Showing posts with label matrimony. Show all posts
Showing posts with label matrimony. Show all posts

Sunday, May 3, 2020

AMOREM LUDUMQUE CANO


Among the genres of popular fiction which I have never so much as sampled, whether from idle curiosity or prophylactic alarm, figures  not only the old-fashioned cowpoke tales (now perhaps extinct, in America if not in Europe), but the much larger and still thriving genre of what we may call the Harlequin romance.  Were I stranded in a railway carriage on a non-stop express from Berlin to Trebizond, with no companion but a dozing deaf-mute retired parson, and no reading-matter but a Harlequin left behind by some previous passenger, I should recite to that parson the story of my life, beginning with infancy,  clarifying the subtler points with hand-gestures, and proceeding through the Lehrjahre and the Wanderjahre and so forth;  or else I would read and re-read the posted railway regulations (“Non sporgersi!”), noting points of etymology and style;  or even (in default of any other exemplifications of the alphabet)  practice the farther reaches of the “times” table, alert to any possible number-theoretical surprises, --  before I would pick up that dog-eared cardioid-bespotted object.
            And yet the following point obtrudes itself, as I read the umpty-seventh of P.G.Wodehouse’s innumerable, perhaps indeed literally numberless series of tales (in the Steady State Theory, a new one pops out posthumously and spontaneously  every so often, as the universe expands):  that in any one of these tales  -- select at random as you like, from the early, late, or middle run of the oeuvre – if there figure a wholesome young woman, and a wholesome young man (typically denominated "Jane" and "Bill"), then, despite a heap of obstacles thrown up, both by Fate (abetted by the author’s art) and by their own respective fat-headednesses,   they will get betrothed. 
And this result, I acknowledge, is as welcome to me, as the crisp air at sunrise, the brandy after dinner, or the climax of the act of love. Yet it is exactly the same end which is repetitiously compassed by those distaff harlequinades (which, unaccountably, I persist in disdaining to savor).

            From the standpoint of modern geometry, there is but one possible conclusion: that, though I can never know hér mind, nor she know mine, yet we are gazing, from different angles, at the same real solid object – the same sacrament, given from heaven.

*

            These two light genres, whether or not twinned in Platonic paradise, could perhaps do with a dose of gravitas.  Herewith, therefore, two links to the classic past:

Firstly:  As Byron puts it in Don Juan: "Tragedy ends in death; comedy, in marriage." (The observation may perhaps go back to Aristotle.)

Secondly, concerning the Wodehouse golf series in particular: Though the martial note is muted in these tales, and though the ancient gods and heroes are here more likely to appear as something half-remembered from the sixth form, than as actual protagonists, yet there is an echo of the Iliad.  For as there, the warriors, pawns upon a board, might act as they would, by will or upon impulse, yet their shot shaft must suffer a crucial mid-air nudge from this interested deity or that one:  so too in Wodehousia, as the dim plus-foured figures potter tragicomedically about the green.  For it is all very well for you to rummage among your armamentarium of brassies, drivers, mashies and niblicks – the full recital of which would take longer than the Catalogue of the Ships – be you ever so skillful or never so duff – this fact of the Fates remains:  that little round white metaphor of human destiny  will (Ulysses-like) at last reach the safe haven of the tin cup, or on the contrary (tel the lesser Ajax) land smack dab in a sand-trap, according as the favors of Aphrodite, or of her meddlesome son, have or have not been propitiated.  In the Wodehouse world, the best way to hole out under bogey is to propose marriage on the putting green, and be received.

Tuesday, April 14, 2020

Suzanne! Suzanne!



We loved each other
   tenderly,
and our fondness encreased
  with age.


-- Oliver Goldsmith, The Vicar of Wakefield  (1766)

Friday, July 5, 2019

Requiescat illa in pace





She passed to her final sleep   in silent dignity


-- Hamlin Garland, A Son of the Middle Border (1917)

Saturday, September 30, 2017

Name of the Day: “Henery”


Back in 1965, when I still listened to the blandly homogenized pop medium known as Top 40 radio, a song soared onto the charts  that didn’t fit the rock & roll mold at all, and seemed to come from another world:  “I'm Henery the Eighth, I Am”.  It was harmless, charming, catchy.   Once ever you heard it, you could never forget it:

    I'm 'Enery the Eighth, I am,
    'Enery the Eighth I am, I am!
    I got married to the widow next door,
    She's been married seven times before
    And every one was an 'Enery
    She wouldn't have a Willie nor a Sam
    I'm her eighth old man named 'Enery
    'Enery the Eighth, I am!

Wikipedia (that fount of all that is good and true) provides the surprising background.  It is a British music-hall song dating back to as early as 1910 -- few indeed were the ditties of such venerable vintage that made it onto the pop playlists.  And yet -- scarcely to be credited:

In 1965, it became the fastest-selling song in history to that point when it was revived by Herman's Hermits.

~

What revived that memory  was a passage in Thomas Hardy’s Far from the Madding Crowd (1874), referring to a simple workman of rural southwest England:

He always signed his name "Henery"—strenuously insisting upon that spelling, and if any passing schoolmaster ventured to remark that the second "e" was superfluous and old-fashioned, he received the reply that "H-e-n-e-r-y" was the name he was christened and the name he would stick to—in the tone of one to whom orthographical differences were matters which had a great deal to do with personal character. 

As kids, exposed to the ditty, we made no philological hypotheses concerning the trisyllabic name -- just something silly, metri causâ, we supposed.  But Hardy’s witness demonstrates that the pronunciation is time-honored among the English popular classes.
Yea indeed, still further up the scale:  for the regal name of Henry is trisyllabic in Shakespeare.

The medial schwa is not etymological, but the product of popular epenthesis (or anaptyxis, if you insist), like the pronunciation “ellum” for elm, or the by-form alarum from alarm.


Psycho-literary afternote:
This serial connubium, relentlessly running through no fewer than eight grooms, might be seen as a feminine revenge -- a payback with interest --  against the original polynubial King Henry, who actually limited himself to half a dozen.

"N-n-ex-x-x-t !!"


Wednesday, June 15, 2016

Metempsychotic Monostich



 we might wake up as woodchucks   -- yea,  before the night is through



(aging david, to his lady-love)

Sunday, September 6, 2015

Im Westen nichts neues


Nothing New Under the Sun

Vor dem Heiraten  hütet er sich,  trotzdem er schon vierunddreißig Jahre alt ist,  denn die Amerikannerinnen heiraten oft  nur, um sich scheiden zu lassen,
was für sie sehr einfach,
für den Mann  aber sehr teuer ist.
-- Franz Kafka, Tagebücher, Aufzeichnung aus dem Jahre 1914



.

Monday, September 1, 2014

A Pregnant Pause


A cinematic -- or rather, actually, televisual -- illustration of the Eloquence of Silence.

In “The Case of the Sulky Girl” (TV, 1957),  the eponymous (anti)heroine  brushes past Perry Mason’s receptionist (disregarding the objection that an appointment is required) and slips into his office, where he is on the phone  with his back turned.  He is fumbling one-handedly with a cigarette (young folks today will be baffled by this, but:  Back in the day, there were no hands-free phones;  and people other than serial killers  actually smoked onscreen);  a slender hand appears stage-right, with a lit match -- not a single one, not in contact with her actual skin, but one set upright upon the matches-pack (we leave it to the hermeneuticists to unriddle the symbolism);  he accepts the favor, bemused.  And agrees to hear her out, there and then.



Turns out she’s a prospective heiress (a well-worn feminine movie trope;  you won’t find guys mooning away in that filmic position, unless they’re villains, as in Kind Hearts and Coronets), contesting a trust.   She stands to haul in a cool million, provided she waits until age 25 to marry (and she but twenty-three!).   Mason, with an air of reason, suggests, “Why not wait a couple of years?  It sounds profitable.”  -- “But I want to get married now.” --  “Mm, why?” -- …
… -- …
No answer.  A pause; a look, as blank as she can make it.
Mason, for a second opinion, glances over at Della Reese. 
She, not batting an eyelash, returns his glance.
Ahh… HA!

At this point, the adult members of the audience (the women, certainly, and the wiser among the married men)  have cottoned on:  She cannot wait, because she’s … with child.

Now... When I used to watch these episodes as a kid, sitting clueless on the sofa  while Eisenhower stewarded the world,  this passage would have blown right by me.  But since it wasted no words, neither would it have perplexed me, or wasted time.
Well done, all.


[Note]  Among the most fraught moments in movies, as we have observed before, are wordless.   But that is not quite what we are getting at here.  In the climaxing scenes in the movies referred to in that essay (“The Third Man”, “North by Northwest”, “The Godfather II”), what is meant is ineffable.   In this modest TV episode, it is eminently effable:  She’s pregnant out of wedlock, and doesn’t want to say so out loud.   So, it’s not epiphanic;  but it is still an elegant illustration of s’entendre à demi-mot -- or, in this case, no word at all. 
(And very nice the way Mason, instantly glimpsing the truth, nonetheless checks with Della for confirmation.)


For our own adventure into the audio-visual,
where more is suggested
than is explicitly said,
try this:



For the adults who didn’t quite get it (while still leaving the children  partially in the dark), a following scene confirms:
Sulky:  “There’s something else you don’t know.”
Mason, complacently:  “That was my second hunch;  I hope it’s a boy.”

This strikes the modern viewer  something like a fish-in-the-face:  No-one would be allowed to place such a sentiment into the mouth of the hero nowadays.   And in this case, I must concur -- not for reasons of political correctness, but of theological adequacy:  “Man and Woman  created He them.”   (Thy will be done.)

[Post-note]  Another nice word-to-the-wise exchange -- not actually wordless, but minimalist.
Mason’s gumshoe briefly outlines the Sulky Girl’s earlier méfaits.
Mason: “Maybe she’s just taking her time growing up.”
Drake: “Hm. So was Two-Gun Crowley.”


Young Francis “Two-Gun” Crowley:
an early forerunner of Arthur “Two-Sheds” Jackson

[A precocious career criminal;  executed for murder at the age of nineteen.]


Thursday, August 21, 2014

Anniversary

Today,  my bride and I  celebrated thirty-eight years of wedlock.

Thanks be to God.

Sunday, June 8, 2014

All’s for the best, in this best of all squirrely worlds


There is a parable somewhere, probably among the Muslims, concerning one small helpless creature -- let us posit:  a mouse -- who got trapped somewhere on a lofty cliff;  yet survived, and lived to an old age, because each day, without fail, winging its way across hundreds of miles  of depthless chasms and fearsome crags, a bird came, bearing in its beak  the daily sustenance of that grateful mouse.
And thus we learn, O ye faithful, that God  the maker of all things, who raised the firmament upon the pillars of the Earth,  doth provide, in weal and in ill, for all his creatures.
(So endeth the lesson for today.)

~

The other day, expecting company, I finally swept the deck.  Yet between the planks, little bits of things were wedged, which the broom could not dislodge.  I considered fetching a knife or a screwdriver to try to pry the things out;  but then thought, de minimis.

Now, this morning, this sweet silent Sunday, to my surprise and delight, that gentle little squirrel (smallest of all her kind) whom I wed last week  while in a state of sciurine metempsychosis (for I am far too old-fashioned to contemplate cross-species matrimony), returned to our back deck.  (You can read all about our nuptials  here.)  Now, the deck had been swept, whereon she might browse at ease and nibble her fill :  Yet lo!  From out those very cracks, her tiny paws did daintily dig  a sufficiency of tasty seed, preserved there faithfully from the wind or from consumption by larger creatures,  to keep her coat fluffy, her tail frisky, her black eyes bright!  --  My belovèd!  My bride!

 
[Theological update]   Biblical scholars have pointed out that the above anecdote, and its moral, ratify the wisdom of the Torah:

And when ye reap the harvest of your land, thou shalt not make clean riddance of the corners of thy field when thou reapest, neither shalt thou gather any gleaning of thy harvest: thou shalt leave them unto the poor, and to the squirrel.
-- Leviticus 23:22 (my own translation)

 

Friday, May 30, 2014

Maryland man trapped in his own home !!


Right now I’d like to go out on the back deck, and begin the tantalizing book that just arrived in the mail (the philosopher Collingwood’s Autobiography), in the shaded sunshine and the wafting breeze, 
with a glass of the blushful, and a little plate of sunflower seeds,
and all the weekend before me.

But ….

right …. there, on the deck,
is the world’s most adorable smallsoft Miss Minisquirrel,
with her own little seedtreat,
tailcurled, pawposed,
nibbling, nibbling
(such tiny bites!)
and I cannot bear to scare her away.

Of course, she might take it in a nice way,
particularly if she sees my plate of seeds
(which I am willing to share).
“See?  I eat seeds, like thee.
I do not gobble squirrels.”

But more likely  she would flee,
traumatized, never to return,
breathlessly telling all her forestfriends
what a mean man lives in the house on the hill.

And so she grazes, finding evernew yummysomethings,
edging ever closer and closer to the house,

while I sit hopeless/helpless,
gazing through the glass,

thinking (now with the brain of a boysquirrel),
Will  U   mar-ry  me …. ???”

Saturday, January 18, 2014

In further defense of M. Fr. Hollande


[A footnote to this: 


[Update 18 January 2014] In the matter of the Président’s behavior  and the dignity of France, a  grotesque point of etiquette is currently being mooted in the Press:  Which of his two chippies shall be considered as “First Lady”.

 Pour préciser. 
In further defense of the much-maligned Président, who has presided  like a toad squatting on a stone  over the further decline of France, allow me to object, contra  his various detractors, that his sordid moped-borne nocturnal trysts  do not//NOT  constitute actual “adultery”,  since  wife  has he none.   Rather, they were an infidelity (if you can even call it that, for someone with no conception of faith) vis-à-vis his current (and easily disposible) concubine (a different hetaira, whose name is here -- and elsewhere -- of no consequence).   Hollande himself has always denounced the sacrament of marriage as a “bourgeois institution”, and can in no way be criticized for demeaning something of which he has not the slightest understanding:  any more than a garden slug, having (which God forfend) somehow slimed its way up onto the communion table, could possibly spiritually desecrate the consecrated Host (though it might rather mess with its "accidents").

For indeed, true Sin has a certain dignity, as only upon a foundation of Morality can it raise its head.  Chimps in their lubricious oestrus cannot be considered “adulterers”.  In this sense, we are not certain that M. Hollande has actually committed any “sin”.



[Update 19 January 2014]  A well-weighed article by Robert Zaretsky  in this morning’s New York Times, characterizes Hollande as a “weightless president” in an office of great gravity;  and says he continues “la peopolisation”  pioneered by Ségolène Royale (on which see further  Word of the Day:  “la pipolade”.)

Is the Fifth Republic Burning?

[Note:  The essay appears in the print edition of the Week in Review section, but is buried on the Website, and I couldn’t find the link.]

And it reminds us of something I’d forgotten: that the minx whom he ditched for Julie Gayet, Valérie Trierweiler, had herself been the bit of jam for whom Hollande (he of the twitchy Y-fronts) ditched his mistress floozy “partner” of the time -- none other than the ineffable Ségolène Royale !   And this is significant beyond the gossip-columns, for Royale is no thong-snapping starlet (though she does pose in bathing-suits for the tabloids), but the woman who came within spitting-distance (I choose my words with care) -- within spiting-distance  of being elected President of France.


[Update]  An excellent radio essay about the matter can be heard here:

Monday, June 10, 2013

De Amore


About Love  -- per se, an und für sich, tout court -- …  I have nothing to say.  The notion is too ambiguous.   Only in the context of certain pairings or dualities or dichotomies, does it begin to offer a purchase to comment and analysis.  To wit:

   (I)  Love and Death.

   (II)  Love and Marriage.

The former is the province of madness and of atheism.  If you find yourself caught in that dialectic -- Get thee to a nunnery, -- or a monastery, as the case may be.

But the latter  leads straight -- well  not straight;  certain choices and efforts and errors are involved --  to Paradise.

For my best shot at making sense of any of this, click here:

For the full set of our essays touching upon matrimony, here.

Basta;  sileo.

 

The enigma of a woman’s heart,
finally espied  by a Private Eye,
for less than the price  of a Valentine …
This Rose
[Kindle]  [Nook]


.

Monday, February 25, 2013

Souvenirs de déontologie détectivale

Par définition, le private eye (détective privé) est un homme solitaire.  It vit, il poursuit  sa solitude.  Tant mariage que progéniture  lui est interdit.  Il se lève  seul  le matin, se couche  seul  le soir;  et il meurt seul, quand enfin -- des balles de plomb au cœur -- pour lui sonne l’heure.  Et du dernier soupir, il murmure…

Nunc dimittis, Domine, servum tuum  …

Des histoires sombres, donc, mais d’un catholicisme benthique -- profond bien que sous-entendu -- et pourtant d’un humour édifiant, anagogique;  en langue démotique  de l’Amérique profonde.

Allez-y -- goûtez-les -- gratuit.

(Je ne me souille pas en matière du divorce)

En plus:
*
Travaillant au noir,
le détective  se trouve aux prises
avec le Saint-Esprit

*
et (lu par l'auteur):





*
Si cela vous parle,
savourez la série noire
en argot authentique d’Amérique :

*

Et si les mathématiques vous intéressent, consultez:
~   ~   ~

Si vous êtes arrivés ici depuis Reddit.com, voici une conspiration ahurissante  qui a été ébruitée -- puis étouffée -- sur ce site-là, puis éclaircie par la suite  par le docte et énigmatique Docteur Justice:


Et (réservé au francophones):



Pour visualiser toutes nos causeries en langue de l’hexagone, voici:

Sunday, December 9, 2012

The Fidelity of Penguins

Biologists nod, neither moved nor surprised.  Emperor penguins are faithful, because co-nurturing.  Look to the genes -- just do the math.  The mating pair  have every bit as much invested in their chick, as do people-species Mommy & Daddy  in their baby  -- in general, more.  For, penguins only ever have one chick at a time; survival is very doubtful; and the parents themselves don’t live long.
All true -- too true.  Yet let us take  a step beyond  such arithmetic.

In by-gone times, moralists moralized:  “Get thee to the ant!” , to instill habits of industry and frugality.  And we smile at that.
Yet -- let that smile fade from your faces:  for indeed it is in such as these, that we see some single one  small virtue,  beyond-reckoning  Exalted:  for that  these creatures  have  but little else.
Thus -- the Fidelity of Penguins:  it is all in all to them.  What further more, upon their bleak blank outcrop of primeval ice, might tempt them ‘way, or offer other pleasures?  Fidelity to thy mate -- that ye may raise that chick, that single chick,
that one (that lone) most precious, most memorable,
most mysterious and ama(!)zing
Gift
from
(we know not whence, nor Whom)
  …. (?)
( !   !!      !!! )

In these, Fidelity lies --flayed -- like a Saint stripped,
by the cruel wind ...
-- nothing other between these silent sufferers,
and their God …….

Thus :  (e’en)  us.
Let us
kneel,  and acknowledge:

“Thank you Lord, thank you,
that I have someone to be Faithful to …”

Sunday, December 2, 2012

The Challenge of Darwinism, updated for Lent (and further updated for Advent)


In the post below, originally published during the Lenten season of this year, we locked horns with the Darwinist défi, from a mathematical/philosophical/theological point of view.  Herewith, by way of preface, a brief companion-piece, which abjures all those disciplines, and sticks to biology and sociology.

Characterizing Freud’s stance in 1908, in an article published in Mutterschutz  (“Defense of Motherhood”), his admiring biographer Jones writes:

The glorifying of monogamy  paralyzes the process of selection, which is the only hope of improving the human constitution, a hope which humanitarianism and hygiene  has already reduced to a minumum.
-- Ernest Jones, Freud: Years of Maturity (1955), p. 293

This passage may be difficult for today’s young people to understand.  By selection he means Darwinian Natural Selection, nowadays mostly known as “Evolution” -- Nature’s ruthless culling of the unfit.  Constitution here means ‘genome’.   Humanitarianism refers to welfare payments and the like, which provide survival -- and opportunities for further procreation -- to individuals who would, in an earlier age, have gone by the board without issue.   Hygiene refers to state-sponsored measures of Public Health,  which, reducing mortality across the population, again nurtures the frail along with the rugged.
Such thoughts are no longer publically expressed these days, let alone in such old-fashioned words.  In earlier decades, such qualms were mainstream:  though seldom was monogamy singled out  as a factor in devolution.  Yet the thrust is meet, and must be met.

Jones’ preceding paragraph  reports, from the same article, Freud’s view that “the prevailing sexual morality of civilation is characteried by the transference of feminine demands  on to the sexual life of the man” (though on the next page he avers that “women suffer more than men from the prevailing morality” -- the apparent contradiction  is never addressed), which “leads to a double moral life, with evil consequences”.  In that context,  I at first assumed  that Freud was referring to garden-variety marital fidelity.  And that, surely, is immune from Darwinian attack:  the appalling consequences of agamy in our barrios and ghettoes  are apparent to all.  Now, I have not actually read Freud’s article -- unaccountably, that issue of Mutterschutz is missing from my shelves (probably one of the pesky neighborhood boys  has made off with it) -- but I venture to suggest that he may have had in mind an idea that grew to prominence in his later years, the years of Totem und Tabu:  the scenario of the alpha male, lording it over his harem, infusing their wombs with his übermensch übergenes, while his less-fit cousins and brothers circle, snarling, just outside of the firelight.
Now, if the highest pitch of your ambition  is to hunt the mastodon,  such a scheme might well work;  certainly, it works for walruses.  But if you set your sights higher -- on the Gospels, on Paradise Lost, on the Riemann Hypothesis -- you need a system maximally protective and nurturing of each individual offspring, since the monogamous couple’s offspring are so few;  a goal favored in that now each child has both a dedicated-mommy and dedicated-daddy, schooling him daily in Scripture and in analytic number theory.   This happy scenario  does not refute the truths of Darwinism, but simply sublates them, or transcends them:  for we, cognitively alert and free-willed beings, have other goals, not shared by the newts and toads, for whom Darwin is surely good enough.


*     *     *
~ Commercial break ~
We now return you to your regularly scheduled essay.

*     *     *
[And now to the original essay.]

~     ~      ~

It would ill become me, as if I were afraid of truth of any kind, to blame those who pursue secular facts, by means of the reason which God has given them, to their logical conclusions;  or to be angry with science  because religion is bound to take cognizance of its teaching.
-- John Henry Newman, Apologia pro Vita Sua (1864)


In Philosophy: a Very Short Introduction (2002), Edward Craig writes (p. 92):

 For Descartes, human reason was a faculty  given to us  and guaranteed by God … and that was why he could rely on it to tell us about the essential nature of mind and matter ... What if, instead , he had thought of it as a natural instrument which had developed because, and to the extent that [emphasis in original], it gave its possessors a competitive advantage over those without it?  Would he then have supposed that what it appeared to tell us on such matters could, with complete confidence, be taken as the truth?

This challenge is absolutely valid.  On this basis, we should, indeed, do as Descartes did, and call everything -- all our beliefs, absolutely everything -- into question.  Yet alas, now without the Cartesian certainty that our Idea of the Perfect must come from The Perfect, Himself.  Epistemologically, we are much humbled. We are sweaty, dust-caked survival machines -- that has been shown -- much like the cockroach and the rat.  Are we anything else as well ?

At this point, some despair, and take to drunkenness or drugs or Postmodernism (I cite these in descending order of worthlessness).

And yet, when we look about the landscape, we find something unexpected, unexplained, and entirely surprising:

  =>  ~ ~ ~  the Urysohn Metrization Theorem ~ ~ ~ <=

along with all the other truths of abstract mathematics: truths that are seen to be true, by anyone with wit enough to see them; truths not relativized to space or to time, to culture or to … species.  If the Humble Woodchuck should ever make it as far as point-set topology, he too will discover , and celebrate,  this truth.

Its survival value:   Zero.
What gives?

Well, we don’t know what gives, but something does.   We have a stark staring ideational miracle in our midst, something no-wise selected for, something simply True.
Now, it is no contradiction to Darwinism to posit that, quite independently of the brute world ever evolving and evolving, to no purpose and upon no plan, there might be a world apart, of Platonic forms, or celestial calliopes, or whatever you will.   What does contradict Darwinism -- fly in the face of it, knock its socks off -- is our repeated and reliable ability to discover this World of Forms, again and again struggling through jungles of calculation and conception, to arrive, from different directions, at the same ice-crowned mountain.  A World of Forms of no use at all  in escaping the sabre-tooth, whose bite is so fierce, or in hunting the mighty mastodon.
Though, let us hasten to add, among the facts that attest to the reality of these abstract truths, is that, in recent times, these have manifested themselves, not only in the clear understanding of minds suitably prepared, but in sheer physical engineering :  our spacecraft land where we want them to, and our nuclear power plants generate useful energy, owing to applications of our understanding of these Forms.

And if this be true, might it likewise be, that our insights and intuitions about our Maker, at first dimly conceived, but gradually taking form across the millennia, and finally developed to a state of great excellence by the finest minds in Christendom -- might it be that  these too  contain their share of truth?

~

Notice that, despite what we repeatedly read about the advance of science undermining the foundations of faith, we are now intellectually in a much better position to appreciate what it might mean for there to be a God who is the maker of

     visibilium omnium et invisibilium

-- all things visible and invisible -- than was Aquinas. 


[Update:  I had the sense, writing this, of committing a certain hardihood;  yet just now  happened upon the following passage, by a Jesuit of impeccable credentials:

Intellectual virtues may be an essential aspect of our existence, and prepare us for what is revealed.
-- James Schall, S.J., The Order of Things (2007), p. 198 ]

~

Note:  Despite possible appearances to the contrary, nothing on this blog should be taken as an attack upon Darwinism, or even a critique.  Charles Darwin himself is  for me  an intellectual and even a moral hero, who just gets better  the more you learn about him.  The whole field of evolutionary biology has been characterized by remarkably brilliant practitioners, who in addition are often philosophically alert.  The appearances-to-the-contrary stem from the accidental facts that,
            (a) You don’t need me to expound the findings of this fine science, since there are easily available volumes from writers far more professionally qualified, and who, by happy circumstance, are in many cases quite gifted writers, simply as writers:  Darwin himself, Steven Jay Gould, Richard Dawkins, H. Allen Orr, in writings too numerous to mention, along with excellent though lesser-known figures like D’Arcy Thompson, George Gaylord Simpson, J.B.S. Haldane, Ernst Mayr, Matt Ridley, Paul Colinvaux, Richard Fortey, George Williams, and John Maynard Smith.
            (b) With Darwinism, just as with any scientific idea in fashion, starting with atomism, magnetism, radiation, vortices, relativity, quantum mechanics, and even some mathematical ones like point-set topology and nonlinear dynamics, there have been some fanciful overreaching and stupid abuses  in attempts to apply these ideas to things to which they do not apply, mostly in the popular media.   With these I feel the need to break a lance, particularly when their agenda is to reduce those created in the image of God, to the level of cockroaches.  But the tick that feeds upon the rump of Pegasus, in no wise lessens the majesty of that noble steed.

~

A word on the … evolution (not by natural selection) of our ideas about science and about theology.
In both cases, if, naïvely, we thumb through some books and behold what our distant ancestors used to believe, we gape and gasp.   And in the perspective -- long regnant, but by now adequately criticized -- of the Whig Theory of History, those poor old dotards were simply clueless.
If, however, we examine the matter with more study and attention, we learn that the best minds of Antiquity and of the Middle Ages  were a lot smarter than our shallow understanding of their doctrines  would imply. 
For science, this post-Whig re-evaluation has been ably and painstakingly carried out by a distinguished body of historians and philosophers.  For theology -- I really don’t know;  but I do recall  that C.S. Lewis says somewhere that the old folk-images  tended to be held until some historical juncture causes them to be actually examined:  in which cases the Historical Church proved generally capable of refining its conceptions and language. Yet -- a subtle point, but crucial -- this replacement of the traditional image  is a dialectical sublation, and no mere negation.  Even from the standpoint of our modern and more nuanced understanding, the original idea, while dethroned, is yet in a sense  preserved -- aufgehoben.  Thus, the image of Jehovah as a tribal patriarch with a long white beard, sending down laws on stone tablets  and speaking, should occasion demand it, from a burning bush, remains yet a more faithful and more fruitful symbol, a more adequate gateway to eventual fuller comprehension, than would the alternative representation, as, say, a black-face minstrel, or a used-car salesman in a bow tie.  True, He is ultimately none of these three; but he participates of one of them  more than he does the others (proportionate to our understanding).

In science, it is the same.  You’ll hear it said that the Copernican heliocentric theory was resisted because
            (a) it “demoted the earth from its privileged position at the center”;
            (b) the Bible declares that Earth is stationary.

The efforts of the debunkers have decisively refuted (a) -- Craig himself has a good short summary of their findings -- but just a word about (b), since for some reason, philosophers of science are less eager to come to the rescue of the Bible.  True, it takes the Earth as stationary.  And so, by the bye, does any modern scientist in his right mind, when solving any practical problem such as the trajectory of a shell or a baseball:  the pitcher lobs it due south at x miles per hour;  the bat strikes it, traveling due north with such&such momentum; the wind is from the northeast at eighteen miles per hour, and the Earth… is stationary.  You do not factor in the sweep of this green planet round the Sun, nor Sol’s more stately wheeling along the rim of our spinning galaxy, nor that nebula’s proper motion through the celestial void, a vagrant among the observing unspeaking witness of the Fixed Stars -- which, as we now know, are not fixed in the least;  it’s just a manner of speaking.

~

A note on that last proviso, “proportionate to our understanding”.  This is actually a key idea.

By chance, I just now happened to re-read a most amusing poem from 1913, by Rupert Brooke, entitled “Heaven”.  Here he depicts fish, contemplating the afterlife:

somewhere, beyond Space and Time,
is wetter water, slimier slime!

and they imagine their unimaginable Maker,

immense, of fishy form and mind,
squamous, omnipotent, and kind

-- along with much more in this vein.
Now, this is satire, possibly even intended to be offensive;  yet let us take no offense.  Rather, the poem expresses a truth, from whatever base motivations.  For we are each, each species, but a small and finite part of the visible Creation;  which in turn is only an infinitessimal part, of the Creator.   We each receive, and cherish, such tatters and fragments of truth as we may.  And let Saint Francis be my witness: I doubt not, indeed, I do not doubt, that whither those fishes are destined, they shall find water  wetter than wet; that the celestial penguins shall throne upon ice-floes frozen to perfection, immutable; and that the sweet small vole, that dwelleth in the fields, shall … dwell there forever:  World without end.