heretics-第5节
按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！
〃To make hammers〃； and when asked； 〃And of those hammers； what is
the use？〃 answered； 〃To make hammers again〃。 Just as such a man would
be perpetually putting off the question of the ultimate use of carpentry；
so Mr。 Wells and all the rest of us are by these phrases successfully
putting off the question of the ultimate value of the human life。
The case of the general talk of 〃progress〃 is； indeed；
an extreme one。 As enunciated today； 〃progress〃 is simply
a comparative of which we have not settled the superlative。
We meet every ideal of religion； patriotism； beauty； or brute
pleasure with the alternative ideal of progressthat is to say；
we meet every proposal of getting something that we know about；
with an alternative proposal of getting a great deal more of nobody
knows what。 Progress； properly understood； has； indeed； a most
dignified and legitimate meaning。 But as used in opposition
to precise moral ideals； it is ludicrous。 So far from it being
the truth that the ideal of progress is to be set against that
of ethical or religious finality； the reverse is the truth。
Nobody has any business to use the word 〃progress〃 unless
he has a definite creed and a cast…iron code of morals。
Nobody can be progressive without being doctrinal； I might almost
say that nobody can be progressive without being infallible
at any rate； without believing in some infallibility。
For progress by its very name indicates a direction；
and the moment we are in the least doubtful about the direction；
we become in the same degree doubtful about the progress。
Never perhaps since the beginning of the world has there been
an age that had less right to use the word 〃progress〃 than we。
In the Catholic twelfth century； in the philosophic eighteenth
century； the direction may have been a good or a bad one；
men may have differed more or less about how far they went； and in
what direction； but about the direction they did in the main agree；
and consequently they had the genuine sensation of progress。
But it is precisely about the direction that we disagree。
Whether the future excellence lies in more law or less law；
in more liberty or less liberty； whether property will be finally
concentrated or finally cut up； whether sexual passion will reach
its sanest in an almost virgin intellectualism or in a full
animal freedom； whether we should love everybody with Tolstoy；
or spare nobody with Nietzsche；these are the things about which we
are actually fighting most。 It is not merely true that the age
which has settled least what is progress is this 〃progressive〃 age。
It is； moreover； true that the people who have settled least
what is progress are the most 〃progressive〃 people in it。
The ordinary mass； the men who have never troubled about progress；
might be trusted perhaps to progress。 The particular individuals
who talk about progress would certainly fly to the four
winds of heaven when the pistol…shot started the race。
I do not； therefore； say that the word 〃progress〃 is unmeaning； I say
it is unmeaning without the previous definition of a moral doctrine；
and that it can only be applied to groups of persons who hold
that doctrine in common。 Progress is not an illegitimate word；
but it is logically evident that it is illegitimate for us。
It is a sacred word； a word which could only rightly be used
by rigid believers and in the ages of faith。
III。 On Mr。 Rudyard Kipling and Making the World Small
There is no such thing on earth as an uninteresting subject；
the only thing that can exist is an uninterested person。
Nothing is more keenly required than a defence of bores。
When Byron divided humanity into the bores and bored； he omitted
to notice that the higher qualities exist entirely in the bores；
the lower qualities in the bored； among whom he counted himself。
The bore； by his starry enthusiasm； his solemn happiness； may；
in some sense； have proved himself poetical。 The bored has certainly
proved himself prosaic。
We might； no doubt； find it a nuisance to count all the blades of grass
or all the leaves of the trees； but this would not be because of our
boldness or gaiety； but because of our lack of boldness and gaiety。
The bore would go onward； bold and gay； and find the blades of
grass as splendid as the swords of an army。 The bore is stronger
and more joyous than we are； he is a demigodnay； he is a god。
For it is the gods who do not tire of the iteration of things；
to them the nightfall is always new； and the last rose as red
as the first。
The sense that everything is poetical is a thing solid and absolute；
it is not a mere matter of phraseology or persuasion。 It is not
merely true； it is ascertainable。 Men may be challenged to deny it；
men may be challenged to mention anything that is not a matter of poetry。
I remember a long time ago a sensible sub…editor coming up to me
with a book in his hand； called 〃Mr。 Smith；〃 or 〃The Smith Family；〃
or some such thing。 He said； 〃Well； you won't get any of your damned
mysticism out of this；〃 or words to that effect。 I am happy to say
that I undeceived him； but the victory was too obvious and easy。
In most cases the name is unpoetical； although the fact is poetical。
In the case of Smith； the name is so poetical that it must
be an arduous and heroic matter for the man to live up to it。
The name of Smith is the name of the one trade that even kings respected；
it could claim half the glory of that arma virumque which all
epics acclaimed。 The spirit of the smithy is so close to the spirit
of song that it has mixed in a million poems； and every blacksmith
is a harmonious blacksmith。
Even the village children feel that in some dim way the smith
is poetic； as the grocer and the cobbler are not poetic；
when they feast on the dancing sparks and deafening blows in
the cavern of that creative violence。 The brute repose of Nature；
the passionate cunning of man； the strongest of earthly metals；
the wierdest of earthly elements； the unconquerable iron subdued
by its only conqueror； the wheel and the ploughshare； the sword and
the steam…hammer； the arraying of armies and the whole legend of arms；
all these things are written； briefly indeed； but quite legibly；
on the visiting…card of Mr。 Smith。 Yet our novelists call their
hero 〃Aylmer Valence；〃 which means nothing； or 〃Vernon Raymond；〃
which means nothing； when it is in their power to give him
this sacred name of Smiththis name made of iron and flame。
It would be very natural if a certain hauteur； a certain carriage
of the head； a certain curl of the lip； distinguished every
one whose name is Smith。 Perhaps it does； I trust so。
Whoever else are parvenus； the Smiths are not parvenus。
From the darkest dawn of history this clan has gone forth to battle；
its trophies are on every hand； its name is everywhere；
it is older than the nations； and its sign is the Hammer of Thor。
But as I also remarked； it is not quite the usual case。
It is common enough that common things should be poetical；
it is not so common that common names should be poetical。
In most cases it is the name that is the obstacle。
A great many people talk as if this claim of ours； that all things
are poetical； were a mere literary ingenuity； a play on words。
Precisely the contrary is true。 It is the idea that some things are
not poetical which is literary； which is a mere product of words。
The word 〃signal…box〃 is unpoetical。 But the thing signal…box is
not unpoetical； it is a place where men； in an agony of vigilance；
light blood…red and sea…green fires to keep other men from death。
That is the plain； genuine description of what it is； the prose only
comes in with what it is called。 The word 〃pillar…box〃 is unpoetical。
But the thing pillar…box is not unpoetical； it is the place
to which friends and lovers commit their messages； conscious that
when they have done so they are sacred； and not to be touched；
not only by others； but even （religious touch！） by themselves。
That red turret is one of the last of the temples。 Posting a letter and
getting married are among the few things left that are entirely romantic；
for to be entirely romantic a thing must be irrevocable。
We think a pillar…box prosaic； because there is no rhyme to it。
We think a pillar…box unpoetical； because we have never seen it
in a poem。 But the bold fact is entirely on the side
