In a famous quip about Revelation, G.K. Chesterton wrote, "And though St. John the Evangelist saw many strange monsters in his vision, he saw no creature so wild as one of his own commentators."
I am not surprised that the same truism applies to Chesterton's own body of work, as it can be as wild and unruly as he occasionally was. But I was hoping I wouldn't find such a commentator at the estimable League, which is the home of the some of the web's most interesting and insightful prose.
I'll grant up front that I am one of those Chesterton fans who is, ahem, slightly passionate about the man. I make no apologies for it: I suspect I wouldn't be a Christian today without Chesterton's witness, and still find his work keeps my sense of romance and adventure alive where few others can. Call it a Chestertonian patriotic attachment, if you must.
But anecdotes aside, there are intellectual disputes to be had. From Austin Bramwell's analysis:
"It’s true: As a record of how Chesterton came to Christianity, Orthodoxy is completely unpersuasive. Every sentence conjures up the Chesterton persona. An actual person who doubts and discovers, and changes his thinking as a result, never emerges."
Bramwell is affirming Maurice Cowling's assessment here, but that doesn't excuse it. I'll content myself with two points.
First, as a description of Orthodoxy's purpose, it relies too much on the preface, and not enough on the actual work. As Chesterton says in the opening paragraph, Orthodoxy is not a “series of deductions” but an attempt “in a vague and personal way, in a set of mental pictures, to state the philosophy in which [he has] come to believe.” The point of calling it "autobiographical" in the beginning is to suggest that it is a personal picture--or series of pictures--that Chesterton is painting. It is a self-consciously "slovenly autobiography." If he has failed to meet Cowley and Bramwell's criteria, he can hardly be held to the account, for I dare say he warned them from the beginning.
Second, it's the sort of analysis that seems to want Chesterton to be an angst-ridden teenager, rather than an early twentieth-century British man. In "The Paradoxes of Christianity," for instance, Chesterton walks through the objections against Christianity that he had affirmed at one point, and then makes the transition: "And then in a quiet hour a strange thought struck me like a still thunderbolt. There had suddenly come into my mind another explanation." As if to say, "I changed my mind."
If the main point is one of Chesterton's style, I might suggest an alternate explanation: the rhetoric isn't a persona at all, but is actually part of Chesterton's personality. Though he was no stranger to doubt and depression--he seems to have nearly committed suicide, in fact--he was by all accounts a truly happy man, and seems to have actually achieved some measure of the almost unknown quantity of joy.
Login to read more
Sign in or create a free account to access Subscriber-only content.
Topics: