what I discovered upon listening to these albums was - to my delight – a band that truly tries to “make art” (again, within what one could call the rather narrow confines of the genre). This is especially true in what concerns the lyrics of their songs (and you can find their English translation here), lyrics that, in a manner quite seldom encountered nowadays in popular music, are quite lyrical (and intentionally so). And this is precisely one of the things that is most sorely lacking from contemporary pop music - the lyrical quality; and also one of the reasons why current popular music seems so pedestrian, empty, meaning-less and forgettable - because of a lyrical poverty reflected in their minuscule vocabulary, a the lack of a mastery of the language, and in a vulgarity that often verges on the pornographic.

Yet the high model of popular music should be (must be!) something along the lines of the works of a Leonard Cohen, a Simon & Garfunkel, a Bob Dylan, a Van Morrison, or even the Beatles – all of whom, at their best, created sung poetry. And a song that is not poetic is just… banal, passable, forgettable. And thus the landscape of current popular music is quite unlivable – which is why actually encountering an artistic, poetic endeavor, in such a barren landscape, feels like stumbling upon fresh water in the Sahara.

Yes, this is why it was so refreshing and enlivening to find (even within a fairly constricted musical genre) a true attempt to make art  - and to do it consciously, intentionally, in an intelligent and literate way, and daring to speak about the important things. Of course, one could find a number of youthful faults in these two albums, as well: a bit of emotional immaturity, of hormonal revolt, maybe some self-serving sentimentalism - all of these fully understandable, given the band members' young age. But what stands out from their music are not these minor lacunae – but what transcends what could be expected from a band of this type, and of their age range. For example: yes, one finds in their songs the genre-typical tone of social critique - yet here it is a critique that does not simply parrot some vacuous "anti-system" clichés, but almost always points further, at a deeper, personal pursuit of the (existential) truth – ultimately pointing toward the core question of, “how should I live?” (And that is a sign of maturity, an intellectual-poetic maturity dearly missing from popular culture today.)

It also helps that the words often have a metaphysical dimension, or ramification, as well – proving again that they come from a personal search for the truth, and for authentic existence; and not from a mindless repetition of clichés.

And the author of most of the lyrics - and thus the one whose personal existential quest seems to be reflected in these songs - is none other than the band's front man and singer, Siklósi Örs [in Hungarian the family name comes first]. And the biographical snippets that we have about Örs seem to confirm the personal and artistic depth reflected in these lyrics. And thus it was quite moving and joy-giving for me to discover a young artist – a new young poet - who is in the process of keeping the flame of poetry (and the pursuit of art) alive, in the mostly arid field of contemporary popular music - and also to see them endow a relatively shallow musical genre with unexpected poetic-existential depth.

In my mind, therefore, Siklósi Örs appeared as a worthy successor – of course, at a much reduced scale, and within a more modest artistic context - of the young rebel poets of the late nineteenth century (Rimbaud, Baudelaire etc). 

And then, many months later, I learned – and it was truly a shock to learn – of the passing of Siklósi Örs, aged only 29, as a consequence of leukemia. “Viszlát, nyár!” And it did hurt to learn this, as much as it hurts to hear of the passing of any real poet, of any true (if only budding) artist – of anyone who tries keeps the flame of what matters alive, and thus inevitably becomes a carrier of this light within the world. I am thinking of people like Leonard Cohen, Norm MacDonald… whose deaths hit unusually hard because they were true artists, true... poets. And so it was in the case of Örs, as well.   

I leave you with another outstanding piece from the band – perhaps their most poetic piece, and musically perhaps my favorite. In the lyrics to this song Örs uses the familiar images and sensations of an early morning city bus ride (or metro ride), to reflect and to inquire into his own existential state - and the state of the others. 

 

An Advent Calendar: Day 14

"I have often had a fancy for writing a romance about an English yachtsman who slightly miscalculated his course and discovered England under the impression that it was a new island in the South Seas.  ... There will probably be a general impression that the man who landed (armed to the teeth and talking by signs) to plant the British flag on that barbaric temple which turned out to be the Pavilion at Brighton, felt rather a fool. ... But if you imagine that he felt a fool, or at any rate that the sense of folly was his sole or his dominant emotion, then you have not studied with sufficient delicacy the rich romantic nature of the hero of this tale. His mistake was really a most enviable mistake; and he knew it, if he was the man I take him for. What could be more delightful than to have in the same few minutes all the fascinating terrors of going abroad combined with all the humane security of coming home again? What could be better than to have all the fun of discovering South Africa without the disgusting necessity of landing there? What could be more glorious than to brace one's self up to discover New South Wales and then realize, with a gush of happy tears, that it was really old South Wales. 

This at least seems to me the main problem for philosophers, and is in a manner the main problem of this book. How can we contrive to be at once astonished at the world and yet at home in it? How can this queer cosmic town, with its many-legged citizens, with its monstrous and ancient lamps, how can this world give us at once the fascination of a strange town and the comfort and honour of being our own town?

... [In this book] I wish to set forth my faith as particularly answering this double spiritual need, the need for that mixture of the familiar and the unfamiliar which Christendom has rightly named romance. ... The thing I do not propose to prove, the thing I propose to take as common ground between myself and any average reader, is this desirability of an active and imaginative life, picturesque and full of a poetical curiosity, a life such as western man at any rate always seems to have desired. .... [And] nearly all people I have ever met in this western society in which I live would agree to the general proposition that we need this life of practical romance; the combination of something that is strange with something that is secure. We need so to view the world as to combine an idea of wonder and an idea of welcome. We need to be happy in this wonderland without once being merely comfortable. It is THIS achievement of my creed that I shall chiefly pursue in these pages.

But I have a peculiar reason for mentioning the man in a yacht, who discovered England. For I am that man in a yacht. I discovered England. ... I am the man who with the utmost daring discovered what had been discovered before. ... [F]or this book explains how I fancied I was the first to set foot in Brighton and then found I was the last. It recounts my elephantine adventures in pursuit of the obvious. ... I am the fool of this story, and no rebel shall hurl me from my throne. I freely confess all the idiotic ambitions of the end of the nineteenth century. I did, like all other solemn little boys, try to be in advance of the age. Like them I tried to be some ten minutes in advance of the truth. And I found that I was eighteen hundred years behind it. I did strain my voice with a painfully juvenile exaggeration in uttering my truths. And I was punished in the fittest and funniest way, for I have kept my truths: but I have discovered, not that they were not truths, but simply that they were not mine. When I fancied that I stood alone I was really in the ridiculous position of being backed up by all Christendom. It may be, Heaven forgive me, that I did try to be original; but I only succeeded in inventing all by myself an inferior copy of the existing traditions of civilized religion. The man from the yacht thought he was the first to find England; I thought I was the first to find Europe. I did try to found a heresy of my own; and when I had put the last touches to it, I discovered that it was orthodoxy [the right faith]."

This is a fragment from G.K. Chesterton's famous introduction to his remarkable and fascinating book, Orthodoxy. It relates to the Advent path in many ways; for one, because Advent, just like any other season of the liturgical year, or any recurring feast, is an attempt and opportunity to "rediscover" the familiar, to find again the strange and the surprising in what we thought we knew so well, to be shocked anew by what we are tempted to take for granted. 

And what makes the surprise, the shock, the (re)discovery possible, is the fact that the truth, while never-changing, is ever-fresh, and ever-young - it is alive, and is life. While error, while always seemingly new and attractive and diverse, always turns out to be, at the end of the day, repetitive, the same, same old same old error - and rooted in un-living, and ultimately dead. 

One, then, is the renewed promise of romance and hope (and, as Chesterton mentioned, who does not need that?); while the other always turns out to be prosaic everydayness and mediocrity - and with the solidity and duration of dust.  

 

An Advent Calendar: Day 3

The image featured today, of the "Virgin and Child with St Catherine and St Barbara" (1520-25), painted by the so-called Master of the Holy Blood, might be somewhat inappropriate for the Advent season that we are marking (as it depicts the Virgin with the already-born Child). However, it might also be useful for other purposes, of deepening our understanding of the Advent season that we are going through. 

Just like the other "seasons" of the liturgical year, the Advent season slices up the astronomical (cosmic, calendar) year into sections which hearken back to and re-present (i.e. make present again) key moments or periods from salvation history (the history of the relationship of God with his people, with mankind). By doing that, they transport us into that moment of salvation history, and elevate us to a different plane of meaning. This is how, as we mentioned, the Advent that we live through each year is a re-living of the period of expectation that Israel itself, and mankind itself, experienced and lived through, before and leading up to, the birth of the Son of Man.   

Today's painting, then, is a good illustration of the same mechanisms and connections, of the same plays with different kinds of "time" and meanings.

While painted in the sixteenth century, this triptych depicts interactions and relationships that span fifteen hundred years. At the center of the frame is the Virgin and the Child (first century), adored (and physically touched) by St Catherine (fourteenth century) and St Barbara (third century, Byzantine). On the side wings of the triptych, the two donors (who paid for the making of this painting, and thus contemporary - from the sixteenth century) are depicted, each of them being supported by their patron saint (St Joachim, by tradition the father of the Virgin, and thus first century) and St Judocus (seventh century). In the background, other scenes from salvation history or from the lives of these saints are depicted, spanning various centuries of cosmic time. 

And yet, no matter this crisscrossing through various moments and periods of historical time  the story depicted is coherent, as it all takes place in the extratemporal "now," in the everlasting "present," of eternity. The eternity of God, which is also the eternity of faith. 

But let us return again to the painting, and notice that the buildings and habitations depicted are all contemporary (i.e. sixteenth century); in fact, there might even be a Christian church (!) on the hill to the left (which would be highly incongruous with a historical depiction of the infant Jesus and of his Mother). Continuing with this temporally-rooted examination, one will also notice that all the characters, while belonging to different eras and culture (and perhaps excluding the Virgin and the Child), are dressed in "contemporary" fashion - in the fashion of the time (sixteenth century), and of the place (Northern Europe - current Belgium). 

What is happening here? Surely the author was well aware of these "historical" or "cultural inconsistencies." Of course. But dressing the characters of salvation history, and of the history of the Church, in contemporary gowns, and situating them in the context of our day, of this moment, and of our surroundings, also carries a very powerful message. Namely, that we are all part of the same "story", a story that is not past, but actual and immediate; and that, notwithstanding the accidents of geographic or temporal differences, we all partake in the same human condition, and in the same sacred condition (in terms of our relationship to the eternal God). 

The danger, as Kierkegaard pointed out, and as illustrated in a recent film by Terrence Malick, rests exactly in the attempt to use temporality (historical distance) as an excuse and as protection, against facing the radical questions and provocations of salvation history: of facing the infant Jesus, of being looked in the eyes by the Christ. 

Living - truly living - the seasons of Advent is thus a means of bridging this faux gap and bypassing this temptation, as it puts us right in the middle of the great questions, and of the great invitation: such as the question of "What is truth?", which Pilate asked, when faced with Christ; and the invitation "Venite adoremus" (oh, come let us adore him), which is the invitation of Nativity offered to us, today, just like it was offered, contemporaneously, to the magi or to the shepherds.

 

An Advent Calendar: Day 2

Today I would like to point you to a fragment from an Ingmar Bergman movie, Winter Light, movie that is part of his trilogy on faith, and, in fact, of Bergman's long-standing grappling with, and meditation on, faith, unbelief, and the very possibility of faith within modernity (or, more precisely, in mid-twentieth century Western Europe, or Scandinavia). What sets Bergman's films apart (from the drift) is that they are actual works of art, and (at least in attempt) sincere depictions of the human experience. This means that the interpretation of these depictions is, at the end of it, at the disposal of the person who engages with the work; just like the interpretation of reality itself, of the same reality that we all inhabit, is different, depending on the person who "views" it (and how they view it - as one's "vision" is often eschewed, half-blind, maybe completely blind).  

The fragment I am pointing out starts at 1:04:51, and goes... well, it goes as far as you want to go with it. This fragment - and these fragments - will take you through the atmospheric "winter light" of the title; an atmosphere, though, that is desolate, as desolate as the Scandinavian landscape, and as the arid, maybe frozen, yet most suffering heart or soul of the main character. 

The movie, according to one interpretation, could be about a crisis of faith. On the other hand, if one sticks it out till the end, one will also hear talk about how the same suffering (and desolation) that the main character experiences, was also experienced (ponders another character) by Christ himself, on the cross. And, in that "light," we as viewers realize that the main character (the pastor) has the choice of experiencing and interpreting his suffering, his desolation, either as the manifestation of the absolute estrangement of God - or, in fact, as a sign of God's closeness to him (as his suffering becomes Christlike).

The wintry darkness of this Advent season, or of any time of expectation, of waiting, can thus be experienced as either the mark of an absolute absence - or as the perception of an absence that is the necessary corollary, and thus implicitly also the forerunner, of the arrival of the Presence. Because, as we have heard, faith and hope are the inner instruments that aid us in pursuing the things yet unseen. 

The Category of Joy (7)

After our Easter Octave investigation into the category of joy, which we endeavored without pretensions of exhaustiveness, or even of utter precision – and during which we looked at the state of joy as being associated with (artistic) creation, with (a type of, or a state of) laughter, with the act of marriage, with unconditional love and with sacrifice, and finally with Resurrection (or what follows after the Resurrection) – after this week-long series of discussions, then, perhaps it is time now to draw a line and to summarize what we have learned, proposing some...

7. Conclusions

And what have we learned? Well, essentially, that the state of joy seems to be associated with a (true) expression of being. And we saw this in artistic expression (or creation) – with the artist who, like a bird, can but sing... And we saw this, in a similar, “natural” fashion, in the case of children at play – who are unruly, like “wild animals”, unless they are tamed and guided – but in whose play there is an inherent goodness, being the natural expression of their (pre-moral, or on-the-way-to-becoming-moral) being.

But here we get into more troublesome territory, and closer to error – by which I mean all the misguided attempts at pursuing “joy” - that is, all that generally passes under the name of “pursuit of happiness”, yet is lived as a pursuit of self-satisfaction, of self-enjoyment (in various guises). Yes, there is a natural goodness to being. However, our human condition also contains the choice  - of the right living out of being, or of the wrong living out thereof; and the difference between these alternatives is that one of them is actually truthful to the true order of our being – while the other one is not.

And the best example in this regard, and one that we discussed this past week, is marriage – understood as a re-enactment or, even more so, as a living out of the original truth of the human condition: “Man and woman he created them... in the image of God he created them... [and] God looked ... and found it very good” (Gen 1:27, 31) Yes, one felt a sense of peace, of serenity, of an act being in accordance with “how things should be” (in our own, and in general existence) – when one looked at that statuary group depicting the betrothal. There is, thus, a choice – for us, moral animals – of living according to the truth of our being (and of Being, itself) – or not.

And this choice is the choice of what is truer, better, greater - over what is less so (or even the opposite). And we saw this choice being lived out both in the example of marriage (as choosing one person means rejecting all others, forever), and of the monks of La Grande Chartreuse (or of the Trappist monastery of the Tibhirine). As these monks explained in the film sequences included, theirs was a choice of a greater happiness, of a greater love; greater, in the sense of truer and more complete.

Detail of the Transfiguration Mosaic
from the Basilica of Sant'Apollinare in Classe (6th century) 

The state of joy, then, is not some shallow, ir-responsible, selfish seeking of enjoyment and pleasure, of “fun”. Instead it seems to be a calmer, deeper state of being – in which our being is more truthful to what it truly is, and to what it truly desires – and thus to the true order of existence. And this can mean a living out of the natural self, as in the case of the artist and of the child - pre-moral, as it were, but soon enough needing to be guided by a moral choice: the artist needing discipline, and to say no to self-seeking exhibitionism, in order to remain truthful to his vocation; and the child needing to be guided and to be reined in, so that his joy may be complete. And it can also mean a sacrificial pursuit of the true order, of the truth of our selves - for example, as in marriage, or as in a life completely consecrated to the Being that is the Source of our being.

And we used the term “sacrificial”, and we discussed it – to immediately see that this is, in fact, a voluntary, and most delightful and pleasurable sacrifice (although, yes, it does include a “no” to certain impulses or parts of our selves, and it might include pain), because it is done joyously, out of love (marriage), and drawn by love (monastic vocation). Love... if ever there was a more misunderstood, misconstrued, oft-misused expression! And yet, in the case of this term, “love”, as well, the same distinction can easily help us: between a self-seeking love (pleasure, enjoyment, satisfaction of oneself) - and a self-giving love (of marriage; of monastic life; of unconditional love).

And, indeed, we did talk about unconditional love, as well, as a sort of a basis or condition for joy – namely, for the expression and manifestation of being. For example, as in the case of the watchful gaze and continued care of the grandmother (unrecognized, anonymized), which allows for the children to play. Or, on a grander – or deeper – scale, the unconditional love of, as it is written, the “heavenly Father, [who] makes his sun rise on the bad and the good, and causes rain to fall on the just and the unjust” (Mt. 5:45) – the constitutive foundation of the being of us all.

What do I mean? Well, the fact that - just like with the clueless children, or the fish in the pond – we simply find ourselves within being, and with being; in other words, that our being is not something of our own making, but is an unconditional, unmerited, free gift that we have received - and continue to receive. Being, then, seems to be a fruit of an unconditional love in action; and this is why the monks we cited talk about responding to a love (because we are not the initiators of this relationship of being).

And this takes us to the Resurrection – and to the “amen”, upon “amen”, upon “amen” of the Messiah chorus - which are the eternalized interjections expressing being, or life, finally and eternally victorious - that is, “being” without end.

In fact, the tremendous Easter Triduum (the three days, from the Last Supper, to the Resurrection) illustrates in a concentrated fashion the essential drama of all that we have been trying to express: the sacrifice that seems to be an inevitable corollary of choosing the good (or the truth of our being; as in the marriage choice, as in the monks' choice – and as in the cross of Good Friday), and the victory of Being, definitive, complete, and unalterable (over its apparent opposite – death, non-being, the diminishing of being, the corruption of being). This is how and why we associated “joy” with “Resurrection” – or, in fact, with what comes after the Resurrection. Because, if joy is the expression of being, then Resurrection (eternal life) is the final, complete, and definitive victory of being – its full manifestation. A state in which the members of the choir (which sings those “amens”) partake in the Being who is the very Source of our beings - in the unconditional Love that made us and that keeps our being in existence. Like the child who is drawn to the lap of the grandmother, so being tends toward the source of Being, which is Love.

Because being is - our self is - inherently dialogical, social, open to the other; yes, this is another thing that we have discovered, or that was confirmed, yet again, over this past week. And, since being is dialogical – so is joy; and thus we noticed that every manifestation of the state of joy also entails a relationship with, or at least an openness toward, an other (explicitly or implicitly, visibly or invisibly). This is true for the artistic act – for the child watched over by the grandmother – for marriage, essentially – and for the monks – and, of course, for Resurrection. Because Resurrection (or, more precisely, what follows thereafter) is a dialogical eternal life – a life with the Other (and with the others).

But let us conclude, here, this Easter Octave-occasioned, modest attempt at an investigation into the state of joy - into its manifestations, forms and expressions – and, finally, into its nature. We have listed all of our conclusions - or, the gist of them – above.

What remains to be talked about, perhaps – in a very brief postlude – is laughter. Yes, back to “laughter” – but, as explained, a specific kind or state of laughter. Yes, laughter, because I find it a most handy, accessible, universally available experience – or, at least, sign - of that state of joy that is the expression of true being. Again, we are referring here to a specific kind of laughter – which is the simple, free (childlike), and exuberant expression of the joy of existence itself - but also (implicitly) of the dignity and transcendence of the self, over and against the (sometimes) oppressive, burdensome, reductionist aspects of historical and material existence. A laughter that is the thumbing of one’s nose at the self-seriousness of what are – ultimately – "unserious", passing things. (And, for a manifestation of such laughter, see again the scene with the Carthusian monks sliding down the snowy hillside, in the Alps, not far from La Grande Chartreuse.)

And you can even take this – this idea of laughter - with you as a bookmark, perhaps - to remind you (and us), from time to time, of that state of joy that we have been discussing - that is associated (or so it seems) with the living out of our being, in its plenitude, truth, and openness toward the other (the Other).

The Category of Joy (6)

And...

6. Joy as Resurrection

This is – famously – the very last part of Georg Friedrich Händel’s oratorio, Messiah; and the story is that, after composing this piece, Handel came out of his study and said, “I have seen [or experienced] Heaven!” Now, one could put this (his exclamation) down to a sort of aesthetic exaggeration; and, yes, the story is apocryphal. However, the fact is that I do find this final “Amen” chorus to be a most moving and powerful figuration of the Resurrection – or, more accurately and precisely, of what follows after the Resurrection – of life, eternal and glorious.

Of course, the entire work, Messiah, is a monumental feat of artistic genius. Musically, of course! – but what I am referring to here is its very core concept, of using only (or mostly) texts that are not from the Gospels, in order to tell the story... of the Gospels. In other words, using texts mostly from the Old Testament (the Jewish Bible) - to tell the story of the life of Christ (which is the central story of the New Testament), from his birth, to his death and resurrection. To tell an entire, momentous story, using only (or mostly) indirect language... prefiguration, metaphor, analogy, prophetic language – what a feat of artistic (and spiritual) inspiration! But I did not come to praise Handel – although that is most deserved, certainly – but to give a little bit of a background, which might help contextualize that very last chorus, “Amen”.

So, back to the chorus, let’s ask ourselves what does this word "amen" (of Jewish origin) actually signify? Well, in brief, it is an expression, affirmation and confirmation that something truly is; a “yes”, a “verily”, a “truthfully so” given to... well, to what is this “yes” given, in the oratorio? In the Messiah, the “Amen” chorus follows right after a piece that intones, “Worthy Is the Lamb”: “Worthy is the Lamb that was slain, and hath redeemed us to God by his blood, to receive power, and riches, and wisdom, and strength, and honour, and glory, and blessing... for ever and ever.” In other words, the “Amen” chorus is preceded and prepared by a brief restatement of the death (on a cross) of the Lamb - and by a statement of the victory of the Lamb over said death (victorious act that is usually expressed through the word, "resurrection").

And what does this word, “resurrection”, mean? Etymologically, it means to rise again (in Latin: resurgere) – or, to rise from the dead (in Church Latin: resurrectionem). And what is “death”? It is, apparently, the radical opposite, the sworn enemy, the end and the destruction, of life.  But! - not here! – as here the Lamb that was slain passes from life temporal – through death – to life eternal (through the act of Resurrection). Thus, “O Death, where is thy sting?”, sing the soloists, in a preceding section of the oratorio... The “amen” that comes at the very end of the oratorio, therefore, does not mark the "end" of the story of Christ - but is a repeated and confirmed affirmation of the fact that there is no end.

The meaning and the aftermath of the act of the Resurrection is, then, the definitive and ultimate victory of life, over death –. and the repeated “amen!” is given to that victory of life. And, listening to this chorus, we hear the musical lines (sung, as it were, by millions upon millions...) flowing up and down, swelling, overtaking each other, overflowing - “amen”, upon “amen”, upon “amen” – an eternalized crescendo of the eternal joy of the victory of life, eternal and glorious. “Amen”, then, becomes an expression of the unending joy of witnessing and of partaking in Life, eternal - in being, accomplished and fulfilled.

As we have seen in the previous installments of our investigation, the state of joy seems to be associated, in a deep way, with being - with the plenitude and the full manifestation of our being. Resurrection, on the other hand, is precisely the definitive victory of being - over and against what apparently is its very opposite, death (and, more broadly, over finiteness, imperfection, temporality, misery...) And this is why I have proposed this equivalence, of “joy as Resurrection” - and why I have used, as illustration, the final chorus from Handel's Messiah – because this final “Amen” seems to be an expression of the joy of Being - Being unending, glorious, victorious.

Indeed, I find this “Amen” chorus so uplifting and moving because it proclaims the eternal victory of Being - through the continuous, repeated, magnificent – joyous – affirmation of the simple yet powerful expression: “IT IS” (“amen”).

***

And thus we have reached the end (almost) of our inquiry into the category of joy. What remains to be done, still, is to review and to conclusively summarize what we have learned from this week- (or Octave-) long investigation; and that is what we will do in tomorrow’s, final installment of this modest series.

The Category of Joy (5)

What is joy? Continuing our investigation...

5. Joy as Sacrifice

At first sight (and not just at first sight), these terms seem incongruous. And, if someone is familiar with Mother Teresa of Calcutta’s experience of the “dark night of the soul”, the picture below might seem slightly inadequate, as well.

What could this mean, then – this, “joy as sacrifice”? Well, let’s just think of the example of the grandmother, as discussed in yesterday’s installment of our little investigative series – who was the “giver” in that relationship of unconditional love, which the receiver lived out as (a condition of) joy; and let us remember that we asked ourselves then whether “joy” might actually be found (felt) at that giver’s end, as well, and not just at the receiver’s. How can we answer that question? Well, what do we know about the “giver” of unconditional love? We know that such giving of (and from) the self is – or implies, inevitably - an act of self-denial, of self-sacrifice – and that, as such, it also incurs, inevitably, pain, as well. So why does the grandmother do that? Out of love, would be the immediate answer – yet this is no sentimental, fluffy, romantic love, but the actual, harsh love of self-giving (giving of the self, and from the self). And, being an act of true love, there is in it – or behind it, beneath it -  a deep sense of joy, as well, a joy that is associated with living out what appears to be the vocation of the human being – which is, essentially, the giving of the self to(ward) the other. (Note that the same act of self-gift, but in reciprocal form, is what constitutes that “unity of man and woman” that was discussed in yet another earlier episode of this series).

It seems therefore that sacrifice is an aspect, or element – perhaps the visible one, the one that we perceive most readily – of what is, at a deeper level, existentially, a mysteriously joyous (?) act of self-gift (“self-gift” that is the true meaning of “love” – far from the sappy, romantic, sentimental, even self-seeking mis-understanding of the concept).

And now let us look at this thing from yet another angle, using the video below, which is taken from a documentary, Into Great Silence, which presents (with little to no commentary) the daily life of the Carthusian monks of La Grande Chartreuse (in France). It should be noted that the Carthusian order is among the so-called “strictest” contemplative orders; for example, the monks spend most of their days – even their time together, at meals or at work - in silence.

But here the aforementioned notion of “strictness” necessitates some further elaboration - and, in order to do that, let’s start by asking, “who are these monks, and why are they there?” The answer is that these are men (from different walks of life, originally, and of different origins) who have voluntarily decided to turn away from “the world”, from the temporal, in order to dedicate themselves completely, bodily and spiritually, their entire time, and life, to God. The aforementioned “strictness” of the order, therefore, is not some externally imposed, arbitrary, nonsensical rule – but it is the personal choice of each of them, to renounce the things that, in their eyes, represent a lesser or a partial good (of the world, of the temporal order), for a greater, eternal good (of God). Here is another excerpt from the same documentary, in which one of the monks talks about how their choice is, in fact, for happiness - a greater happiness.

I have chosen these examples in order to exemplify “the other side”, as it were, of sacrifice. Indeed, their style of life, of these monks, and their discipline, will seem – for many of us – very hard, even harsh; that, indeed, is the “sacrifice” part. And yet this sacrifice is but a means and a path toward what is considered by them a greater goal, a truer end – which is not dissimilar to how in marriage one in fact renounces (a sacrifice) all other possible options, all other persons – in favor of only one person - in the name of a truer and greater love. See below a short snippet (just some seconds, really) from the trailer of a movie, Of Gods and Men, which recounts the true story of a group of Trappist monks from Algeria, from the monastery of Tibhirine; in this very short sequence, an older monk, while in conversation with a young woman from the village, explains that he has known human love (which is a good), but that he has given up that kind of love, for a greater love (i.e. for Love itself).

[that sequence starts at 1:01]

Can there be, then, deep joy in sacrifice? It seems that there is - but not in a superficial, light, easy way. Instead, that deep joy seems to be the specific counterpart of a certain kind of sacrifice – one that is life-pursuing, life-searching, and life-giving. It seems also that this deep joy is associated with – and might arise from - choosing what we start to grasp as the truth of our being - while sacrificing what is only apparently or temporarily (or perhaps selfishly) so. Meanwhile, however, all of this does not remove the sting and the pain of the act of sacrifice. And yet – at least within this temporal human condition – it seems that sacrifice is almost a necessary corollary, even an inevitable condition - for the pursuit of that deeper joy.

Paradoxical, isn’t it? Well, yes, just like Good Friday is the necessary, inevitable, paradoxical path and condition – for experiencing the joy of Resurrection; so much so, that there is no resurrection without the cross. And what is “resurrection”, if not the experience of the plenitude, fullness, and accomplishment of being? But more on these, later.

And, not to leave our initial reference to Mother Teresa somehow open-ended, and inconclusive – and to further explain my initial choice of using her picture – all of this might also reflect how, in Mother Teresa's case, her inner “dark night of the soul” (her inner sacrifice, suffering) became, when turning toward us, the image and the face of unconditional love and inexpressible joy – in a very real way, for so many of us!  But these are not easy things...

So let us conclude by remarking how the state of joy that we are investigating seems to be very different from, and utterly unlike, the easy, superficial state of “having a good time”, or of “being happy” - understood as self-centered satisfaction. Indeed, we see yet again that joy seems to be an essentially outward- and other-oriented state – perhaps because our very being is essentially dialogical, and open toward the other / the Other. Finally, it seems - again - that this state of joy corresponds to a living out of - with a living according to - the truth of our being.

The Category of Joy (4)

Continuing our Easter Octave investigation into the various possible aspects, or meanings, or manifestations, of the state of joy, today let us talk about:

4. Joy as Unconditional Love

As you can see below, in order to illustrate this meaning of the concept of joy, I have chosen the image of a grandmother’s hand, holding her grandchild's hand. I am sure that, for some, an even better representation would be that of a mother’s hand, holding her child’s hand – and that is perfectly fine. There are various reasons for using this image, from my perspective – and one of them is that I consider that a grandmother’s love possesses an added dimension of frailty and vulnerability - of a love given, as it were, without authority – and thus, of gratuitousness - of unconditionality.

Still, this equivalence (and this concept, of unconditional love) is not without difficulties – first of all, because we implicitly tend to look at unconditional love from the perspective of the receiver (because this is how, instinctively, we associate it with the state of joy). But what corresponds to this “at the other end”, of the giver - a “giver” that gives so deeply, without holding back - is there also “joy”? Perhaps we should talk about this in another installment of our modest investigative series. For now, though, let us be satisfied with, and “joyous” because of, benefiting – as receivers– from this unconditional love, and let us look at the concept from this perspective.

Here again, though, we notice that the concept continues to pose difficulties - and I am referring to the fact that unconditional love, instead of being joy, seems rather to provide the condition for joy. What do I mean? Well, let’s take the example of a child (of the grandchild), for whom, more often than not, (the) unconditional love (of a grandmother) passes completely unobserved, being perceived as a natural condition of being, as normality. Later in life, of course, the ex-child will discover that nothing just is – and that what they experienced once as a given, as normality. was in fact something created, sustained, and offered to them, by someone else – mostly, without them observing. But back then, when they were at the receiving end, these children were like fish in the water, basking and swimming in it without care, unawares and unbothered by thinking about the necessary conditions... for the existence of water. And, just like said body of water, unconditional love is life-giving, life-sustaining and life-caring – even if the stupid fish seem to know nothing about it.

Thus, unconditional love seems to provide the condition for being to be - freely, in its natural state - with some good and not so good behavior, with straying and with coming back etc. You know – like the animal, in its natural habitat, doing what the animal does.

Unconditional love is thus connected with joy by being the underlying condition that allows, or that provides, for being to exist. Or, if it is joy, this unconditional love, it is that only at a deeper level, or in a deeper way; for example, at the level of a glorious summer afternoon of play from our childhood – in which we were busy with the rush and with the give-and-take of the play, with all its screams and chases, agitation and laughter – all the while not knowing and not observing that the glorious summer afternoon was – so normal, so everyday-like it all seemed. Unconditional love is like that afternoon – it is, so that we can be.

Later on, during adulthood, the former child will learn to distinguish and to notice the presence of such glorious summer afternoons - by learning to experience their absence. To put it differently, the adult will gradually learn to think about receiving unconditional love – especially in what concerns interhuman relations – as well-nigh a miracle, its possibility so remote as to be effectively dismissed (unless it is received from their still-living grandmother - or mother etc.). Until, of course, it is this adult’s turn (if it ever comes) to give that sort of unconditional love – perhaps as a grandparent - modestly, unknown, self-giving; but that, again, is a different side of the story.

To conclude, unconditional love seems to be the thing that provides the condition and the possibility for being - to be, to manifest itself, to flourish, freely. It is therefore associated with “joy” inasmuch as it seems to provide the condition (remember: life-giving, life-caring, life-maintaining) for the plenitude of being (to manifest itself); and, as this investigation proceeds, we seem to associate  - more and more - the state of joy with a state of plenitude of being. 

Unconditional love – then – makes being possible – and thus makes joy possible.

The Category of Joy (3)

Let us continue our investigation into various hypostases of the state of joy, by talking about:

3. Joy as Marriage

What in the world could this mean? Well, if the term “laughter” necessitated clarifications, this term (and this equivalence) surely does, as well. In order to do that - to look into the ways in which “marriage” corresponds to and is expressive of “joy” - I will employ as a visual aid the following image, of a statuary group from the Cathedral of St. Matthew in Washington, DC.

the betrothal of Joseph and Mary
(by Vincenzo Demetz, Italy; installed 1961)

So, in what manner would the term “joy” find its manifestation – or one of its manifestations - in “marriage”? Gazing at this image of the betrothal of Mary and Joseph, one is struck (or I am, at least) by a sense of “peace”, of settledness, of “things being right” (impression that is, of course, supported by our contextual knowledge about this couple). Indeed, marriage – that covenant or sacred bond between two people, endeavored before God (see the enlarged image of the chapel, below) – is, according to John Paul II (in his commentary on the book of Genesis) reflective (in its original state) of the perfection and unity of God.

How does that work? Well, according to the mythical story of the Book of Genesis (“mythical”, in the sense that its main concern is not with relating “historical events”, but with revealing some essential truths about the nature and the condition of the human beings), after God created the human being (in Hebrew, adam - which is not a person’s name, but a general term denoting human beings, without determination of sex), the resulting human being looked around and “saw”  that he was as yet unaccomplished, incomplete – that it was alone. In consequence – so the mythical story goes, revealing additional information about the nature of the human beings - God put adam in a deep sleep, and then out of this adam He made man (in Hebrew, ish) and woman (in Hebrew, ishah). Then and thus - and only then and thus - was the creation of the human being accomplished:

“God created mankind in his image;

in the image of God he created them;

male and female he created them.” (Gen 1:25)

In other words, the perfectly accomplished creation of the human being, in the image of God (i.e. reflecting His perfection, goodness, and unity), is only accomplished in this “original unity of ish (man) and ishah (woman)”. And “[t]hat is why a man leaves his father and mother and clings to his wife, and the two of them become one body.” (Gen. 2:24) – i.e. thus, marriage. According to this Jewish-Christian understanding, then, marriage is a sacred covenant through which the man and the woman live out, together - and, in a way, re-enact - that original harmony and perfection of the original human condition – even if now only imperfectly, and in a flawed manner.

Thus, the image above, of the very Jewish wedding of Mary and Joseph (see, to the right, the young man who leaves, seemingly disappointed, while breaking a stick on his knee - which is a sign, according to Jewish customs, of being a rejected suitor of the bride), seems to embody and to reflect such a moment and state  - which connects them (and us) with, and which re-enacts, that original state of unity and harmony (of the creation of man, in the image of God, accomplished in the unity of ish and ishah). As such, what one “gets” from looking at this statuary group is a sense of peace, of “things being right”, of the world “being set aright” - of all the puzzle pieces finally falling into place, for once.

And it is in this sense that I identify in marriage another manifestation of - and thus set of meanings for – the existential state of joy. Joy, as a deep living out of our being being “at right”; of us being in the right place and in the right condition; before God, who is the source of our (and of all) being.

Note also that marriage is – naturally and essentially - a social, dialogical act; that this state of harmony and peace is attained (or aimed at, imperfectly) only through the common act of two persons, an act that binds them; that it is this covenant in which they enter, together, that endows them (as a couple) with the perfection (again, imperfectly lived out) that we were talking about (the image of the original unity and perfection of the human being). Thus we see, yet again, that joy seems to be a state that is essentially social, or at least fundamentally open toward the other - just like the human being itself is essentially open to - and in need of - the other.

The “Wedding Chapel”
(Cathedral of St. Matthew, Washington, DC)

The Category of Joy (2)

Let us continue our Easter Octave investigation on the category of joy.

2. Joy as Laughter

This dimension requires some work and clarification, as it is quite easy to confuse things, with regard to this term. For example, there is that shallow, self-centered “live, laugh, love” (appalling and unappealing); there is the somewhat “mechanical” understanding of "laughter" as “joking”, or as “telling jokes”; and there is a kind of meaningless, empty laughter, behind which one finds no self, but only superficiality; and there is also the very broad category of humor, much too broad to be used, in its entirety and indiscriminately, in association with this concept of “laughter” - and so on, and so on.

So, what do I mean, then, by laughter, as an expression of that state of joy? To exemplify what I mean, I have appended below a compilation video with scenes from (French comedian) Louis de Funès’ films about “the gendarme of St Tropez”. (This is, of course, only an example, not familiar to everyone – but one can find examples that are more suited to one’s particular experience.) However, the reason why I am using the work of Louis de Funès, and specifically this series of films, is because for me they embody some of the essence of that joyous laughter that I am trying to describe. Namely, that kind of liberating, childlike (not childish), freeing laughter, which raises one’s self out of - and above - the weight of sublunar existence.

Levity – yet not understood as “frivolity”, but in a sense closer to its etymological and historical meanings: as “lightness”, as that force that opposes gravity (as the term was used in pre-modern science) – an expression of freedom from petty, burdensome temporality. This is not, therefore, Kundera’s “unbearable lightness of being” (which actually represents a diminution in being); instead, it is an affirmation of being, of the dignity and transcendence of the human self, over and against the shackles of the sublunar, of the historical, of the material, even.

This is the laughter of children at play (seen quite unsentimentally), and also of grown-ups at play (for example, at a pick-up soccer game, in the afternoon). It is good-natured, good-humored, and well-disposed (with amiable feelings) toward the others – while, at the same time, not taking oneself, nor the others, nor life (in its intra-historical meaning) too seriously. It is thus revivifying and refreshing of the self.

Overall, it is an expression of the love of existence, of the joy of existence – and therefore a manifestation of joy, where joy is a state that expresses the plenitude of being.

***

At the end of the week, we will synthesize what we have learned from all these individual posts (on the various aspects or dimensions of joy), into one summary conclusion (of sorts) of our "investigation" into the category of joy.

The Category of Joy (1)

Joy is not the same as “having fun”, nor is it about “having a good time”; it is not the same as humor (per se), nor is it (worse still!) about joking, telling jokes. I mention these counterexamples because I have been witness to occasions when joy should have been present – and yet, because of an apparent loss of the very capacity to understand what joy is, as a distinct state of existence, joy was replaced, approximated, feebly attempted, through “telling jokes”, or through efforts at “having fun”. A sad and strange state of affairs, this, and one peculiar (seemingly) to our time and to a certain civilisational milieu.

Resurrection (illuminated manuscript,
c.1492-1503, British Library)

What is joy, then? Well, I have decided to use this Easter Octave (the eight days following the Sunday of the Resurrection, which are meant to be experienced as a sort of a temporal extension of that day) as an occasion to investigate the category of joy (the Easter Octave being supposed to be - exceptionally so - a period of lived joy). And I will pursue this investigation - without any pretensions at exhaustiveness, nor even at utter precision - by looking at different types, or manifestations, or exemplars, of lived joy. Poor and approximated examples, necessarily - because I can only be sure of what I, personally, experience... not what others experience, and why, and how.

And I am indeed persuaded – and thus I start from this assumption – that joy is a category of being, a state of existence; and not something that we do, a category of actions, nor something to be achieved, conquered, made... Rather, it seems to me (at this point, at least – at the beginning) that joy is something like a fine-tuning of our existence to the very truth of our being. But let’s not jump ahead - let’s just look at different examples (or manifestations) of joy (as an existential experience), with the goal of better understanding the specific elements and attributes of this category, hopefully obtaining, at the end, a clearer contour and delineation of what this state of being might be and might entail.

Before I begin, however, let me repeat again the disclaimer - that this is only an act of investigation, and that I don’t know exactly what will result from it. Yes, it does start from some intuitions, which are rooted (of course) in certain experiences; but this whole attempt is and will remain, modestly, just an attempt – both in its means and possibilities, and in its aims.

1. Joy as Creation

Joy as, or in, the act of creation; and I will use here an example – seemingly almost spontaneous – of artistic creation (or expression; which is basically the same thing). Artistic creation seems to come from an inner need, from an existential need - of expression. Another attribute that seems to pertain intrinsically to artistic creation is freedom – not understood as unruliness (or lack of rules; oh, no!), but freedom as the possibility for the expression of being. (There is a scene in the movie, The Lives of Others, in which a secret police specialist describes how destroying the capacity of the artist to create, is the best and surest method – and thus the cruelest, isn’t it? – of destroying their very being. It's like stopping a bird from singing.)

“Expression of being” means expressive of a genuine need – and thus, inherently self-effacing and modest, and not aimed at self-laudatory exhibitionism. At the same time, the artistic expression is inherently directed at others, is dialogic - even if only potentially, or virtually: like when a composer composes (for a future audience, which might never exist), or when a musician rehearses (and the listeners are present, simultaneously, in his head).

The Ages of Man

I always felt that every age has its own atmosphere, its own "air." Correspondingly, there are ages that feel akin, and others that repulse me.

I have no definite sense of Greek antiquity. Mostly, it leaves me cold. It seems mostly cold. Dead, even - in the way the eyes of its sculptures look dead, with the original paint peeled of. Their problems, dilemmas, drives, reasons, values and orientations - it all seems alien. The city-state and its arrangements, the physicality / muscularity of its culture, its images of the "other world" (Hades, the world of shadows, Charon crossing with the boat)... It is not crepuscular, but it is a world of twilight and savagery.

The Roman period inclines even more towards worldly "virtues" - honor and debauchery, war and commerce, and what looks like a boring, bourgeois everyday life.

Skipping abruptly to the end of Renaissance and then to the Enlightenment. Here the centuries start acquiring their own distinct identity (to my affective memory). The 1500s might be a turning point, as after 1600 it all becomes - slowly, surely, unidirectionally - tired and emptied of truth.

The seventeenth century has too many elegant clothes. The English routines of tea and church start being only about tea; a slow, gradual transformation, which achieves its culmination in our day (just visit an Anglican place). The philosophers of the 17th are already too far removed from the essence of things, to be able to say anything worth dusting off. Plastic arts - painting, sculpture - move strongly towards academism; the freshness of the discoveries of the preceding centuries is gone; we have acquired the techniques, we improve on them, but we immerse ourselves only in touches and dabs of paint, here, and there, and here again. The Dutch lose all opening to the cosmos and to the skies, and succumb into domesticity. Interiors, only interiors - little light, not much air, too much furniture.

The eighteenth century goes on in the same manner, just more so. The flame becomes almost extinguished.  We spend our time in this-worldliness, a sophisticated yet utterly vain pastime (all is vanity). And yet this is supposed to be the Enlightenment, but what I see are dimming lights. Or, rather, homes lit by candles, and there is nobody on the streets; everybody is inside, slightly afraid of living out existence. An oppressive existence.

Jan Davidsz De Heem: A Table of Desserts (1640)

The least appealing century, the nineteenth. There is almost nothing to which I can relate, except for the last twenty to twenty-five years - and just because they lead to something else. Everything seems so empty; it passes with a bang, and bangs are gone as fast as all sounds are, even the loud ones. Sounds are not remembered, either - not in the collective memory.

The turn of the century brings again exciting, burning times; for me, Vienna, symbolist poetry; it all becomes modern, but in a conflicted, adult way. Sentences become shorter, paint on the canvas braver, yet differently than before. It starts becoming my/our time.

But before going into the twentieth, let us make that short excursion to the middle ages. Glowing with embers, simple huts of men, really living and really dying. It is as if the following centuries (17th-19th) have accumulated so much civilizational ballast, so much commentary, that lives were lived afterward in what we ourselves made up, and not in the dust and water (and passion) of reality. (Hobbes and Locke and Rousseau and their states of nature, and their inferences from it - what a cosmic-sized yawn!)

Civilization is commentary on existence; given our imaginative capacities, it can walk a close line along reality, or get farther and farther removed from it. Our openness to the truth of what there is (out there and in us) is reflected in how we live our daily life. Do we draw the curtains, do we live inside, or do we step outside, fearful and hopeful at the same time - fears as visceral as the hope for the beatific vision is strong.

The Middle Ages were real, mud as well as stone; Romanesque architecture expresses it best: simple, ascetic, yet more alive than any other style. Of course, early Middle Ages were less exciting - too much darkness, too much awakening, before we dared to grab a hold of the hand that builds, of the thinking mind, before we dared to confront the world and to integrate it into our this-world/ that-world complex.

Renaissance is like a heightened Middle Ages; all those early tendencies, discoveries of the Middle Ages, like young, strong plants, giving their first buds and daring flowers during the Renaissance; still fresh, still alive, still hopeful, not yet fallen into the stuffy domesticity of garden bushes.

Back to the beginning of the twentieth century.. what a century of horror to follow! And yet, very much alive; if not on the surface, then immediately beneath; not in the governing forces, but in the resistance. True life did not happen at the surface; the surface was terrible. Example of touches and swaths of living fire: in France, from Claudel to Bernanos, from Maritain to Frossard; or the underground currents suddenly coming back to the surface as fresh, new sources, in Britain - from Chesterton to Tolkien to Waugh. Also, civilization pure and simple - for example, an urban culture that has shed the sooth and grime of early Industrialization. Jazz!

The short century. It started in 1918, which signaled the end of classical civilization (as embodied in classical Europe) with a grand war of nations and nationalisms, of strong monarchs and personal alliances. Post-1918 we wake up to find that the world has been disenchanted - which, however, does not stop us from making up our own realities as we go (fantasy wars & al.). We continue to lose in the plastic arts and in the world of sounds; by now, there seems to be little left to say, and equally little to de-compose, destruct, smash through; but the middle of the century is just in the middle of it, so still alive with it. A horrific century of oppressive rules that tried to change human nature - in a natural follow-up to the 17th and 18th and their making up of reality as we go, and of the 19th with the freeing of man to become the abject subject of other men and of their ideas. The twentieth century, which started in 1918, ends in 1989, by which time cold wars of many types lose their grounds of existence. Idle men will try to come up with new reasons for new wars, hot or languid.

But the twentieth century is too close for me to be able to form any precise impression of its nature, of its air; it is very much alive, since I was living it.

No clear color, besides confusion, to the still very young twenty-first century.

Willem de Kooning  - Easter Monday (1955–56)

GK Chesterton

A good article by Jay Parini about Chesterton in... The Chronicle of Higher Education. This mainstream attention to GKC might be due to the publication of a new major biography, by Ian Ker, followed by featured articles in the Times Literary Supplement and, I suppose, other outlets of the literary world. This is all good news. Chesterton is a delight to read, especially when he is at his best, which I would consider to be in Heretics and in  Orthodoxy (both are available online, for free - if you follow these links). But it would be mightily unfair to reduce the mighty Chesterton to only these two gems, and not mention his brilliant book on Thomas Aquinas, about which the eminent Tomist scholar Etienne Gilson said decades later,

I consider it as being without possible comparison the best book ever written on St. Thomas. Nothing short of genius can account for such an achievement. Everybody will no doubt admit that it is a "clever" book, but the few readers who have spent twenty or thirty years in studying St. Thomas Aquinas, and who, perhaps, have themselves published two or three volumes on the subject, cannot fail to perceive that the so-called "wit" of Chesterton has put their scholarship to shame. [source]

A typical anecdote about GKC is that he never actually read the Summa from cover to cover, but only browsed through it; but that was enough, because he understood it, in the deeper meaning of the word; he understood it, because his mind worked like Aquinas' - it understood the whole of existence, and how all things fit within it.

And let us not ignore the superb detective stories featuring Father Brown - stories that are both entertaining and philosophical (a common-sense philosophy, accessible to any and all, by virtue of existing).  Or my favorite novel from him, The Flying Inn; or the famous and avant-la-lettre surrealist The Man Who Was Thursday.

Returning to the Chronicle piece, what is interesting about it is that it reveals, inadvertently, some of the academic biases of the moment; the author has to couch his praises in terms that we could consider, with a bit of effort and exaggeration, Marxist or postmodernist. Thus, he needs to underline that GKS stood up for the poor - against the rich, certainly; that he "questioned facts and reality" - how Postmodern! This, in order to assuage the readers' possible, automaton-like reactions to the perceived "conservatism" of Chesterton.

It is sad, sad indeed, that readers and writers can not think outside these ideological boxes dominating our times - and certainly the world of letters, and the academia. Terms that have little meaning, of course, and that fail to account for reality. Terms that are bound by space and time - the understanding of these terms in America is not the same as their meaning in Europe, let alone Africa or Asia; these terms are all part of a tiny little stretch of time in history, namely the post- industrial revolution age, and would make little sense outside of it (was Aristotle a conservative? a liberal? but how about Augustine? ... how silly).

The good news is that Chesterton is not reducible to these puny terms (of derision, I would say). Not even politically per se. As Parini mentions, even politically Chesterton stood for something else that the two twin embodiments of modern materialism, namely socialism and capitalism. He is, after all, one of the "founding fathers" of Distributism, which is a view of society and economy that is rooted in the recognition of the dignity and freedom of the individual, and of the intrinsic value of community and of localism. But by now I am starting (???) to sound dry and empty, so I will leave it at that, about politics.        

What is more important is that Chesterton is not the author of, but the expression of, something greater - a view of the universe and of the human being inhabiting it that is comprehensive, common-sense and, briefly put, true. A view that is realistic and idealistic at the same time - but a healthy idealism, the realistic idealism of fairy tales, not that of dreams and nightmares (as exemplified in Marxism, Fascism, and all the other ideologies). Fairy tales teach us essential truths about the human condition  (there is much death and suffering in them; the hero fights evil, in fairy tales), are optimistic, and, most of all, are filled with wonder - just like existence! Existence is filled with wonder, and this child-like (and not childish!) wonder is the deep root of Chesterton's optimistic, yet at the same time thoroughly realistic, view of human existence.

A joy to read, an even greater joy to discover GK Chesterton.

...

Finally, here is a good list of GKC works available on the web (yes, gratis).