Gilbert and Me

Well, here we are again, Gilbert and me. He has circled round my life many times now and has returned for another go. My history with him could best be described as "ill-timed."

When he first came into my life, I was a young woman in a hurry. I was heady with syllogisms and wanted my life to be governed by them. I had no time for ramblers. I wanted my truth plain, stout, and comforting with answers - black and white were preferred - gray was grudgingly accepted if there be no other way. I wanted something to hold onto with certainty. I built my house on Aristotle, Thomas, and the Fathers of the Church. Men who did not meander along life's little byways but realized time was of the essence and truth needed to be plainly put - even if it was as daunting as the Trinity. Mr. Chesterton, alas, was none of these.

I remember the first time someone gave me one of his books; Orthodoxy I believe. I dutifully read it, as I loved the person who gave it to me. But there were nights I wanted to scream: "Where are we going with this line of argument? WHERE? WHERE???" And as I would find myself poised to hurl the book bodily across the room, lo and behold, there it would be: one, perfect, lucid, little, pithy sentence that made me melt into the cushions. Such were the ups and downs of our literary romance, Gilbert's and mine. I finished Orthodoxy but not without a struggle.

I forgot all about him then, until I was a young mom with three young children in tow. Someone tried once more to give me one of his books. To my chagrin ,and due to the distinctive amnesia that is motherhood, I haven't the slightest memory which one. I only know that I had about one half hour of decent reading time in my day back then, and it was while feeding or burping a baby. Subtract the time I would inevitably nod off over the pages while burping said baby, and I was left with approximately fifteen minutes of good, solid, thinking. I had NO time for Chesterton's meandering little arguments. I needed my spiritual fix and quickly. It was a page of St. Francis de Sales, or a bracing little paragraph from St. Teresa of Avila. Chesterton fell by the wayside and gathered dust in the corner of the forgotten bookshelf.

I truly thought Gilbert would have taken the hint after that, but no. To my absolute amusement, here he is again, in the form of What’s Wrong with the World. And once again, another friend I dearly love has given it over for me to read and worse – to share my thoughts upon it. Somehow, I think I can hear Gilbert laughing softly behind his cigar and saying, “Gottcha!” or some cheeky British equivalent thereof.

I must say, at the outset, that I am quite taken with the title, for I would very much like to know what is wrong with the world. I ask that question daily in my present state of life. I am a mother on the other side of little children. I have nothing but time. The world around me constantly terrifies, bemuses, baffles, then amuses me in turn. My syllogisms over the years have unraveled a bit and I have discovered that there are more questions that do not fit into neat little boxes. I have consented, most resignedly, to the messiness of life.

So, here I am. I have entered the meandering loveliness that really is Gilbert Keith Chesterton. I have time now to brew him two or three pots of tea and serve him up the tea cakes until there are only crumbs left on the tray and the afternoon sun begins to sink low. For he truly is a lovely, if garrulous, man. He is kind, witty, and has a fresh take on the world. One can't stay annoyed with him for long. I think he is fair to women (when he isn’t deliberately vexing them with his somewhat outrageous assumptions concerning their habits) and I believe he loves them in a most uncondescending way. I would also posit that he honors and cherishes the family in a fresh, inviting way. Some of his most creatively lyrical and endearing quotations in this book concern the beauty of everyday family life. For that I will always love him. Very few there are who understand that beauty as well as he does.

Two things Chesterton is not: a philosopher nor a Theologian. I don’t think I hurt his feelings in the least by saying this. I think he would wholeheartedly agree with me. But I can hear the murmuring grumbles of the young men who have heavily invested in tweed and hail him their hero while lighting cigars in his honor. I mean no disrespect. To be fair, I have bought a tweed jacket for my own husband. I am a great fan of tweed. I just mean this: who would want to imitate the dress and habits of his favorite…. philosopher? We imitate quirkiness. We imitate personality. We imitate people we would so love to follow around for a day. Chesterton is all of these things. He had a way with words, he wore tweed, he smoked cigars, loved beer and brandy and sitting in pubs. He was just so delightfully clever and had an admirable, off-the-cuff, absolutely confident intuitiveness about the things he held most dear. He loved God, the family, his wife, his country with unabashed affection and admiration. We find ourselves nodding in surprised and delighted agreement when we come across it in his writing for we very much love the same things he does. He just expresses it so much better than we can. He is our spokesman, our comforter, our defender. The icon of our fashion choices. The lover of the beloved common things. That is why we admire Chesterton and desire to be like him.

In his forward to this particular edition, Sohrab Ahmari points this out when he says:

He was the furthest thing from a systematic thinker. Rather, he proceeded largely by moral intuition and common sense. His intuitions and sense were, in turn, the products of a sensibility at once profoundly English and profoundly Catholic.

If I would say anything further about Chesterton, it would be that in a very real way, he is “the beginning of Wisdom.” He is not afraid to assert, to engage in argument, to make his opinion known quite openly; to converse with us and with the world at large. Yet, he makes outrageous assumptions and then moves on without proving them. This present book I am reading is no exception. It is almost appalling how little he engages in any serious philosophical reasoning to prove his points. He irks me much as Socrates might have irked Meno with his incessant questions. But in the case of Chesterton there are incessant answers without any questions. We find ourselves saying, “What proof? What proof do you have for saying this? I have this annoying sense you are absolutely correct, but what proof?” and he just walks on in that maddening, jovial way of his. Could it be that he is deliberately leading US to ask the questions? He supplies us the answers. It is up to us to test those answers for ourselves. We must ask the questions, for questions are the beginning of wisdom. Chesterton’s assumptions may irk us so badly that we, on our own, may doggedly pursue proof with a determined will and when we do, we sometimes find to our complete astonishment that he is – correct – and we forget our annoyance and we melt into starry eyed wonder again. It is this magical, intuitive, almost poetic quality about him that captivates us and keeps us spinning in his charming orbit.

There is a favorite line of mine in the movie Sense and Sensibility spoken by little Margaret Dashwood, who is always left out of the intimate gossip of her elder sisters and mother. She takes a shine to the more garrulous Mrs. Jennings who talks incessantly about everything to everyone, including Margaret. When Mrs. Jennings is snubbed by her elder sisters as ‘trying’ Margaret pipes up and says,

I like her. She talks about things. We ne-ver talk about things.

Can’t we say the same thing about Chesterton? He talks about things. In this tedious world of tweets, snap chat, memes, talking heads, and internet influencers we can open the pages of Chesterton and find someone who is willing to engage us about the things that matter, while ordering us a pint. He reminds us that what the modern world has proclaimed so tedious and commonplace is actually quite astounding and fascinating if we engage it. He talks with us about the things we love to talk about. Young men in tweed, wives, husbands, philosophers, theologians, students and plumbers. He will sit and have a beer with any and all of us. He invites us to the great conversation and makes us believe in the magic of the world again. What’s not to love?

As I turn the pages of this book, I have time now for his meandering arguments that make many stops at little paradoxical inns along the way. I have learned to revel in them now that I have time. I have grown used to these amazing highs and exasperating lows that are the tell-tale signs of love. Perhaps this ill-fated literary romance has reached a happy ending at last.

What’s Wrong With the World, by G.K. Chesterton has been re-released by Sophia Institute Press with a new Foreword by Sohrab Ahmari