Shades of Meaning

Here are a list of words. Tell me what associations or nuances they have for you. Perceptive readers will notice a pattern to them.

Guy.

Fellah. (It was hearing someone use this word on a bus that started this train of thought.)

Bloke.

Dude.

Chap.

Lad.

Gent.

Geezer.

The Brahma by Ralph Waldo Emerson and All-Embracing Conspiracy Theories

Here are the first three verses of "The Brahma", by Ralph Waldo Emerson. There's a fourth verse but it's not relevant here.

If the red slayer think he slays,
Or if the slain think he is slain,
They know not well the subtle ways
I keep, and pass, and turn again.

Far or forgot to me is near;
Shadow and sunlight are the same;
The vanished gods to me appear;
And one to me are shame and fame.

They reckon ill who leave me out;
When me they fly, I am the wings;
I am the doubter and the doubt,
And I the hymn the Brahmin sings.

This is the poem I always think of when I encounter the people who see everything as a vast conspiracy, all opposition as controlled opposition, every apparent coincidence as news management, all politics as a puppet show, psy-ops are as common as cabbages, and so on.

It's like all those dystopian novels where the hero realizes at the climax that the underground resistance to the dystopian government was actually planted by the dystopian government and he's been a pawn all along. There's a certain pleasurable frisson in this moment of despair, that can't be denied.

What is there to say about such theories, except that they seem unlikely on the face of it? History has no example of such a thing. Yes, the KGB had spies and informers and double agents everywhere. Yes, there was omnipresent propaganda. But there was also a genuine resistance and ordinary people had a pretty good fix on what was actually going on. We also know from the history of totalitarian regimes that, far from resistance being futile or fabricated, resistance is greatly feared and obsessively monitored.

Also the theory is unfalsifiable because any evidence presented against it can be discounted by the same theory. Chesterton famously wrote about this in the first chapters of Orthodoxy, although he was using the principle of criticize philosophical materialism instead of conspiracy theories.

I think the kind of fatalism that is spread by such theories is lamentable. Indeed, if there was such a panoptic, omnipresent regime in power, spreading such fatalism might be exactly what they would do. What if the controlled opposition is inside your head?

Hypnotic Moments

I don't know what better title to give to this post, which is going to be a quick one, even though I've been thinking about it a long time.

It's one of those very personal and idiosyncratic posts. I really wanted to talk about the enormous fascination particular moments have for me-- moments I hear about, read about, and so forth.

One that has recurred to me a lot recently is the scene at the beginning of A Dance to the Music of Time by Anthony Powell, which another blogger has kindly transcribed:

The men at work at the corner of the street had made a kind of camp for themselves, where, marked out by tripods hung with red hurricane-lamps, an abyss in the road led down to a network of subterranean drain-pipes. Gathered round the bucket of coke that burned in front of the shelter, several figures were swinging arms against bodies and rubbing hands together with large, pantomimic gestures: like comedians giving formal expression to the concept of extreme cold. One of them, a spare fellow in blue overalls, taller than the rest, with a jocular demeanour and long, pointed nose like that of a Shakespearian clown, suddenly stepped forward, and as if performing a rite, cast some substance—apparently the remains of two kippers, loosely wrapped in newspaper—on the bright coals of the fire, causing flames to leap fiercely upward, smoke curling about in eddies of the north-east wind. As the dark fumes floated above the houses, snow began to fall gently from a dull sky, each flake giving a small hiss as it reached the bucket. The flames died down again; and the men, as if required observances were for the moment at an end, all turned away from the fire, lowering themselves laboriously into the pit, or withdrawing to the shadows of their tarpaulin shelter. The grey, undecided flakes continued to come down, though not heavily, while a harsh odour, bitter and gaseous, penetrated the air. The day was drawing in.

For some reason, the sight of snow descending on fire always makes me think of the ancient world—legionaries in sheepskin warming themselves at a brazier: mountain altars where offerings glow between wintry pillars; centaurs with torches cantering beside a frozen sea—scattered, uncoordinated shapes from a fabulous past, infinitely removed from life; and yet bringing with them memories of things real and imagined. These classical projections, and something in the physical attitudes of the men themselves as they turned from the fire, suddenly suggested Poussin’s scene in which the Seasons, hand in hand and facing outward, tread in rhythm to the notes of the lyre that the winged and naked greybeard plays. The image of Time brought thoughts of mortality: of human beings, facing outward like the Seasons, moving hand in hand in intricate measure: stepping slowly, methodically, sometimes a trifle awkwardly, in evolutions that take recognisable shape: or breaking into seemingly meaningless gyrations, while partners disappear only to reappear again, once more giving pattern to the spectacle: unable to control the melody, unable, perhaps, to control the steps of the dance.

I never finished the whole series of novels-- I think I got about half of the way in--  but this particular image delights me. I might say "this particular passage", except-- to be honest-- I didn't remember the passage itself.

In recent weeks, whenever I've found myself looking at steam or smoke-- for instance, when I'm heating up food in a saucepan-- I find myself thinking about this passage. Perhaps because it seems to me as though these moments of sudden contemplation are the very best thing life has to offer.

Another "hypnotic moment" that constantly comes to my mind is the story of Blessed Solanus Casey's first night in a Capuchin monastery, on Christmas Eve, as he was discerning his vocation. Here's an account from Catherine Odell, one of his biographers:

In the midst of a blinding snowstorm, he left Superior on December 20 and headed southwest for St. Paul on the 11:00 p.m. train. From St. Paul, his train then headed east, pulling along slowly through drifting snow to Milwaukee. After a brief stayover there, during which Barney [his birth name] stayed with Capuchins for the first time, he boarded a train again. Down through Chicago and over through Michigan, his train headed for his goal-- Detroit.

On Christmas Eve, the train pulled into the station in Detroit at last. Barney located a streetcar and headed for Mt. Elliott Avenue. There, at 1740 Mt. Eillott, the young man finally arrived, well after dusk. Exhausted, he refused the offer of dinner. He was too tired. Upstairs, on the second floor, he was shown to his room; a simple, stark little space with a wooden door latch. The sight of it immediately renewed his fears of this Capuchin austerity. But, spent with the strain of travel, he pulled off his shoes and heavy coat, still wet with snow, pulled a blanket up over himself, and soon fell into a heavy sleep.

Just before midnight, he awoke to the sound of hand chimes and the voices of men singing. They were singing Christmas carols in German. It was Christmas Eve! As the voices grew louder, Barney could hear other men getting out of bed and coming down the corridor to join their voices with the little group of carolers. Barney joined them, and his heart was lifted. The gloom over his decision to follow Our Lady's orders and "go to Detroit" left him.

Down and around, through the darkened corridors, the carollers moved. Carrying candles, they roused the other Capuchins who then followed down into the chapel for Christmas Midnight Mass. It was a moving, joy-filled occasion and initiated a week or more of festivities.

I really can't put my love of that story into words-- even though nothing really happens. It's barely a story, actually.

Here's a third story, that I'll mention briefly. I was listening to an interview with an Irish politician of recent decades. He was talking about some parliamentary drama in which he had been taken a major role, but that he was absent from on the particular day under discussion-- because was "in bed with a dicky tummy" (upset stomach). Somehow I found this idea deliciously cosy and pleasing.

So what's the big deal, you ask? There are moments that catch our fancy. Everyone has that. I suppose it's just the sheer importance of such moments, in my own mind, that makes me ponder. I come back to them again and again. I wonder if other people are like this at all.

Poems I Like: A Ballade of Ephemeral Controversy by G.K. Chesterton

Chesterton wrote a lot of mediocre poetry, as well as a good few absolutely first class poems. But here's a poem I wouldn't place in either category. It's completely obscure, but it expresses thoughts and aspirations which are very familiar to me. I don't understand the "Hists" reference.

I don't think it is a great poem, but I do think it has one truly great line. Can you guess which one I mean?

A Ballade of Ephemeral Controversy by GK Chesterton

I am not as that Poet that arrives,
Nor shall I pluck the laurel that persists
Through all perverted ages and revives:
Enough for me, that if with feet and fists
I fought these pharisaic atheists,
I need not crawl and seek when all is done
My motley pennon trampled in the lists
It will not matter when the fight is won.

If scratch of mine amid a war of knives
Has caused one moment's pain to pessimists,
Poisoned one hour in Social Workers' lives,
I count such comfort more than amethysts
But less than claret, and at after trysts
We'll meet and drink such claret by the tun
Till you and I and all of us (What? Hists!).
It will not matter when the fight is won.

When men again want women for their wives,
And even woman owns that she exists,
When people ask for houses and not hives
When we have climbed the tortured ivy's twists
To where like statues stand above the mists
The strong incredible sanities of the sun,
This dazed and overdriven bard desists.
It will not matter when the fight is won.

Envoi

Prince, let me place these handcuffs on your wrists
While common Christian people get some fun,
Then go and join your damned Theosophists.
It will not matter when the fight is won.

Why Does the Left Oppose "Imperialism"?

I'm reading a book about a left-wing activist (A long-dead, pre-woke left-wing activist.)

The book, however, has been written recently so it uses contemporary leftist rhetoric. It repeatedly uses the word "imperialist".

I always find myself wondering why the (contemporary) left would oppose imperialism.

Is it because they think power should be devolved, that everyone should be governed by rulers who live close to them rather than rulers who live far away? Is it a sort of localism?

That sounds plausible...except the left is overwhelmingly in favour of supranational institutions like the EU, the WHO, the UN, etc. etc. Just look at the meltdown they had about Brexit.

So do the left oppose imperialism because they think people should be self-governing and not ruled by an alien government?

But what could this possibly mean according to the leftist worldview? The whole idea of an allegiance that is based on anything particularistic-- religion, language, ethnicity, folkways-- is anathema to the left. According to the left, the only permissible bond, on a societal level, is common humanity. (Even while they push identity-based grievances, this remains true.)

So how can the left possibly oppose imperialism? On what grounds? I don't get it.

Two Definitions

A Marxist: Someone who is infinitely cynical about existing institutions and infinitely credulous about future institutions.

Nationality: Something that you can't find when you go looking for it, but that rugby-tackles you when you're not looking for it.

Painted Rocks and Re-Enchantment

A few years ago, when I still lived in a house with a garden, I discovered a rock painted as a ladybird hidden under the grass. It was one of several painted rocks hidden there.

I didn't realize at the time (although I was quickly told) that this is part of a trend.

My own belief is that the path to societal re-enchantment lies in Christianity.

But I think delightful little actions like this are re-enchanting in themselves-- guerilla warfare of re-enchantment, so to speak. (Painted electricity boxes are another example.)