Essays in Idleness

“What an idiot I have been!”

This is something one perhaps thinks, increasingly, as one grows past the age when any of one’s mistakes are retrievable. It certainly is the case with moi. At first, one became acquainted with the “face-grabber.” This was something spontaneous, and could not be concealed, though with practice one learnt to disguise the indications. Much worse than moral lapses, or the commission of actual sins, were the mistakes that we found humiliating, but not exceptionally evil. Of course, it was not possible to humiliate oneself without committing some sort of sin, but witnesses were not inclined to condemn, if they had the option of laughing. This is how one should greet slippage on a banana peel. The trick is to laugh oneself, first, though a concussion might make this difficult.

More commonly, however, one tried to hide what one had done, because it was more significant, morally, than mere clumsiness. One prefers to display one’s idiocy over something that doesn’t matter. There need be no risible scandal as when, perhaps, more information is disclosed.

But humiliation can generally be avoided if a person is instinctively honest. Honesty requires humility, along with other painful virtues, which become less painful the more they are practiced. Too, when experience is obtained, or perhaps has been acquired by reading the instructions, one may actually reduce the number of one’s silly mistakes, or failures of charity. A child would be lucky to have a parent or other guardian who teaches him how to do this: to “fess up” easily, and voluntarily.

The larger category of stupid, dishonest, and habitual mistakes, though very costly to ourselves and to others, are not such as we are apt to confess. They are things that “everyone was doing,” and only now has been exposed as a wicked thing to do. For instance, one has voted for a Communist, a Nazi, or a central bank governor.

It does not seem an appropriate day to dwell on one, or on any, of my old “U.E.L.” themes. I might have made the subject the omnipresent, and not very well-meaning, “bullshit” that filled the Declaration of Independence. We might have examined it phrase by phrase, while asking of each: “Is, or was this, entirely true?” Or was it rather recklessly exaggerated?

Is the modern, i.e. revolutionary, “democratic” government of the United States not more oppressive than that of George Third? Are the taxes now more onerous, and the regulations more comprehensive? Is inflation now substantially higher, and has government lying become more and more the rule?

But this approach would be unfair. Essentially all political expostulations are bullshit, and in honesty, ought to be withdrawn.

That, indeed, was the message of the Loyalists, who at the time were also making the same rude points, against the British Crown. But “liberty” and “independence” are rhetorical instruments, after all, and often morally worthless. A few more words would be necessary to make them mean anything.

What I found most impressive about the American Revolution was the relative humility of the Founders. Washington and John Adams were especially fine examples. In addition to pledging their lives for the cause — and now we are approaching sincerity — most of these leaders were not blowhards. Madison, for instance, or Ben Franklin, hoped, but did not really expect the Revolution to last, even if it was at first successful. They were thus not proper “Enlightenment” characters (such as soon came to France with their guillotines and other “humane and egalitarian” equipment). They had read something in history and political philosophy, and were, in the main, reasonably sane.

Too, they were fortunately up against the most sane and reasonable Empire that, perhaps, the world had ever seen; unless the comparison is to the Mauryan Dynasty of Chandragupta and Ashoka. But that charming history is mostly bullshit, too.

If you were to consult my “Late Loyalist” ancestor, Stetson Holmes (1753–1824), driven out of Massachusetts first, and then out of the Republic of Vermont, the Revolutionists could be pretty rough and nasty — even though he had fought in the Continental Army. He had to cross Maine on foot with his family (lots of trees and untamed animals), then find a fishing boat that would take them to Nova Scotia. …

Why?

He just wouldn’t be “politically correct” when he was arguing with his neighbours. He was just too American.

I learn from the Internet that it will be the 250th anniversary of the American Declaration of Independence, on July 4th, which is tomorrow. It was incamminated by Thomas Jefferson — not a man I would trust, then or now, although my own mother was a fan of his. The Continental Congress adopted this resolution, which I think was an error, for it split the British Empire. I would have been holding out for an “inner union” of, say, England, Wales, Scotland, and Eire, with the American and Canadian  provinces, plus Australia, New Zealand, South Africa and a grand affiliation of protectorates, including a united India. The French and Spanish could have been seen off, ever thereafter.

Of course this Empire wouldn’t be a democracy, for it is a very wicked idea. I don’t think even Mr Jefferson was silly enough to buy into democracy. I am with Plato, Aristotle, Augustine, Saint Thomas, and the many other “enemies of the people” who are radically opposed. Even the revolutionary United States kept its distance from this horrible idea, and was rather intended as a nation under God. Founded by practising Christians, firmly within the traditions of Judaeo-Christianity, she would be a Republic rather than the Monarchy she was leaving. But a Republic consisting of many “diverse” states, individually represented in its Senate.

The Holy Roman Empire had seven Electors, most of the time, which was perhaps too many. Now the United States has a few hundred million, which is, proportionally, an even greater mistake. I agree with Glenn Reynolds and others that they should give serious thought to abrogating their Seventeenth Amendment, by which they surrendered their Senate to the mob. It was meant by the Founding Fathers to represent the States, not the people, who get to individually vote in the House of Representatives, and then can be ignored. (The Electoral College was meant to prevent popular voting for a President.)

But “less is more” — i.e. the flip side of voting is more peace and freedom. The violent chaos that accompanies most political developments should be omitted. It is only Christ who needs to be consulted, and not Crucified; or poisoned, as the democrats did with Socrates.

In an Idlepost entitled “Proudly unCanadian,” published on the 4th of July last year, I expressed my shame in our national existence. This year, as well as repeating it, let me add my very low opinion of Charles III, our reigning monarch. He has proclaimed himself the defender of our multiple faiths. This includes those “faiths” which violently oppose Christianity. I think Gavin Ashenden, Chaplain to our beloved Late Majesty the Queen, has adequately expressed the truth about this little man. The breach of his Coronation Oath leaves us with no alternative but to despise him. I think even the Muslims, and other multi-culturals he thinks that he is serving, understand this.

Hence, my slight revision of last year’s commination:

Not only can I now recite the whole Roman alphabet — and in the correct order, from ay to zed, the way I did as a clever wee schoolboy in a Pakistani kindergarten (where “British class” biscuits were supplied) — but I have been avoiding the Internet, and attempting to read beuks. These turn out to be so much better, even in translation from Slavic languages.

Mikhail Bulgakov (the inventor of the “bandy legs sign” as a young venereologist) is my necessary author for this purpose. His interactions with one Joseph Stalin in later life (though not much later, for he perished well before old age) interfered with his career as one of that century’s most talented writers, and also as a droll humourist, almost equal to Gogol. His great posthumous novel, The Master and Margarita, remains in paperback print, and a wonderful array of surreal tales and plays awaits those who speak Russian. I am quite envious of them. Too, he could sing baritone in the opera.

But he was born in Kiev, of a Russian family, and so has been “unpersoned” by the counter-revolutionary Ukrainians. They seem to have removed his statue, and possibly the Bulgakov Museum behind it, entirely without the help of Russian drones. His satirical works usefully made not only Communism, but general liberal nihilism, into farce, but did not win him prizes. Mr Stalin, one of the more militant opponents of whiteness, disliked his celebration of the White Guards, against the Red Guards; and Mr Bulgakov had a preternatural tendency to political incorrectitude.

Nevertheless, Stalin was afflicted with a tiny particle of literary taste. He did not have Bulgakov summarily shot, as he did with most other reactionary literary figures. Bulgakov had to make his own lethal arrangements

The Master novel accomplishes something not attempted since the inept Immanuel Kant. Rather than wasting time, lingering over proofs of the existence of God, Bulgakov proves the existence of the Devil. What a perfect concession to modern sensibilities! Philosophical readers should examine these, urgently.

One, — and I, especially — have always thought of himself as a party man. Indeed, while reclining on the floor the other day, trying to recite the Roman alphabet, the question of what party I belonged to came briefly to the fore. I realized that I had never found a party that would accept me, in any of my conditions, even though they will accept anyone who has sent them money, and does not make public statements that are too embarrassing.

But I do not send money for any political cause, and I trust that my latest stroke-like experience will be a transient phenomenon.

The important thing is not to get medical attention. Interventions of that sort seldom turn out well; and are even less likely to work than a political intervention. Fortunately, I live in Canada, where the only medical service one can get promptly is “assistance in dying,” or an abortion.

But back to my political party. It is true I am an exponent of “Extreme Rightness,” and a practitioner, for I tend to be right on every policy subject; the opposite of a socialist, who pretty invariably exhibits “Extreme Wrongness.”

Mr  Javier Milei, who is currently pulling Argentina out of the ditch, explained this perfectly:

“At one point I thought being on the left was a mental problem. The empirical evidence is so overwhelming. It never worked anywhere, but they refuse to accept it. Therefore I thought it was a kind of block that prevents them from seeing the numbers. The lefties hate numbers, the way they hate bathing. …

“However, what I discovered is that being on the left is a disease of the soul. The left is built on envy, hatred, resentment, unequal treatment before the law. Lefties are very violent, and since they have no way to answer to arguments, they go for physical violence. They immediately resort to all kinds of physical violence because they are unable to refute arguments.”

This is also what I have found, consistently, over many decades of political controversy. But “Conservative” parties tend to be almost as deluded as self-styled “Liberal” parties. Anarchism might be attractive, except it always swings left. I think Distributism is preferable, but typically disappears because it does not reward power corruptly.

Still: call me a Distributist.

One does well to examine the Song of Roland (the French, XIth century, chanson de geste) before jumping to conclusions about war. I particularly recommend Scott Moncrieff’s translation (1919), which had an introduction by G. K. Chesterton; it has been anthologized elsewhere. He neither glorifies nor condemns war, and actually, neither did Roland in the “splendidly inconclusive conclusion.” War contains both good and evil characters and events, and is never finished in this world. Any final victory must wait patiently on God. So long as there are insane barbarians (the present regime in Iran offers an unambiguous example) they will have to be fought. It is inappropriate to “make peace” with such a vicious and deceitful enemy. And when there is fighting, there are casualties. The Lord — and Christ is not a milquetoast — does not require us to omit this task, and did not condemn it in His Bible. Those who fight for the right, deserve honour; those who insist on “peace, peace” regardless of circumstances are cowards who deserve contempt.

It is sad that there are people, even Catholics, who don’t understand this.

While trying to recover the use of my brain, lately, I have been investing time and effort in reading authors whose surnames begin with “G” — Gobineau, Goethe, Guicciardini. I wish I could do this in French, German, and Italian, respectively, but even after whipping myself, I find that my linguistic abilities fall short. At the moment I am reading Francesco Guicciardini’s review of the Discourses of Machiavelli (his older contemporary, who was considering the historian, Livy), on the topic of the Guardianship of Freedom.

Would nobles or plebeians be the better choice for this task? And incidentally, which group is more likely to riot?

The power to arraign was balanced between both parties in ancient Rome; the consuls put down the conspiracies of the Gracchi and Catiline, and tribunes were appointed to protect the plebs, which they did with enthusiasm because they were plebs themselves.

Machiavelli would put the power of government into the hands of the plebs, given only a choice between the two, because he chiefly feared the ambitions of the nobles. Guicciardini, whom I have always preferred, would instinctively take the opposite view. He does not expect oppression from the upper-class “optimates” — who tend to favour conservatism, tradition, “culture,” and the arts — but instead, dislike pressure from the shrieking and evil populist mob.

“Well, rocks do not die, and yet they are part of nature.” My correspondent may not have seen the rocks, being crushed into gravel by a road crew with machines. Who will hear their cry, and who stand for their rights, the way the environmentalists stand for innocent vegetables and other defenceless creatures?

Granted, I am being facetious, but let us imagine instead a planet formed by processes of nature into an immense diamond in the sky, or better a Red Dwarf, such as our Sun’s nearest neighbouring star, Proxima Centauri — as I was quite convinced until Monday evening. But this is because I failed to distinguish hardness from density, as I am prone to do. Plenty of metals out-dense a diamond; my personal preference is for gold. The luminosity of Proxima Centauri is so slight that there is risk we may bump into it, or into one of the several dozen other Red Dwarves in our vicinity, when Elon Musk develops the giant rocket that will launch us through the galaxy.

Indeed, this is one of the many worries for the near-light-speed voyages that surely he is planning. Celerity like that, and the baffling effects of velocitation, will surely expose us to a misfortunate prang along the way. It is among the reasons we may never get there; and meanwhile, that we may not even settle Mars (I add, parenthetically). For there is the question of what humans can endure, when removed from our customary bourgeois supports on interminable space missions.

Brown Dwarves are also a danger, to interstellar travellers, although they are just huge gas-bags (typically larger than Jupiter, according to another of my informants). Surprisingly, big as they are, I hadn’t noticed them until the day before yesterday.

An oversight.

Each of the items we find in nature is on an unavoidable course out of existence — which by convention we call extinction, or colloquially, death. All will, sooner or later, no longer be, although we might receive replacements. Nevertheless, material nature is tremendously insecure, and truly, “Maya,” as the Hindoo philosophers maintain in their Upanishads and Vedanta. What is our apparent reality, is merely an illusion, or as some translate, magic. The “fact” that the reader has a body, let alone a headache, is among his fantastic apparitions. Or perhaps we should be diplomatic, and call it a misunderstanding. Wait patiently, and it will pass away.

Nature is defined by death. We cannot be sure that a being or phenomenon is natural, until it dies. Nature, of course, fills all our history, which documents the formerly alive. The supernature?

The tremendous mystery of the supernaturally living God: the Father the Creator, the Son the Redeemer, the Holy Spirit the Sanctifier, and this triune divinity reflected in the unity of the Church — who can understand this? The formula of words has been kept fairly simple, but we may nevertheless become confused, when we try to understand their schematization. But the Church has made them comprehensible for us, by her prayer. It is part of faith, one begins to realize — what cannot yet be fully understood, in the prospect of Heaven or the possibility of Purgatory or Hell. “We see through a glass, darkly,” yet can see, in first outline.

On my “Battle of the Whits.” There are, according to the “A.I. overview,” approximately six hundred neurological diseases and disorders, all of which, I would imagine, conclude at death. Each is perfectly natural. We should be content, only with a few.

A message to my beloved, yet much abused, readers. It appears that I have not died, and am not dying, and that once again, I will recover, with only a partial loss of my faculties, such as they are. Several of my brain functions, including those which make possible the ability to type (at least slowly), now begin to return; so I think I may have to abandon my dramatic conceits.

It is Pentecost in this world, once again; the feast of tongues, at which the Holy Spirit descended upon the Apostles, in the sound of wind rushing through the crowds of pilgrims gathered in Jerusalem. On balance, though sometimes rather fussed, I am glad to be still down here, and still to be in service to my Risen Lord. Curiously, however, “near-death experiences” may make it possible to maintain puzzled ambiguity on this.

Somewhat stroke-addled at the moment. Cannot use telephones, keyboards, or fountain pens with facility; but never could. Will resume shortly, I hope, for I am wilful. Thanks for your prayers and good wishes.

They were Buddhist monks, and one in particular, who told me that I should become a Catholic, or at least a good Christian. That was the path to my salvation, and not some flight into exoticism, such as Buddhism or another “oriental cult.” Oddly, I agreed with him, even at the time (over half a century ago), for I was allergic to the “peace brothers” and marijuana addicts I had met on the road to India; the “white hippies” as a girlfriend called them, with reference to the bedsheets they were wearing. All seemed, at least partially, motivated by resentment to the “established” Western religions which they had abandoned. Those who began to understand the “orientals” were, paradoxically, the more intelligent of them, and often the confirmed Catholics. Those who did not were the unrepentant children of the middle class. (“Consumptives,” I called them, in preference to “consumers.”)

That was when I was indulging in a phase of “comparative religion,” which consisted chiefly of reading beuks. It is one of many religion substitutes. Yet in a certain sense, I still suffer from it; for once acquired, curiosity does not easily whither away. I have “a taste for religion,” in its variety, which I had even when I called myself an Atheist. (“Agnostic” seemed so wet.) Religion — readers should eventually research the meaning of this word — is, to my mind, not exhaustively doctrinal. It has the power to cleanse, and bring relief from materialism.

What were the true religions? From childhood (in Pakistan) I was able to determine that Islam, in either Sunni or Shia form, was actually a false religion, rather a violent, totalitarian political movement, with sometimes superior architecture and calligraphy. On the other hand, Sufism — the persecuted mystical form of Islam — is unquestionably religious. The rites are musical and poetic, and Sufis seek interior purification, often more than external show.

Among the Jews, I was impressed by the joyful Hasids; the pious and orthodox; indeed, by the orthodox in all religions, perhaps even in Shinto Animism. This, through every traditional liturgy, turns one’s awareness naturally to God, and one’s attention to the mystical reality that underlies the whole Creation. It does not reinforce the self-seeking middle class, however, although, to be fair, tedious middle-class values help to sustain a useful, functioning, conscience, and discourage cheating.