heretics-第26节
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The family may fairly be considered； one would think； an ultimate
human institution。 Every one would admit that it has been
the main cell and central unit of almost all societies hitherto；
except； indeed； such societies as that of Lacedaemon； which went
in for 〃efficiency；〃 and has； therefore； perished； and left not
a trace behind。 Christianity； even enormous as was its revolution；
did not alter this ancient and savage sanctity； it merely reversed it。
It did not deny the trinity of father； mother； and child。
It merely read it backwards； making it run child； mother； father。
This it called； not the family； but the Holy Family；
for many things are made holy by being turned upside down。
But some sages of our own decadence have made a serious attack
on the family。 They have impugned it； as I think wrongly；
and its defenders have defended it； and defended it wrongly。
The common defence of the family is that； amid the stress
and fickleness of life； it is peaceful； pleasant； and at one。
But there is another defence of the family which is possible；
and to me evident； this defence is that the family is not peaceful
and not pleasant and not at one。
It is not fashionable to say much nowadays of the advantages of
the small community。 We are told that we must go in for large empires
and large ideas。 There is one advantage； however； in the small state；
the city； or the village； which only the wilfully blind can overlook。
The man who lives in a small community lives in a much larger world。
He knows much more of the fierce varieties and uncompromising divergences
of men。 The reason is obvious。 In a large community we can choose
our companions。 In a small community our companions are chosen for us。
Thus in all extensive and highly civilized societies groups come
into existence founded upon what is called sympathy； and shut
out the real world more sharply than the gates of a monastery。
There is nothing really narrow about the clan； the thing which is
really narrow is the clique。 The men of the clan live together
because they all wear the same tartan or are all descended
from the same sacred cow； but in their souls； by the divine luck
of things； there will always be more colours than in any tartan。
But the men of the clique live together because they have the same
kind of soul； and their narrowness is a narrowness of spiritual
coherence and contentment； like that which exists in hell。
A big society exists in order to form cliques。 A big society
is a society for the promotion of narrowness。 It is a machinery
for the purpose of guarding the solitary and sensitive individual
from all experience of the bitter and bracing human compromises。
It is； in the most literal sense of the words； a society for
the prevention of Christian knowledge。
We can see this change； for instance； in the modern transformation
of the thing called a club。 When London was smaller； and the parts
of London more self…contained and parochial； the club was what it
still is in villages； the opposite of what it is now in great cities。
Then the club was valued as a place where a man could be sociable。
Now the club is valued as a place where a man can be unsociable。
The more the enlargement and elaboration of our civilization goes
on the more the club ceases to be a place where a man can have
a noisy argument； and becomes more and more a place where a man
can have what is somewhat fantastically called a quiet chop。
Its aim is to make a man comfortable； and to make a man comfortable
is to make him the opposite of sociable。 Sociability； like all
good things； is full of discomforts； dangers； and renunciations。
The club tends to produce the most degraded of all combinations
the luxurious anchorite； the man who combines the self…indulgence
of Lucullus with the insane loneliness of St。 Simeon Stylites。
If we were to…morrow morning snowed up in the street in which we live；
we should step suddenly into a much larger and much wilder world
than we have ever known。 And it is the whole effort of the typically
modern person to escape from the street in which he lives。
First he invents modern hygiene and goes to Margate。
Then he invents modern culture and goes to Florence。
Then he invents modern imperialism and goes to Timbuctoo。 He goes
to the fantastic borders of the earth。 He pretends to shoot tigers。
He almost rides on a camel。 And in all this he is still essentially
fleeing from the street in which he was born； and of this flight
he is always ready with his own explanation。 He says he is fleeing
from his street because it is dull； he is lying。 He is really
fleeing from his street because it is a great deal too exciting。
It is exciting because it is exacting； it is exacting because it is alive。
He can visit Venice because to him the Venetians are only Venetians；
the people in his own street are men。 He can stare at the Chinese
because for him the Chinese are a passive thing to be stared at；
if he stares at the old lady in the next garden； she becomes active。
He is forced to flee； in short； from the too stimulating society
of his equalsof free men； perverse； personal； deliberately different
from himself。 The street in Brixton is too glowing and overpowering。
He has to soothe and quiet himself among tigers and vultures；
camels and crocodiles。 These creatures are indeed very different
from himself。 But they do not put their shape or colour or
custom into a decisive intellectual competition with his own。
They do not seek to destroy his principles and assert their own；
the stranger monsters of the suburban street do seek to do this。
The camel does not contort his features into a fine sneer
because Mr。 Robinson has not got a hump； the cultured gentleman
at No。 5 does exhibit a sneer because Robinson has not got a dado。
The vulture will not roar with laughter because a man does not fly；
but the major at No。 9 will roar with laughter because a man does
not smoke。 The complaint we commonly have to make of our neighbours
is that they will not； as we express it； mind their own business。
We do not really mean that they will not mind their own business。
If our neighbours did not mind their own business they would be asked
abruptly for their rent； and would rapidly cease to be our neighbours。
What we really mean when we say that they cannot mind their own
business is something much deeper。 We do not dislike them
because they have so little force and fire that they cannot
be interested in themselves。 We dislike them because they have
so much force and fire that they can be interested in us as well。
What we dread about our neighbours； in short； is not the narrowness
of their horizon； but their superb tendency to broaden it。 And all
aversions to ordinary humanity have this general character。 They are
not aversions to its feebleness （as is pretended）； but to its energy。
The misanthropes pretend that they despise humanity for its weakness。
As a matter of fact； they hate it for its strength。
Of course； this shrinking from the brutal vivacity and brutal
variety of common men is a perfectly reasonable and excusable
thing as long as it does not pretend to any point of superiority。
It is when it calls itself aristocracy or aestheticism or a superiority
to the bourgeoisie that its inherent weakness has in justice
to be pointed out。 Fastidiousness is the most pardonable of vices；
but it is the most unpardonable of virtues。 Nietzsche； who represents
most prominently this pretentious claim of the fastidious；
has a description somewherea very powerful description in the
purely literary senseof the disgust and disdain which consume
him at the sight of the common people with their common faces；
their common voices； and their common minds。 As I have said；
this attitude is almost beautiful if we may regard it as pathetic。
Nietzsche's aristocracy has about it all the sacredness that belongs
to the weak。 When he makes us feel that he cannot endure the
innumerable faces； the incessant voices； the overpowering omnipresence
which belongs to the mob； he will have the sympathy of anybody
who has ever been sick on a steamer or tired in a crowded omnibus。
Every man has hated mankind when he was less than a man。
Every man has had humanity in his eyes like a blinding fog；
humanity in his nostrils like a suffocating smell。 But when Nietzsche
has the incredible lack of humour and
