Sorry I didn't describe better. Here's a "description."
He did not get this idea from me! He made up this thing himself.
Books Read: Chesterton
5 days ago
Saturday, July 25, 2009
Friday, July 24, 2009
Insipred by the daily quote to your left...
"Buddhism is not a creed, it is a doubt."
Poor Buddhists. When my five-year old hyper-sanguine brother does his hilarious "Dead Buddhist" spasm, they can't even do anything but doubt it.
Poor Buddhists. When my five-year old hyper-sanguine brother does his hilarious "Dead Buddhist" spasm, they can't even do anything but doubt it.
Monday, June 22, 2009
The Book That Changed Chesterton's Life
If you are not a Chestertonian, you may be slightly disappointed to discover that the book ominously referred to in the title is no famous work of philosophy or religion. If you are a Chestertonian, then you will hardly be surprised at all to learn that it was simply a fairy tale written for children. Here is what GKC said:
"...In a certain rather special sense I for one can really testify to a book that has made a difference to my whole existence, which helped me to see things in a certain way from the start; a vision of things which even so real a revolution as a change of religious allegiance has substantially only crowned and confirmed. Of all the stories I have read, including even all the novels of the same novelist, it remains the most real, the most realistic, in the exact sense of the phrase the most like life. It is called "The Princess and the Goblin", and is by George MacDonald..."
Upon such a recommendation, I recently undertook to read George Macdonald's fairy tales. I was not halfway through before it became one of my favorite books. Why is it that I had never heard of it, never come across it--I, who have devoured quite a large portion of children's literature in my time? I have rarely been so astonished at a book upon first reading. It was not that it contained anything really unexpected--it was the simple, joyous, adventurous tale I had anticipated, though filled with more wonders and profundity than I had thought. I was astonished, rather, at the fact that this is not as well known as similar children's literature. It was every bit as good as C.S. Lewis' "The Chronicles of Narnia;" in fact, in my eyes, it was even better. (Do not cringe, Narnians. I love Narnia, too.) Unlike Lewis' cheerful philosophical frolics about the existence of "other worlds" and visitors between them, the set up and the plot for "The Princess and the Goblin," is quite simple and therefore quite poetic. The author makes no pretense of throwing his hero and heroine into some strange, new world by a magical passageway or device. He uses the more traditional and common-sense approach of having wild adventure meet them in their own land. Mystical and marvelous things abound--but they are thoroughly suited to the story and the reader is never troubled with annoying questions of "how" or "why." The magic in the stories feels more like the symbolic manifestation of that which already exists in our world than a device to move the plot along.
Having finished the first book, I proceeded to "The Princess and Curdie" and then a separate MacDonald fairy tale, "The Light Princess." It gradually dawned on me that though I have read many novels where magical happenings and grave adventures are thrillingly present throughout, I have never read children's stories that were so profoundly mystical. Everything had a symbolic meaning, and every story had a moral that was there for the perceiving, if one chose to perceive it. I began to notice strong sacramental and even Eucharistic--yes, written by a protestant, but Eucharistic-- tones and themes running through MacDonald's work. I am convinced that George MacDonald was--as our beloved GKC was--a mystic, in the truest sense of the word. I encourage you to find and pick up George MacDonald's stories; and if you have already read some of them, let's open up the discussion!
And now comes the most important part of my post: here is the link for Chesterton's full article on George MacDonald, which I urge you to read if you haven't already.
God bless!
RoseinFaith
"...In a certain rather special sense I for one can really testify to a book that has made a difference to my whole existence, which helped me to see things in a certain way from the start; a vision of things which even so real a revolution as a change of religious allegiance has substantially only crowned and confirmed. Of all the stories I have read, including even all the novels of the same novelist, it remains the most real, the most realistic, in the exact sense of the phrase the most like life. It is called "The Princess and the Goblin", and is by George MacDonald..."
Upon such a recommendation, I recently undertook to read George Macdonald's fairy tales. I was not halfway through before it became one of my favorite books. Why is it that I had never heard of it, never come across it--I, who have devoured quite a large portion of children's literature in my time? I have rarely been so astonished at a book upon first reading. It was not that it contained anything really unexpected--it was the simple, joyous, adventurous tale I had anticipated, though filled with more wonders and profundity than I had thought. I was astonished, rather, at the fact that this is not as well known as similar children's literature. It was every bit as good as C.S. Lewis' "The Chronicles of Narnia;" in fact, in my eyes, it was even better. (Do not cringe, Narnians. I love Narnia, too.) Unlike Lewis' cheerful philosophical frolics about the existence of "other worlds" and visitors between them, the set up and the plot for "The Princess and the Goblin," is quite simple and therefore quite poetic. The author makes no pretense of throwing his hero and heroine into some strange, new world by a magical passageway or device. He uses the more traditional and common-sense approach of having wild adventure meet them in their own land. Mystical and marvelous things abound--but they are thoroughly suited to the story and the reader is never troubled with annoying questions of "how" or "why." The magic in the stories feels more like the symbolic manifestation of that which already exists in our world than a device to move the plot along.
Having finished the first book, I proceeded to "The Princess and Curdie" and then a separate MacDonald fairy tale, "The Light Princess." It gradually dawned on me that though I have read many novels where magical happenings and grave adventures are thrillingly present throughout, I have never read children's stories that were so profoundly mystical. Everything had a symbolic meaning, and every story had a moral that was there for the perceiving, if one chose to perceive it. I began to notice strong sacramental and even Eucharistic--yes, written by a protestant, but Eucharistic-- tones and themes running through MacDonald's work. I am convinced that George MacDonald was--as our beloved GKC was--a mystic, in the truest sense of the word. I encourage you to find and pick up George MacDonald's stories; and if you have already read some of them, let's open up the discussion!
And now comes the most important part of my post: here is the link for Chesterton's full article on George MacDonald, which I urge you to read if you haven't already.
God bless!
RoseinFaith
Monday, June 15, 2009
Thursday, May 7, 2009
A link to an essay inspired by the ideas from a chapter in a dissertation written by a
fan of Chesterton (how’s that for degrees of separation?!)
click here
And if you want to read the real dissertation, it is
here
You may call her Jen, Dr. Thursday, but I WILL NOT!
fan of Chesterton (how’s that for degrees of separation?!)
click here
And if you want to read the real dissertation, it is
here
You may call her Jen, Dr. Thursday, but I WILL NOT!
Thursday, April 23, 2009
How Chesterton saved me from athie...boredom
> Do not underestimate the power of rhetoric. It does not decide truth and untruth, but it can do many terrible things to them...
>
> A few days ago, a few years of me despising anti-Chestertonality almost went down the drain. No, Obama didn't almost outlaw Chesterton...not quite that bad. Rather, I was assaulted by the power of Niechtchze.
>
> Now, mind you, I wasn't actually reading N. directly, although, for good or ill, I am that foolish. Rather, I was reading what I thought would be a morally 'safe' publication, written by a professor at the Univeristy of Dallas and bought in the Ave Maria University bookstore. The book is not morally safe, but keep in mind that the opposite of "safe" is not necessarily "dangerous."
>
> Entitled 'Placing Aesthetics,' the book investigates the place of art in the thoughts of several prominent thinkers, including Chesterton's antitheses, Schopenhauer and Mr. N. No matter how stupid the main system of thought is, the views specifically on art generally contain a small bit of truth. But in finding this bit of truth, one must sort through all the untruths provided by the thinkers for our amusement. And the thought of Mr. N is nothing if not filled with untruths and amusements.
>
> Actually, amusement is too weak of a word to detail the appeal of N. Chesterton, yes, can separate the thought from the rhetoric and reveal the result as a boring and tedious world-view, but 'Placing Aesthetics' references Chesterton infrequently at best. I had to face the (toned-down) glories of the rhetoric of N., seemingly without GK. Very exciting, almost as exciting as listening to "Nacht" from "Pierriot Lunaire" without the protection of a music theory teacher.
>
> And the boredoms revealed by Chesterton are, at first glance, but a tribute to the glory of the falsehoods. The ultimate hero for N. is one who defies the very absence of God to live a life and try to add meaning to it. Many thrills that the Christian experiences equal and exceed this one, but none are quite like it...or are they?
>
> And as I was bemoaning my sorry state of being enamoured in a seemingly completely unique way of something I could not believe, Chesterton rode to my rescue on Sunday's elephant.
>
> The drama of the N.-type hero consists in the magnitude of the hero's defiance, a defiance in magnitude similar to that of the anarchist Gregory. Sunday answers the drama of Gregory by referring to the sufferings of Christ. Christ, like the sort of hero and like Gregory, is in opposition to God. As the psalmist says: "it pleased Him (God) to crush Him (the Suffering Servant, Jesus) in infirmity." Jesus Christ and the defiant un-theist are both crushed in infirmity because of their defiance of their opposition to infinite realities. Both carry out their actions in defiance of the complete despair that accompanies the absence of God (Jesus felt the absence of God on the Cross). But Jesus also has the Resurrection. Hence, nothing tragically profound is lost by being Christian, and God is gained. From the depths of my attraction toward the thoughts of this atheist, Chesterton provided the hints that transferred the full force of my admiration to the Drama of God.
>
> A few days ago, a few years of me despising anti-Chestertonality almost went down the drain. No, Obama didn't almost outlaw Chesterton...not quite that bad. Rather, I was assaulted by the power of Niechtchze.
>
> Now, mind you, I wasn't actually reading N. directly, although, for good or ill, I am that foolish. Rather, I was reading what I thought would be a morally 'safe' publication, written by a professor at the Univeristy of Dallas and bought in the Ave Maria University bookstore. The book is not morally safe, but keep in mind that the opposite of "safe" is not necessarily "dangerous."
>
> Entitled 'Placing Aesthetics,' the book investigates the place of art in the thoughts of several prominent thinkers, including Chesterton's antitheses, Schopenhauer and Mr. N. No matter how stupid the main system of thought is, the views specifically on art generally contain a small bit of truth. But in finding this bit of truth, one must sort through all the untruths provided by the thinkers for our amusement. And the thought of Mr. N is nothing if not filled with untruths and amusements.
>
> Actually, amusement is too weak of a word to detail the appeal of N. Chesterton, yes, can separate the thought from the rhetoric and reveal the result as a boring and tedious world-view, but 'Placing Aesthetics' references Chesterton infrequently at best. I had to face the (toned-down) glories of the rhetoric of N., seemingly without GK. Very exciting, almost as exciting as listening to "Nacht" from "Pierriot Lunaire" without the protection of a music theory teacher.
>
> And the boredoms revealed by Chesterton are, at first glance, but a tribute to the glory of the falsehoods. The ultimate hero for N. is one who defies the very absence of God to live a life and try to add meaning to it. Many thrills that the Christian experiences equal and exceed this one, but none are quite like it...or are they?
>
> And as I was bemoaning my sorry state of being enamoured in a seemingly completely unique way of something I could not believe, Chesterton rode to my rescue on Sunday's elephant.
>
> The drama of the N.-type hero consists in the magnitude of the hero's defiance, a defiance in magnitude similar to that of the anarchist Gregory. Sunday answers the drama of Gregory by referring to the sufferings of Christ. Christ, like the sort of hero and like Gregory, is in opposition to God. As the psalmist says: "it pleased Him (God) to crush Him (the Suffering Servant, Jesus) in infirmity." Jesus Christ and the defiant un-theist are both crushed in infirmity because of their defiance of their opposition to infinite realities. Both carry out their actions in defiance of the complete despair that accompanies the absence of God (Jesus felt the absence of God on the Cross). But Jesus also has the Resurrection. Hence, nothing tragically profound is lost by being Christian, and God is gained. From the depths of my attraction toward the thoughts of this atheist, Chesterton provided the hints that transferred the full force of my admiration to the Drama of God.
Sunday, March 29, 2009
The Way to Love Anything
In Chesterton's famous collection of short essays, "Tremendous Trifles," there is one essay entitled "The Advantages of Having One Leg." In it, he makes the astonishing assertion that, to really appreciate something, we have to isolate it, separate it, and learn what it is like to do without it; in his case, he was contemplating the fact that, with one sprained leg, he had only one good foot to stand on; this inconvenience of having only one leg made him truly appreciate the gift of having two, and contemplate what a miraculous thing a leg actually is. He summed this up when he wrote: "The way to love anything is to realize that it may be lost."
I have been contemplating this idea, too, as a mild inconvenience has forced me to go without my glasses for a week. Nearly everyone must have wished at one time or another to step inside a painting, and I have been granted a privilege that approaches quite near to that imagined experience! Because my astigmatism is blessedly mild, the awe-inspiring effect of going without my glasses is to make the world around me take on the softest of watercolor tones and the smoothness of an impressionist pastel. Harsh delineations are blurred and lights emit a fuller glow. The defects of all around me, from flowers to food, from faces to feet, are smoothed and glossed over as if by an invisible hand that removed all displeasing marks from my view. Whoever thought that looking at life through rose-colored glasses was wrong obviously never tried looking at life through no glasses at all.
However, that primary effect has been followed up by a more profound one. Feeling as though I were living in an impressionist painting may give the world beautiful softness; but it has made me realize that I miss those stronger distinctions; seeing words look slightly wobbly on a page makes me miss the strong, dark, straight lines I used to read with my glasses. Perhaps blurred faces might be, to an impressionist's eye, more beautiful than faces whose every flaw and detail was clearly traced; but looking at the blurry faces of my family across the room makes me long for the time when I could see their faces sharpened and clarified through my glasses. I cannot help wishing for a clearer--even if that means harsher--world. It is the distinctions that give all around me shape and form; it is the lines, laws, and boundaries that make my world a detailed and three-dimensional reality, and not a watercolor or pastel painting. The way to love our limits is to realize they may be lost. I realized that this feeling is akin to another I've felt when treated to bad modern theology; absent of all clarity and definitiveness, it ends up leaving only a vague and fuzzy impression--much like a bad impressionist painting. It has no clear shapes, no outline of reality; only splotches of blurry color. The result is not to make me love the bad theology; it makes me love that which is lost: the absent good theology, the very marks of which are clarity and definition.
At the end of "The Advantages of Having One Leg," Chesterton wrote: "This world and all our powers in it are far more awful and beautiful than even we know until some accident reminds us. If you wish to perceive that limitless felicity, limit yourself if only for a moment. If you wish to realise how fearfully and wonderfully God's image is made, stand on one leg. If you want to realise the splendid vision of all visible things--wink the other eye."
Or, I might suggest, take off your glasses.
I have been contemplating this idea, too, as a mild inconvenience has forced me to go without my glasses for a week. Nearly everyone must have wished at one time or another to step inside a painting, and I have been granted a privilege that approaches quite near to that imagined experience! Because my astigmatism is blessedly mild, the awe-inspiring effect of going without my glasses is to make the world around me take on the softest of watercolor tones and the smoothness of an impressionist pastel. Harsh delineations are blurred and lights emit a fuller glow. The defects of all around me, from flowers to food, from faces to feet, are smoothed and glossed over as if by an invisible hand that removed all displeasing marks from my view. Whoever thought that looking at life through rose-colored glasses was wrong obviously never tried looking at life through no glasses at all.
However, that primary effect has been followed up by a more profound one. Feeling as though I were living in an impressionist painting may give the world beautiful softness; but it has made me realize that I miss those stronger distinctions; seeing words look slightly wobbly on a page makes me miss the strong, dark, straight lines I used to read with my glasses. Perhaps blurred faces might be, to an impressionist's eye, more beautiful than faces whose every flaw and detail was clearly traced; but looking at the blurry faces of my family across the room makes me long for the time when I could see their faces sharpened and clarified through my glasses. I cannot help wishing for a clearer--even if that means harsher--world. It is the distinctions that give all around me shape and form; it is the lines, laws, and boundaries that make my world a detailed and three-dimensional reality, and not a watercolor or pastel painting. The way to love our limits is to realize they may be lost. I realized that this feeling is akin to another I've felt when treated to bad modern theology; absent of all clarity and definitiveness, it ends up leaving only a vague and fuzzy impression--much like a bad impressionist painting. It has no clear shapes, no outline of reality; only splotches of blurry color. The result is not to make me love the bad theology; it makes me love that which is lost: the absent good theology, the very marks of which are clarity and definition.
At the end of "The Advantages of Having One Leg," Chesterton wrote: "This world and all our powers in it are far more awful and beautiful than even we know until some accident reminds us. If you wish to perceive that limitless felicity, limit yourself if only for a moment. If you wish to realise how fearfully and wonderfully God's image is made, stand on one leg. If you want to realise the splendid vision of all visible things--wink the other eye."
Or, I might suggest, take off your glasses.
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