Essays in Idleness

Was he greater than Aristotle the Stagyrite, greater than Saint Thomas Aquinas? Greater than Homer or Dante or Shakespeare?

No, but he was greater than Sonny Liston and George Foreman and Joe Frazier and, though I hate to admit this, greater even than George Chuvalo. Though Chuvalo went fifteen rounds with him, twice, and that ought to count for something. Chuvalo also decked four class heavyweight boxers on a single night (26 April 1956), each within four rounds; and would have been at least the British Empire champ had that cissy, Henry Cooper, ever agreed to fight him.

But Chuvalo (“Boom-boom Čuvalo” to you Toronto Croatians) ain’t dead yet, and Muhammad Ali is. He was the diamond in the golden age of boxing; he was (and I quote him as the primary authority), “the double greatest, … the boldest, the prettiest, the most superior, most scientific, most skilfullest fighter in the ring.” …

“I wrestled with an alligator. I tussled with a whale. I handcuffed lightning, I thrown thunder in jail.”

He calculated that he had taken 29,000 punches in the ring (maybe less than Chuvalo), and it is said against boxing that this isn’t healthy. Boxers often die young, and before that, punch-drunkenness may become a permanent condition. Is this worth it for a game? For a few unforgettable moments? … Yes.

I ha’ seen them mid the clouds on the heather.
Lo! they pause not for love nor for sorrow,
Yet their eyes are as the eyes of a maid to her lover,
When the white hart breaks his cover
And the white wind breaks the morn.

Another fighter (Ezra Pound) glossed these tropes: “’Tis the white stag, Fame, we’re a-hunting. Bid the world’s hounds come to horn!”

Boxing, as stag-hunting, is a gracious sport. “A lot of white men watching two black men beat each other up.” (Again, I am quoting Ali.) It has been in the Olympics since 688 BC; and man-to-man combat was known before that. Men can understand it, if they are men, and some women, too: this match in which draws should never happen. And there are rules — there have always been rules. And the man who breaks them is a cad, a worm, beneath human dignity.

Muhammad Ali never broke the rules.

The modern ironist will be quick to add, “He never had to.” (The modern ironist is a cad, a worm.)

Ali was a gentleman, and a fair man. I remember his remark when he was busted for refusing the draft, back about 1970: “They did what they thought was right. I did what I thought was right.” And in the end, they had not the guts to gaol him.

He was an inspiration to the black race, but only because he was an inspiration to the human race.

And of course, he was the poet, of so many fine and memorable couplets:

“Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee — his hands can’t hit what his eyes can’t see.”

Yes.

[Slightly expanded in the peace of Sunday morning.]

*

There is no truth in the allegation that I’m against all liberals. I am, for instance, in favour of the liberal arts. Thanks to the other liberals, however, our “systems of education” have collapsed, along with our broken families, to a level where the term must have little meaning. The distinction between the artes liberales and the artes serviles becomes lost on people who, as Josef Pieper indicates (passim), make only a distinction between “work” and “spare time.” This is to favour the artes serviles.

Servile work is done for some other purpose than the work itself. It is what the gentlemen have been doing downstairs, and are doing again for the sixth time in the last decade: digging up the street. They may no longer remember why they are doing it — the task began with the problem of burst pipes in winter, but was complicated by efforts to fix that, which involved extreme forms of municipal incompetence, abetted by arbitrary union rules. Still, the workmen expect to be paid, and that seems reason enough for them to keep digging.

I have mentioned before, have I not, that modernity can be conceived as an immense make-work project, in which the work to be done is constantly increasing at a rate much faster than the work that can be accomplished, all of which will need re-doing anyway.

Perhaps gentle reader has detected the unconscious adaptation of my prose rhythms, to the cacophony of jack-hammers, pavement saws, and the infernal back-up alarms now installed by law on machinery that moves as often backwards as forwards. Or perhaps he has noticed logical slips, explicable from the fact that I am being driven nuts by week after week after week of this, starting every morning at seven o’clock. I have come to imagine Hell as a vast, ultra-modern, construction site.

It is true, with equipment like this, the Egyptians could have built a million pyramids. But soon they would have run out of space, and in order to maintain full employment (one of the economic policies in Hell), devoted themselves instead to replacing their pyramids. At which point, the quality of pyramids would necessarily decline, from the knowledge that each is going to be demolished by the next shift of pyramid workers.

There was a city lot still occupied by a gas station, when I first moved into Parkdale, more than ten years ago. It is presently cleared for car parking, but a small billboard announces the next building scheme. In the time I’ve been walking through this neighbourhood, there have been two other buildings on that site: first a line of cheap, single-storey retail shops, that nobody wanted to rent; then a 24-hour “convenience” store, that nobody found convenient. Both evocative of brick lavatories.

Much servile work is to a good purpose. Agriculture is important, I insist, although it is now despised as a vocation; and has been fully mechanized, to disturb all peace. I am also a secret fan of textiles, though I hardly approve of current mass production, mostly imported from far, far away. And I’m not, in principle, against building houses, or even roads, cobbled in the Roman fashion. All these things can be made well, or poorly. My preferential option is for beautiful, and well.

Even the most necessary labour, to a purpose outside of itself, is vitiated if there are no gestures of liberality. These tend to sneak in wherever bureaucratic code standards are whimsically relaxed, and the strictest requirements of cash are neglected. (Codes are designed to identify, and thereby universalize, the lowest acceptable standard.) The mischievous thought, “Let us make this better than we need to make it,” insinuates itself. (We might call this the Bridge over the River Kwai principle.) Let us make it as if the fate of our souls depends upon it. (Because our fate does so depend: “God sees every sleazy little short-cut you take,” as my papa once explained.)

God, in the form of that son of a carpenter, Jesus the Christ, calls us to be perfect. This means everything we make should be perfect in its kind, within the natural limitations of our stupidity and awkwardness.

*

Heidegger says somewhere that “truth is freedom,” and as ever with that man there is something in it, though not much. Mostly he talks piffle, but some of it sounds grand.

So let me use that to segue back to those artes liberales.

Our mediaeval predecessors, and the classical ones who predeceased them, built curricula around the notion that man is of value, qua man. We should aspire to raise his condition, even in plainly practical ways. If not all men, at least some could be taught there are arts above the servile; that there is more to “spare time” than, say, circuses, or football games, designed for the couch tubers, from their desperate need to be entertained in the moments when they are not working, or sleeping, or copulating, or gorging on junk food. There should be things done not only at a pitch above sating crude appetites and killing time, but to ends that are in their nature mysterious, and thus involve contemplation.

Drawing is like that. One draws and paints, or at least I have done, not for the industrial purpose of “making art” — which is a potentially servile activity, and would anyway require more talent than I seem to have at my disposal. Rather I do it by way of teaching myself to see. Through this exercise I discover how little I saw, before trying to draw it, not only in the works of real artists, but in the other scenes arranged moment by moment right before my eyes. Only in the effort to transcribe, or better, represent it, do I begin to notice what is there. (All the best photographers can draw, incidentally.)

It is so with music, too, for those who try to sing, or play upon some instrument — as opposed to listening passively, at less than half-attention, to the musical equivalent of filth. Chesterton says anything worth doing is worth doing badly, and I will agree, with the qualification stated above: that it is the best we can do. Love requires no less of our “hobbies”: for there is that pixie of aspiration, deeply implanted in the human breast. We long to find or to make what is worthy; to be lifted — as opposed to dumped, in the mire of our depravities.

We are Homo Ludens, man at play. This begins in earliest childhood (before birth), and continues ever after in that spirit of mimesis, or let us add the Platonic diegesis (story-telling) — the spirit of “imitation” (weak, inadequate English word). It is a process by which we discover what is “useful” only by the occasional accident; in the main it directs our attention to what is good, beautiful, and true — to the “poetics” in command of all Creation, in all directions beyond human reach, and thus everywhere apparent to those who look; to every man who would “see” with his whole being.

“Spare time” is wasted on the contemporary man, who is taught from the start only to consume, and to work only towards fulfilling the requirements of consumption; to seek the pleasures of the fatted beast. He is taught to condemn whatever is useless or irrelevant to this cause; to be a pig in pursuit of acorns. And this is true even when e.g. he tires of acorns, and in his human complexity, turns to sexual and other perversions instead. His only “right” is to consume. He is clocked, statisticized, and shivved towards this end, and our entire moral, aesthetic, and metaphysical order is bent to the requirements of production and consumption. This makes him utterly servile.

I am trying to encourage a slave revolt.

Perusing, once again, what remains of the family archive (still not satisfactorily filed, years after the demise of my parents), with a particular view across Gaelic Cape Breton, and the Hebridean isles from which those ancestors came — who did not think themselves Scottish at all, but only “Scotch” in some North American context — I became enwrapped in a long sentence, which threatened to sprout more thistles here and there, among the innumerable subsidiary clauses. … Aye, thistles, man. … Too, I became a little more aware of what might be described as a genetic disorder, shared generally by the “Celtic” peoples, from Shetlands and Orkneys to Galicia.

“Celtic” is of course a creation of the modern academic mind, which keeps tidier files than I do. There never was, in fact, such a race or people. They were just a bunch of mongrels driven west, ever west, until they came against The Ocean — while the more settling tribes established their European lebensraum.

Also, perhaps, they flit north, and east, but let us put those refugees out of sight and mind, as most were made extinct. For I refer expressly to “the people of the fiddle,” who, when delivered to the New World (invariably by some persecution), instinctively found the least arable land, and scattered up anything that resembled mountains. We find them still today not only in “the highlands” of Cape Breton, but right down the Appalachian cordillera, where they dug in as “hillbillies” and such. They remain the ethnic backbone of our English-speaking armies, ever eager to sign up.

It is a proud ancestry. I have previously written in praise of the Zomians — the peoples of that alpine orogeny that spreads from Afghoon across the roof of Asia. They are much the same type, it seems to me, driven to the least habitable realms by the expansion of this “civilization” thing, which never appealed to them. (It besets them on both sides, in the case of Asia, which began as two reasonably flat continents, impacting together.) They are people unaccustomed to following orders, or even hearing them, above the din of battle; the consternation of all the neatly drilled; people whose own immigration policy is, by tradition, to kill all intruders. (Yes, my dear reader, Trump is one of us.) They have many virtues, to be sure; and the vices corresponding.

There is a special section in Hell — “The Isles” it is probably called — consisting entirely of my Celtic or Gaelic or Dalriadic or even Pictish ancestors, to say nothing of the Northmen, from the days when they were sailing and marching about the farthest reaches of Europe, putting each other in their respective glens. Perhaps it was their historical experience that made them such a touchy lot. Perhaps it was their freedom from literacy, among other chains that shackle the lowland dwellers. The literates record their histories, then forget them. The illiterates never forgive nor forget.

Here and there they spilt into lowlands themselves (as green Ireland in the first Christian centuries), and became civilized in spite of themselves, sending their missionaries into still-pagan Europe for the redemption of all humble peasant souls. Egypt, then Ireland, were the lights that came on, with the little lights that flickered in the two Romes (Rome and Constantinople), wiring gradually together along all the travelled roads. But that is another story.

This morning I write after a dream in which I committed a rather messy murder — though not without cause, I insist, gentle reader — write, of those soi-disant “Celts,” whose grievances were nursed over centuries, millennia. But now they have all been taught to read and write, and to accept their pogey, so that they swim in the waters of Lethe, with only the occasional crocodile irruption of the ancient foiled pride and cussedness.

Gaelic (or anything Goidelic or Brythonic) is lost, and for a very simple reason. Once one sees it written down, one loses heart. One doubts that anyone could ever have spoken it aloud. Every word of this “mouth music” looks plainly unpronounceable; and proves unpronounceable to those unprepared from birth to speak it, not only from the centre of the mouth, like an Englishman, but from both sides, and every other part of the anatomy. (Compare: desert Arabic.)

Reading a few passages from yellowing letters, and recalling a few more from the lips of the deceased, I fix on this unforgiving quality. And more positively, upon the joy in it, deliciously conveyed in so many Gaelic phrases, sadly lost upon our lazy modern ears.

“The Isles of the Unblest.” … I think I visited them in my dream, and found them peopled by ancestral sprites, fighting through eternity among themselves, for a little more of the clan territory that must soon be surrendered again. Each disfigured by the accumulation of his hideous injuries. Left by the Devil, to rule themselves, since he isn’t masculine enough to tame them. I imagine it the happiest region in Hell; as the field of a perfect human liberty, exulting in perpetual gore.

The French have this wonderful word, amour-propre, so much better than our English “self-love.” It comes, with its edge, from La Rochefoucauld, his urbane and scintillating Maxims in the seventeenth century. It is the arch-flatterer, “more artful than the most artful of mankind.” In parallel, it comes from Blaise Pascal, who observes that Christianity is the only cure. Then it comes again through Jean-Jacques Rousseau, in the “enlightened” eighteenth century, who thought the primitive savages incapable of amour-propre, because they lacked the gilt-framed mirrors of sophisticated society, in which their pride might be reflected. He imagines it the source of all corruption; and with some authority, for he was himself among the most corrupt of men — this Rousseau who taught us all to “blame society.”

Really there is nothing new under the sun, and the concept comes much earlier from Saint Augustine of Hippo who in his City of God calls it in Latin, amor sui, and puts it about the centre of his review of human tawdriness. That, in turn, is how it came to Pascal: via the French Augustinians, with whom Pascal was in thick, about the time he was writing his Lettres provinciales. One might add, contre Rousseau (and perhaps with Joseph de Maistre) that it goes back farther, to Adam and Eve.

Ye devill appeals to Eve’s amour-propre. She then appeals to Adam’s. That’s how this whole wretched mess got started. Note that this couple predeceased all Rousseau’s noble savages, and that the field anthropologists have since discovered that the primitive tribal types are a lot like us. Which is to say, bad, in many colourful ways, and quite invariably self-regarding.

I cannot prove that Pascal (and Augustine) are right, to a gallery of liberal theoreticians, but then, I do not seem to have such an audience listening at the moment. The pope does, however, and I suppose that’s why he gave a slew of medals the other day to such as Richard Gere, George Clooney, Salma Hayek, and who knows what other movie stars were named after I stopped reading. Surely it was a satirical attempt to show what posturing clowns they all are; though I fear the satire may have been unintentional.

Among the chief theories, embodied today in Hollywood capitalism, is that the amour-propre of celebrities is a creative force that can be harnessed to advance philanthropic causes. One might question whether the causes in question are actually philanthropic, or even benign in the manner of a good brain tumour, but that would be to dwell upon details, details.

My own theory is often the opposite. I hold that hardly anything good is accomplished in this world by the people who manoeuvre to take credit for it. (Hence my general anathema upon politicians, including the ecclesiastical ones.) Moreover, the much good actually done is not generally publicized. And this in itself is a good thing, because if people found out who was behind it, their punishment would be doubled.

Verily, this is why Holy Church has been, since the first centuries, very suspicious of claims made on behalf of “saints,” and went to the trouble of appointing Advocati Diaboli (“devil’s advocates”) to get at the truth about them, before rather than after canonization. (The term for this office has since been suppressed by the prim.)

I firmly believe that it is possible to do good in this world, because I have seen it done. But only by men (including women, and wow, how many women) who did not seek the credit, nor could even be driven by the prospect of feeling good about themselves. It happens, but I think, only by God’s grace.

One of the great things about my privileged life — I get to live in the High Doganate — is the library up here. The resident at a loss what to do — how, for instance, to take arms against a sea of troubles, and by opposing, end them — may reach blindly for a book, let it fall open at some page, and start reading. Soon he is a-raft on the sea of someone else’s troubles, and these are often preferable to one’s own; even when, as in the biography of Lavoisier I started reading, they end with “death in the afternoon,” strapped on that ultimate logic-chopping device, the guillotine.

As my little sister says, knowing you are going to die tomorrow afternoon is not so great an inconvenience as people think. (She learnt “always look on the bright side” from our mother.) “No need for all this heavy weather,” she told me once. “You can still do stuff in the morning.”

The book in question, published 1952, came into the High Doganate with a clump on “the history of science” that seemed to need rescuing from the local Salvation Army. It will now return there.

My mistake was to begin reading about page one. Had I dipped in later, my patience might not have been tried so quickly. For the book begins (as it ends) with a little hymn to Science and Progress. Did gentle reader know that science has changed, and is changing the way we live? That it is doing so faster and faster every day? That Newton came before Lavoisier, and Darwin after? Or that these gentlemen had nothing to do with one another, apart from being lionized as revolutionaries of Science? All but this last point are conveyed.

It was surprising how much I did not know about Lavoisier; and of how little importance it was. He is Saint George killing the dragon of Phlogiston in this account. Father of modern chemistry, &c. Student of heat and respiration; improver of gunpowder; hyper-efficient tax collector in the bureaucracy of the French Old Regime; academician; weekend geologist; dreamer in agriculture and economics; aristocratic gardener whose works around his Château de Frechines might plausibly be described as an experimental farm; social climber and assiduous self-promoter, whose fame could not hide him from the glinting blades of Robespierre.

A very clever man was our Lavoisier, the more charming the farther one got away from him (often I read between the lines); whose pleasure, once he took offices in the Arsenal at Paris, with a budget to do largely as he pleased, was to conduct violent experiments on anything that was lying around. His revolution in chemistry consisted of quantifying it all.

When a child, I had the evil of Phlogiston brought to my attention. It was, not from the Dark Ages as popularly supposed, but only from the end of the seventeenth century, the prevailing “settled science” on the combustible principle in the air, and other substances. It was pure theory, and surprisingly easy to kick over with a few methodical tests; notwithstanding the scientific establishment of the day kicked, screamed, and desperately resisted every attempt to displace it. Lavoisier (and Priestley in England) burnt or blew up one thing and another until Lavoisier had discovered and named Oxygen.

And so we advanced from Phlogiston to Oxygen, and incidentally to ascending in hot air balloons. Good show!

Everything interesting in Lavoisier’s career is passed over, in the course of “teaching the controversy.” What emerges, at least for me, from the author’s secular hagiography, is the dramatic irony in his subject’s fate. Here is one of the grandest limousine liberals in our interminable modern history: who, in the end, the real “liberals” put up against the wet stony wall in their dungeon. Science was their god from the beginning, and for as long as it could be used to undermine religious belief. But once in power they decided that empirical inquiries were an irrelevance and a bore.

Who needs Truth, when you have Power?

And all his life poor Antoine-Laurent de Lavoisier overlooked, with such brilliance, the actual consequences of what he was advancing — with the best will in the world, thoroughly admixed with the combustible principle of Vanity.

Controversy continues to swirl around my habit of calling my finches “purple.” A consensus is emerging among semi-perfessional birders that they cannot be. Bird Dog, at Maggie’s Farm (here), is the latest to “call me” on this. Purple finches are piney-wood avians, he insists. Those must be common-garden house finches who address me from my balconata railing, here in inner-city Parkdale.

Perhaps I am naïve, but I take them at their word. They say they are purple finches, so that’s what I report. Besides, there could be legal issues. They might be “trans” purple finches. In which case, my calling them house finches could get me a visit from the Mounties, under our young Liberal government’s latest experiment in criminal law. One can now get two years in the slammer, up here, for failing to acknowledge any creature’s personal choice of identities.

It is possible I misheard them, however. Sometimes they speak a singular metallic weet, whose meaning is clear enough. But usually it is a “bubbly continuous warble” (Andy Bezener, Birds of Ontario) — resembling Hindi, but with no English nouns inserted to help one determine the subject. I thought they said, Carpodacus purpureus. Perhaps it was, Carpodacus mexicanus, instead. Definitely, Carpodacus, and not, Loxia, for they sure don’t look like crossbills to me.

And then there is the fact that they lack the (slightly vulgar) body streaks, that I would expect to see on a house finch, whether male or female. And the lads seem to lack the brown hat. And the colouring, on those males, strikes me as a more graciously distributed matte raspberry; the red on a house finch would be more chesty and alarming and, … you know, burgundy.

The ladies, especially, know how to dress. There is that ermine mottle on their undersides, and it seems to me, that delicious dusk cheek. And they are less saucy than one would expect of the (sometimes frankly shrewish) house finch dames; they are lady-like and classy. I would swear, though not necessarily in a court of law, that their tails are slightly notched, too.

A visitor to the High Doganate said no, the tails are square, and besides, they can’t be purple finches. I told him purple finches have been recorded by the bird club in the woods of nearby High Park. He told me they stay there. They don’t do balconies. But this, I declared, is a distinguished balconata.

We all know the house finch is one of those “introduced” species, from the extreme Southwest, released in number by bird-dealers in New York City a century ago in anticipation of a police raid; that they took to urban life like many other questionable immigrants; and spread quickly from one town to another. That they displaced the native purple finches to the sticks, and have so pushed and shoved even the house sparrows (illegal immigrants of a previous generation), that we now have more than a billion of them, in dense congregations.

Did I say “illegal”? … Sorry. … The Eurasian house sparrows were imported in the 1850s to control the insects afflicting our cereal crops. But, ha! Turned out they were vegetarian — indeed trash vegetarians, who moved right into the slums. So that our melodious song sparrows felt obliged, street by street, to move elsewhere. These “Mexican” house finches have the same reputation. (Maybe Trump should have a go at them.)

My finches are not like that, at all. They are delicate, cultured birds who, as I say, can sing in Latin (as well as Hindi). They are not in the least aggressive. Well, sometimes they will note that the seed dish is empty — but softly, musically, regretfully. Surely they are finches of the “purple” class.

“It is one thing to pray for discernment, but quite something else to announce being in receipt of it.”

I quote Maureen Mullarkey, one of my living heroines, whose essays and blog (here) are a constant source of furious uplift. As the Naga peppers from the Chittagong Hills, I suppose there are people who don’t like them. The magazine First Things, for instance, decided that she was too hot to swallow. But I like edge, spice, taste, point, and Scoville heat units. And Mrs Mullarkey is a public provider.

By that sentence, from a recent post, she has put her finger in the correct eye. Within the Catholic Church today, and wherever the Christian religion is experiencing an exceptionally squalid late decadence, the belief that “the Holy Spirit” is telling us to do this or that, is alive and twisting. The notion that, for instance, we must respect the pope, not for his holy office, but because he is the receiver of divine messages, is superstitious, for a start. Popes, like emperors, may have no clothes, and the little boy who alludes to the fact should be judged on the evidence.

We owe respect, and obedience to the office. The man himself must earn it, as most previous popes have done, by teaching the Faith, unaltered. If he is serving warmed-over Zeitgeist from the political Left, for instance, or playing little subversive games with sound bites and footnotes, he must be held to account. Error must be corrected.

Now, to be fair to the current custodian of the Throne of Peter, he is not in the habit of claiming a hotline to heaven, in a direct way. The claim tends to be made on his behalf by his court jesters. I refer to men like Victor Manuel Fernández (see my Thing column yesterday, here), his appalling, blowhard adviser (and see the quotes therein); a man now exposed as the pope’s “ghost-writer.”

The “ghost” in this case is very far from requiring a capital G.

For Catholics in the trenches, or along the pews, the challenge cannot be to swallow the latest novelties from Rome. As Catholics, we can know that what is not in accord with Scripture and Tradition cannot possibly be in accord with the Holy Spirit. The challenge is rather to endure until the nonsense is over.

“Whatever they do in the Vatican, I’m staying Catholic.”

This exhilarating line comes from an old Czech drinking buddy, from the days when the Bugnini liturgical “reforms” were emptying our chapels. It is a more plausible expression of the Spirit than many others I have heard.

We are not dealing with a religion that “evolves”; rather with a Revelation immortal and unchanging, that we may come to “discern” more or less. At this historical moment, our hold is weakening. Therefore each, in his own life, must strive to make it stronger; to carry it forward in our very lives, and communicate it as well as we can, person to person: cor ad cor loquitur.

Mrs Mullarkey cites Paul, “How unsearchable are His judgements and unscrutable His ways,” echoing Isaiah:

“For My thoughts are not your thoughts, nor are your ways My ways, saith the LORD. For as the heavens are higher than the earth, so are My ways higher than your ways and My thoughts than your thoughts.”

This is something we can know.

The phenomenon to which I will devote today’s squib has been known to me from childhood. It has a place, but not in my heart. I do not necessarily refer to “conservatism” in its political form. It is an attitude mostly indifferent to politics, as it is to most other things. By its nature it is hard to stir up. (When finally stirred, it gets pretty ugly.) To use it as a party label was clever, in principle: for the idea of doing nothing, and keeping things the same, was often a good one, in the past. Unfortunately, the label did not come into use until the nineteenth century, which is to say, much too late. To use it as a slogan, in the twentieth-century Anglosphere fashion, is downright obtuse. Why would we want to conserve or preserve all this wicked modern nonsense?

Pressed, I cannot remember ever having admitted to “conservatism.” In decades past I called myself “a Tory.” Pressed further for a definition I would quote the opening of Praeterita, by John Ruskin: “I am, and my father was before me, a violent Tory of the old school — the school of Walter Scott, and Homer.” This wasn’t precisely true, but had the right flavour. Later, I found the term “reactionary” would serve.

In my generation, the mutation of the notion of “conservation” into the notion of “environmentalism” revealed the tragic flaw. The soi-disant “conservatives” allowed this to happen. They thought somehow the revolutionists had adopted their ideas, when in fact they had appropriated them for their own “progressive” cause. The love of nature was quickly transformed into interminable agitprop about “endangered species.”

John Stuart Mill famously explained that he did not think conservatives were stupid. He only thought stupid people tend to be conservative; and of course he was right.

The great majority are, and have always been conservative. This includes people on the Left. They do not actually like any of the “progress” they have been advancing, by their votes and their drudgery. They are as apt to moan about “bureaucracy” as anyone on the Right. But they are conservatively committed to playing along. Really they’d be happier as mild heretics in the Middle Ages, lacking as they do the spunk to get themselves burnt at any stake. The air was fresher then, and the instructions on how to live were not only simpler, but harder to defy. They might have found peace, in those circumstances.

When it comes to “lifestyle,” I cannot detect much difference between conservatives of the Left, and conservatives of the Right. Both lazily buy into every consumer convenience, and to the general convenience of consumerism. It is not hypocrisy. Some energy is needed for that. It is just indolence. Our ancestors would have bought in, too; and when you think of it, they did: over several generations. We are the result of our ancestors’ “progressive” lethargy, of mind and body.

No, gentle reader, “I am not a conservative,” as many have tried to claim before me. At least I aspire to be a lupine, implacable reactionary. I want everything associated with “modernity” destroyed — starting with the earth-moving machinery that is digging up my street yet again, as I write. I want the ice cream truck with its amplified jingle to be, likewise, rusting in some bush. Though I think, to be practical, we should start with “post-modernity,” and work methodically backwards from there.

Since the year of my birth, as I understand, the biomass of the lumpenproletariat (i.e. the conservatives) has more than doubled. I am a pro-life Catholic, and can hardly object. Over the same period the lumpen mass of machinery (chiefly cars) has increased perhaps tenfold. No reason to panic: it is made of iron mostly, and will quickly degrade. If we want to save the Earth, I think, keep the people, but get rid of the cars. And this can be achieved not by banning them — which would be controversial — but by merely neglecting the roads. Most become unmotorable within a decade or so.

And so on: through a strategy of “heroic neglect.”

In judo, as in most martial arts, we learn to use the enemy’s otherwise intimidating weight to our advantage. (“Asymmetric warfare”: learn how it works.) The trick is to exploit the conservatism of the masses. Being human, they are dim, and easy to sucker and con. That is the great secret of democracy. The revolutionists have done a much better job of this than have the reactionaries, over the last few hundred years, and the task for us is to master their tricks. The best one is to bring the whole weight of the lumpengeist down on their heads — the way they have been doing to us.

We must master the genius of dullness. We must, as in many successful societies before, put dullness once again at the service of high art. We must rebuild civilization on conservative indifference.

How we do this, I have no idea, but the principle of the thing seems clear enough.

My Chief Newfoundland Correspondent (I hadn’t mentioned the appointment yet: I hope he is not unduly alarmed) writes about prayer, among the birds. Or rather, he asked a question of my purple finches, who are at last back in force from wherever, exploiting the sunflower generosity of the High Doganate. He asked if they, or the other birds pray, as they seem to do in his neighbourhood of Saint John’s (where, I gather, he is a physical oceanographer). The birds in his backyard conflate into song about one hour before sunrise, in the first light of the morning dusk.

“A gentle sound, not the rough ‘caw’ of our crows, nor the frantic chirps of small nesting birds as they attempt to fill their noisy children. It would be pleasant to believe that they are thanking God for life.”

It is the same in Parkdale. I have often noticed the choir is preceded by a single voice, intoning the invitatory Psalm. And then the full gallery of songbirds, in all their species, sing Lauds from each his tiny loft. The sound is unmistakable: of joy in being alive.

My swallows are back, too, only recently from the Amazon, or somewhere I think in southern Venezuela where the Ante-Parkdale may be found in the northern winter. They seem not to tire from their twice-annual, heroic journeying; nor to have suffered from the inevitable collapse of the Venezuelan economy after the introduction of socialism there, where only the human beings despair. The birds are above it.

My hearing is not so fine that I can distinguish any chirping from them within the Lauds; I think they wait until just after, to fly out in their squadrons, and feast on the early morning bugs — nattering away to each other where they find the midge-clouds thickest.

Alas, since last fall, the municipal authorities have taken out a beautiful old iron bridge over the railway, the underside of which was among the swallows’ largest hotels. It was targeted as unnecessarily quaint and lovely, banked on one side into a natural shade garden; it will be replaced with something better engineered to express the vicious ugliness in the soul of contemporary man. I daresay the demolition men were cursing at all the old swallow nests.

But my swallows, like my finches, and my sparrows, will survive. They find other hotels, and do not even bother to plague the city switchboard with their complaints.

In the spring, I have learnt, through the month of May, many million birds pass over Greater Parkdale in a single night, returning to their northern abodes. Along the Lakeshore, just now, one may see the flocks of whimbrel, en route to Hudson’s Bay and the Keewatin. They wade, and poke about in the dirty sands, with their down-curved beaks; then, on seeing a man too close, alert their friends with a rippling whistle. I know they are feeding, but in a moment it seemed all their heads bowed together, as if in acknowledgement of the Holy Trinity. Then being noticed, they took fear and flew off.

(I cannot say that I understand whimbrels. Approach a nest, I am told, and the parents will come at your face in a way that makes redwing blackbirds seem willing to compromise. But gathered in a mob they are meek and skittish. This is quite the opposite of the human propensities.)

Only, perhaps, a few hundred thousand among the songbirds have selected Inner Parkdale for their summer homes. Ovenbirds and juncos, warblers and thrushes, flickers and sapsuckers and chickadees, may be spotted in the quiet of the ravines; fox sparrows, song sparrows, house sparrows, chipping sparrows, lincolns, white-throats, savannahs, are to be counted among the “small brown jobs” of High Park and its vicinity; each a tiny squeezebox of music; enough to remind all those unstunted of the Joy of their Creator.

I am no authority on this. I cannot tell if all the Liturgical Hours are observed. I have no confidence, either, in my powers of identification, for I am no birder. I deal only with the obvious.

Without anything tantamount to human knowledge, they are praying for us.

During a conversation with whisky, a gentleman used the expression “teacher training.” He thought it ought to be improved. I had heard the phrase before. It struck me as unhappy: only two terms, and the one cancelling the other in the post-modern way. Surely we should use more words to conceal our self-contradictions. Even the standard of blathering is in decline.

I proposed “teacher teaching,” or alternatively, “trainer training,” insisting upon the distinction between the two activities. There may be some slight overlap between them, but training is what we provide to the human animal. Teaching extends to the human soul. Not that we aren’t both body and soul. There is, however, a question which is higher; or even, which will visibly decay.

Mrs Jessie Glynn, my elderly and wise instructress in Latin some years ago (about fifty, I now calculate), was very careful with this distinction. She told her pupils they were to be trained, as dogs. But for relief, there would also be some teaching. We would read and discuss some Roman history and literature; we could apply our training to little exercises in imaginative composition, and poetical translation (both ways); and to savaging each other’s best efforts. We might consider a few Roman ideas, that the Romans hardly ever examined, about how to live and so on; and compare them with our unexamined own. We would engage in the most frivolous time-travel, thereby. Training, she said, is required to learn a language; but teaching begins when we read with understanding, and come to chatter in it. It is that exhilarating moment when we graduate from “Latin” to “Classics.” The sooner we get to chattering the better; but the training of necessity comes first.

Small children take joy in being trained. They are suited to it by nature: their little memories are sharp sharp sharp. Their bodies are quite flexible. As we grow we move from training to “learning.”

Oddly, the contemporary mind, such as it is, hates training but omits teaching. The great majority of our college children go there to avoid a liberal education. But they are already too long in the tooth to benefit from rote training, the way they could have done when they were smaller.

They have minds, true, but no use for them. They want training for skills that could make them money. They are looking forward to an “intensely competitive” job market, in which they will be competing with robots, more and more. They need to become robots, but for the sake of competition must outpace their robot rivals in quickness and accuracy.

Had they been taught anything, they would already know that they are going to lose. For robots can do most anything that is beneath the full human dignity, quicker and more accurately than they ever will.

I wonder if Roman children, or Chinese for that matter in the Han, said, “When I grow up I want to be an abacus.” The modern solution is, never to grow up; to concede the battle with the robots and go on pogey instead. There is this “one percent” of people who are very, very rich — they seem to own all of the robots. Each, surely, can afford to pay for ninety-nine abject losers.

Should gentle reader think I have forgotten about her (or him, as the case may be), let me reassure. I think about her all the time.

Over what, in Canada, is an extended Victoria Day weekend — loyal firecrackers bursting upwards, all over the Greater Parkdale Area as I write — I have been continuously busy in an important domestic task. Let it remain a mystery. It has something to do with my Midas touch for beuks (Scotch pronunciation), and even beuk-cases, and involves a great deal of physical labour. But that’s enough hints.

*

A rather forward young lady (age seven) was conducting a press conference the other day, during a barbecue for priests, teachers, and graduating seminarians. The lively child of a fellow instructor — among whose littler sisters is one quite recently born, who appears to be an abbess — she announced that she would field questions from “the older people,” on any topic at all. She called on each around her by turn — mostly my students — using a descriptor if a name did not come immediately to her (slickly memorious) mind. Each was obliged to ask her a question.

We learnt, for instance, that she would not become a nun, but would marry. She would have ten children, because large families are happier than small ones. She had not decided upon a husband yet, but he would have to be Catholic.

Turning suddenly to me, I found myself described as, “The Old Man.” My students tittered, discreetly.

I asked why she had fixed on the number ten.

“Because it is a round number.”

Five boys and five girls?

“No, you get what you get. You should read your Catechism.”

She then turned to her next customer, allowing him to finish chewing his hot dog, though warning that her patience was limited.

I had never actually been described as an “old man” before, by another person, except in jest. I found it rather shocking, for though I so describe myself (prophylactically), I don’t feel ready for the glue factory, yet. … But yairs, out of the mouths of babes.

After three days of hard labour, always careful not to twist my back, I feel almost sixty again. It is amazing how physical work rejuvenates us.

I must get in the habit of doing more.

*

Meanwhile, I see that all the “Just War” theoreticians have written letters to me: mostly in outrage.

Let me end this note with a little tip I picked up while studying this topic myself, years ago: the Geneva Conventions, and all their (unambiguously Christian) antecedents. This has to do with the wars being fought against the Daesh, and other “informal” armies, in the Middle East, and elsewhere.

If they are armed, but not in a recognized national uniform, it is open season on them. If they are behaving, themselves, with indifference to the civilized conventions, it is open season. When we are up against a barbaric foe, and defending our civilization, the eyes are not dotted and the teas are not crossed.

For here is another hint. “Just War Theory” was not written by pacifistas.

(More on this topic, but no time soon.)

“Too much peace only leads to war,” a beautiful young Indian lady said to me, once upon a time. “And too much war only leads to peace,” she added. This, I reflected, was a succinct account of how things go on this planet. Those idealists who would put an end to war, are shown to encourage it, by this aphorism. In considering the foreign policy views of Pat Buchanan (who thinks he is the brains behind Donald Trump), I should like to begin with a grand concession. It is so important, I have put it at the top.

Fill your enemies with the certainty, that messing with you will lead to their extinction, and you are reasonably assured of peace. Buchanan and Trump do understand this point. Buchanan looks back on the Republican party tradition, and notes Democrats started almost every foreign war. He regrets that the Republicans got into that business, after the Reagan years; but he is clear that his country needs a strong standing Army, plus ships and aeroplanes and missiles and things, if it is to speak softly.

On this, we are in total agreement; and even the Bushes (both father and son) would agree, in principle, that the military-industrial complex ought not to be casually aroused. Lions, as the Americans know, and the British knew, and the Romans before them, need not overmuch worry about molestation, even when exposed in the open grass. For a nation that can afford it, “peace through strength” will almost always work.

Not quite always, however. Some enemies are crazy, or shall we say they “miscalculate,” the way Saddam did each time he took on a Bush. He thought they were “paper tigers,” pussy cats; that they lacked the will to enforce their commands; that faced with wily, middle-eastern intransigence, they would yawn and turn away.

What is an Imperialist to do, confronted with such a vexationist? To which I reply, make an example of him, pour encourager les autres.

(I have been called an Imperialist on many occasions. I am one, so I do not object. Better our empire than theirs, I aver.)

The junior Bush also miscalculated. Curiously it was not because he listened to the “neo-conservatives” in his Pentagon (a few well-informed, high-intelligent Jews, who had travelled the region and could speak its languages). Their advice, as I recall it, partly from first hand, was correct. They were not over-eager to go into Iraq, but could find no alternative. They were much less eager to try the silly experiment of turning Iraq into a “democracy”; it struck them as the formula for another Vietnam. It was the idealists in the State Department who thought, “let’s make Iraq another shining city on the hill”; and Bush himself, in one of his “Lincoln” moments.

Notwithstanding, scapegoats were needed when the adventure started going badly — thanks to biting off more than anyone could chew — and not for the first time in history, everyone started picking on the Jews. For that’s what “neo-con” means — Jews — and that’s why I say that I am a neo-con. Though really, of course, I am just an Imperialist.

It is tedious to recall what was wrong with Saddam. We could perhaps have overlooked his propensity to bury his own people in mass graves: several hundred thousand of them in the graves so far discovered. He may not have been as great an offender as the neighbouring Ayatollahs in the sponsorship of “terror” — from Mali to Pakistan — but he was operating on a large and growing scale. His proprietorial interest in Hamas, and psychopathy towards Israel, were of course taken into the account. For quite apart from being Jewish, Israel is the front line of the West. There were moreover reports from all the allied intelligence agencies of Saddam’s inventory of “WMD” — which the fool himself had been helping to substantiate. Given their general incompetence, our spies had no way to distinguish fact from bluster.

Gaddafi of Libya could be reasoned with, by hardly more than a quick bombing around his residential compound in Tripoli. After the invasion of Iraq, he went all friendly, freely admitting to his nuclear programme, and inviting Americans to help him retire it, over tea. He even began withdrawing from his meddlesome activities in uranium-rich Chad. Why, in the end, we ever decided to displace him, puzzles me. The idealists thought he was a bad man. They’d thought Saddam was a bad man, too, until a Republican administration resolved to do something about him.

But as Buchanan would surely agree, it is not the function of the “world police department” to go hunting for bad guys. The world is full of sinners. The function is rather to know who they are, and what they are up to, and find criteria to decide when one of them has become such a threat to the peace, that he needs taking out.

The Ayatollahs, I said, were worse than Saddam. But Saddam was the easier target. There was a glowing moment, back in 2003–4, when even mullahs were suddenly impressed by Bush’s strange habit, of delivering on his promises, and Iran became downright cooperative. The trick was to freeze that moment in time; not fritter it away in gallant and fatuous nation-building exercises.

“Peace through strength” only works, over time, with an occasional exhibition. Without that, the bad guys are apt to forget that the weapons can be used. Too, as Romans and later Europeans understood on the clear days, one must keep one’s troops in tip-top condition. They need to be battle-ready y’know, at all times.

So now I have begun to depart from the isolationist tendency. The question might fairly be asked, why mess with the world at all? This tends to be asked by idealists. Why not mind our own business, and greet all the world with a smile?

Because, ever since Adam and his mistress were evicted from the Garden, we have found the world to be a dangerous place.

The sparrows currently upon my balconata (helping themselves to the lunch of my finches) perfectly understand what is lost on idealistic people, with their posturing sophistication. They can be pert and daring; they know that making a living takes nerve. But they, and even more the pigeons, who know they are carrying more flesh, share their environment with hawks, and other predators. If you’re small, you can often get yourself ignored. If you’re large, there may be no hiding.

America is big and fat, the juiciest bag the world can offer, even after seven-plus years of Obama. The USA is no longer thirteen little realms of doubtful significance. It has risen to the condition of fight or flight. It is moreover the inheritor, from old Mama Albion (and Mama Gallia, and Mama Hispania, and Mama Italia right through the Middle Ages) of an interest that goes beyond that of any individual nation.

The world is full of pirates, too, and as we have been recently reminded, off the coast of Somalia and in the South China Sea: the freedom of the seas must be “established.” On this analogy, I place everything else. We’re on a planet where the bad guys win, the moment the good guys go off their game.

I feel sorry for the Americans. They did not want the job. But they are stuck with it until they walk away, and jilt all their remaining allies. They did not even want the praise that goes with the uniform, let alone the more frequent contumely. But a man must do what a man must do, to keep the world in order, and in this respect the USA remains the big kid on the block. Either he will deal with the little devils, or they will finally deal with him.

Rudyard Kipling was good on this topic. Read his “White Man’s Burden” for what he actually says. It is addressed to that rising America of 1899, and is reasonably prophetic. Kipling was the Imperial Poet on whom I was myself raised (partly in his home town of Lahore), and as I’ve aged I have realized not only that his prose and verse are remarkably sound, but that his understanding of how the world works borders on the sublime. He is not bloodthirsty or violent by disposition. He takes pleasure in all the variety the world can set before him; on all its open roads. (Read Kim, as I did, again and again.) He is in the best sense cosmopolitan (“almost Jewish”); a Little Englander in no way; and very far from any proclamation of “my country right or wrong.” He knows, too, that there is such a thing as civilization, and that history has many ages. Our own corporate or collective position, is only for a time.

The poem addresses an America embarking upon that difficult, “adult” life, that comes with terrible responsibilities. He foresees the thankless tasks ahead.

In time America, too, will be buried with the other empires. But the funeral has not yet come, and while she lives and breathes, she retains her duties. She must, for the world’s sake, stop licking her wounds, and whining; must keep up our quarrel with the foe.

The world, in all its imperfection, will have empires of one kind or another. Not one will always be a force for good. But there is better and worse, and if we are sane, we will allow that in our time the American power has been a blessing.

The idea that, “We must do something about this,” is not necessarily a bad one. One encounters it often among the Victorian Imperialists, back when the United Kingdom, and not the United States, had the role of “world policeman.” It can be a very bad idea, too, of course, especially if the intentions behind the action are criminal, or one is settling private scores in public ways. But today we are discussing public policy, God help us; and assuming that truly national and not private interests are at stake.

Which opens the wide gate on what a “national interest” might be. Without discussion I will affirm that it is the security of a people in a fairly broad sense: the preservation of their liberties and way of life; the keeping invasive forces at bay; the safety of a nation’s citizens both at home and abroad. I say this in the knowledge that the definition is inadequate: that nothing can be reduced to the worldly without sacrifice of the unworldly. Still, we are proceeding roughly, through a world that is itself rather rough.

The “national interest” is seldom analagous to an individual’s interest, practically or morally. Nations cannot be saved — and are not saved in the long course of history. Men can be, and are. The politician who thinks his country should act as saint or martyr, is making that decision on behalf of others. To volunteer another for martyrdom is murder; to volunteer another for saintly behaviour is tyranny of the same species. We may recommend that an individual become a saint or martyr; but it is an horrific abuse of power to impose this outward fate upon him, when he has not inwardly subscribed.

It follows that the nation state should avoid “idealism.” Its business is only to legislate for the common good, insofar as that is obvious; to encourage, perhaps robustly sometimes, motherhood and apple pie; but to impose only upon criminal wrongdoing. The State is not our Church and not our Nanny.

Note that this is an unambiguously Christian approach. We have only to go as far as Islam to find it denied. Mohammad in the Koran tells us to “command the good.” Christ in the New Testament sets it before us by example. I’m afraid we have to choose our prophets; I hope I have made my own bias clear.

“Sovereignty” is another big word. In its old sense, it meant the paramount: what is above something else. It did not apply exclusively to the nation state. A subtle transformation took place, which I have never seen properly examined. The “sovereign” was head of state — at its highest symbolic, more than managerial, station. “National sovereignty” is quite a different thing. It transfers the headship to the state itself, however headless or “republican.” It projects the will to power, transforming state into Leviathan. It creates an abstract being, beyond management or symbol. To my mind, it opened the city gates to the demonic.

In politics, however, we accept things as they are. The field delimitations are as they have been for the last few centuries (since the seventeenth in Europe): they are boundaries around “sovereign” nation states. Each national government has the “sovereignty” within its recognized frontiers (a sovereignty within a sovereignty, as it were), and is thus responsible for order within that domain, as well as for guarding those boundaries. The world “abroad” is that of peace and war; of diplomacy if possible, or war if not. The case is necessarily complicated by ethnic conflicts, and essays in federalism.

Thus far I think I am in agreement with Pat Buchanan, the old Nixonian sage (and sincere Catholic) who has expounded, and been expounding for many years, a view of the American interest that is coherent and by tendency, isolationist. He takes America on its own word, as a nearly-absolute claimant on the loyalty of its people, and describes himself as a patriot. He is probably more a Catholic than an American, should he ever have to choose, but it would be a close-run thing.

I look at his views instead of those of his supposed disciple, Donald Trump, because the latter is pure populist and thus, utterly incoherent. That is to say, he will not state his principles, and champions instead his feelings, presumptively shared in the crowd with which he has emotionally bonded. Buchanan has principles and strategy; he will go to the wall for them, win or lose. Trump has impulses and tactics; but at the moment he seems to be following, roughly, Buchanan’s view of things. (And Buchanan has generously allowed that this may be so.)

Given the function of a modern, sovereign state, I find nothing controversial about minding the borders. Yet I would remind that to a mediaeval mind, such as the one I aspire to possess, it is senseless. Boundaries were meaningless, except in the limited sense of trespass on property where there was no right-of-way. One crossed borders freely, in the main (there were tolls to pay, but for the use of roads and bridges). One showed deference to local custom and lordship because one was now, in effect, a citizen of that country. And would become the citizen of another, when one passed on to the next domain, within Christendom. Only at the frontiers of Christendom did one’s status radically change, in the way it does today at national borders; and did one lose one’s right to the common courtesies (including the pilgrim’s claim on monastic hospitality).

The USA was an unusual country in having been built upon mass immigration; but it is not unique in that respect (Canada, Australia, Argentina, &c). By now it is “a nationality,” however, and while the sonnet of Emma Lazarus sounds uplifting, it is just words:

… Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore …

Unless it sets a quota on immigration, even a country as big as USA can be overrun by the teeming in question. Unless, indeed, it selects immigrants, for compatibility with what is already there, a government has betrayed the denizens of its gated neighbourhood. It must choose those who want to become Americans, not those whose national loyalties will continue to lie elsewhere.

A special, traditionally Christian dispensation for refugees from tyrannies fleeing for their lives has long been (selectively) recognized — on the assumption that their gratitude for shelter will be real. The status of “economic migrants” is necessarily confused. It is entirely pragmatic, whatever the idealist blather. I have no great trouble with policing borders, or building necessary fences and walls, in the modern circumstance. Neither, I think, would any loyal immigrant.

Laws, too, must be enforced, to maintain order. Those in a country illegally have broken them. If they are not prosecuted the world has been informed that no one will be. Compared to this, fences are ineffective: all “merciful” exceptions will be taken as licence to go up and over. (Or dig under, as the Mexicans seem to prefer.)

And yet we retain the licence to be humane, in specifying exceptions. A distinction can decently be made between those newly arrived, and those who have been in the country so long that they have established a right of abode, bygones being bygones. Those otherwise law-abiding, who have set down families and acclimatized themselves, should to my mind have the equivalent of the old pioneering “squatter’s rights.” Say, seven years, and you have immigrant status. (One day less, and you should remain inconspicuous till morning.) There should anyway be no such thing as a second generation of illegals: crimes of the fathers being, by convention, not visited on the sons.

Verily, statutes of limitation, in various kinds, are a fine Christian, mediaeval concept, and should be borne in mind when any politician opens his populist yawp. Nothing in this world is by its nature perpetual, and limitations on positive law should be freely, and pointedly, acknowledged. Moreover, retroactive legislation should be subject to taboo. Laws are for now, not yesterday.

Too, the public order, for which laws were intended, requires sometimes the relaxation of laws. The USA today is full of Hispanics (those from Mexico, incidentally, most likely of all Latin Americans to be Catholic and Christian); it is unwise in the extreme to alienate them. Or more plainly: it cannot be in the practical interest of the majority to persecute a very large minority. If they are there already, what is done is done. Try charm instead.

And remember that the melting pot is always in operation. Their children will if welcomed become much more like us, and we will in turn become a bit like them, in the cultural stew. Live with it: for the real cultural questions are not, in the end, race and language. They are at their base, credal.

Which is why I fear, and think others should fear, massive Muslim immigration more than any other. For here we have credal differences, that cannot be bridged except glibly. Shariah is in its nature antagonistic to most Western norms. The poor of Ireland and the Germanies were not, in the past; nor are the Hispanic “economic migrants” today. They more-or-less embrace our common, fundamentally Christian, notions of public decency. (Indeed, these are challenged almost exclusively by native-born lily-white liberals, inventing the “shariah” of the politically correct.)

Here again we are dealing with a distinction above the national, which falls awkwardly into our present bureaucratic categories. The question is rather civilizational. Should men be admitted to flood our realm who — if they are sincere in their religion — are committed to our destruction? Or should they be admitted only if they can prove their insincerity? In which case, the insincerity becomes an issue. But in any case, we are typical post-moderns, dealing pragmatically with something that is not in its nature pragmatic. This is a strategy that leads, invariably, to a bad end.

So we build a wall against (mostly harmless) economic migrants, largely Catholic and Christian, then empower the TSA to grind holiday traffic through our airports to a standstill against abstract “terrorists,” who by law cannot be subjected to a religious test, and are unlikely to pose as terrorists. For which Trump at least (Buchanan is not so naïve) proposes a “temporary” religious test, until we’ve sorted out what we are doing.

Here we begin to discover the impossibilities of modern political thinking. America the nation state has been confused with America the civilizational; and the latter, more important, must be sacrificed to the former. Like Laurel and Hardy, we’ve gotten ourselves into a fine mess.

But immigration is only on the cusp of foreign policy. I foolishly promised to critique Buchanan’s (and by supposed extension Trump’s) novel views on how those United States, which incidentally remain the pre-eminent Western military power, should conduct themselves around the planet. I am what they would call a “neo-conservative” (whether with justice I do not care). I am in fact more of an old-fashioned Imperialist, and will continue this ramble perhaps, tomorrow.