Happy Birthday Hilaire

He's the fellow in the center. Anyone know who the other two gents are? (wink)

Today is Hilaire Belloc's birthday.

Were he still alive - instead of dying 60 years ago this month - he would be 143 years old.

While he did not live on, his writings have.

A toast to him.

Chesterton on Hermits

I have long been interested in and attracted to the hermit life. I've chosen to live in the world - my wife would be upset if I suddenly headed off to the woods - but the desire for solitude still tugs at my heart and soul.

Still, there have been efforts to help those so incli8ned to lead a modified eremetical life while still living actively in the world. Catherine Doherty's fine spiritual book, Poustinia, describes one method. Some people also take periodic breaks from the world to go off to hermitages periodically for some alone time. And there is even Raven's Bread Hermit Ministries, which has a newsletter, a website, and books to help support those inclined to solitude.

Chesterton was not a hermit. He enjoyed getting out in public for a drink, a talk, a debate, conversation, and so on. He did address the subject of hermits in a wonderful essay, "The Case for Hermits," contained in The Well and the Shallows.

Chesterton noted that the hermits, the solitaries, are often considered "savages or man-haters" by a society that regards being sociable as the norm. But he pointed out this was not the case: "But many of them really had charity--even to human beings. They felt more kindly about men than men in the Forum or the Mart felt about each other."

In fact, he observed, "The reason why even the normal human being should be half a hermit is that it is the only way in which his mind can have a half-holiday. It is the only way to get any fun even out of the facts of life; yes, even if the facts are games and dances and operas."

So for us semi-hermits our time alone is like a holiday. That makes sense to me. My wife, aware of my need for alone time, periodically goes off shopping or with friends just to give me an afternoon alone - a mini holiday. And as a teacher, summer is often a daily holiday, with lots of time alone. I use that time to get things done - mowing the lawn, painting the fence, trimming the bushes, etc. - but also to pray, walk in the woods, meditate.

I know for me my time alone enables me to be more kindly disposed toward others. As Chesterton said, "It is in society that men quarrel with their friends; it is in solitude that they forgive them. And before the society-man criticises the saint, let him remember that the man in the desert often had a soul that was like a honey-pot of human kindness, though no man came near to taste it; and the man in the modern salon, in his intellectual hospitality, generally serves out wormwood for wine."

Here's his full essay:

Anyone who has ever protected a little boy from being bullied at school, or a little girl from some childish persecution at a party, or any natural person from any minor nuisance, knows that the being thus badgered tends to cry out, in a simple but singular English idiom, "Let me alone!" It is seldom that the child of nature breaks into the cry, "Let me enjoy the fraternal solidarity of a more socially organised group-life." It is rare even for the protest to leap to the lips in the form, "Let me run around with some crowd that has got dough enough to hit the high spots." Not one of these positive modern ideals presents itself to that untutored mind; but only the ideal of being "let alone." It is rather interesting that so spontaneous, instinctive, almost animal an ejaculation contains the word alone.

There are now a great many boys and girls, both old and young, who are really in that state of mind; not only through being teased, but also through being petted. Most of them will fiercely deny it, since it contradicts the conventions of their new generation; just as a child kept up too late at night will more and more indignantly deny the desire to go to bed. Indeed I am always expecting to hear that a scientific campaign has been opened against Sleep. Sooner or later the Prohibitionists will turn their attention to the old tribal traditional superstition of Sleep; and they will say that the sluggard is merely encouraged by the cowardice of the moderate sleeper. There will be tables of statistics, showing how many hours of output are lost by miners, smelters, plumbers, plasterers, and every trade in which (it will be noted) men have contracted the habit of sleep; tables showing the shortage of aconite, alum, apples, beef, beetroot, bootlaces, etc., and other statistics carefully demonstrating that work of this kind can only rarely be performed by sleep-walkers. There will be all the scientific facts, except one scientific fact. And that is the fact that if men do not have Sleep, they go mad. It is also a fact that if men do not have Solitude, they go mad. You can see that, by the way they go on, when the poor miserable devils only have Society.

The incident of Miss Fitzpatrick, the lady who really liked to be alone, challenges all recent fashions, which are all for Society without Solitude. We must Get Together; as the gunman said when he ran his machine-gun into two other machine-guns and killed all the children caught between them. And we know that this sociability and communal organisation has already produced in fashionable society all that sweetness and light, all that courtesy and charity, all that True Christianity of pardon and patience, which we see in the modern organisers of gangs  or "group-life." In contrast with this happy mood now pervading our literature and conversation, it is customary to point to hermits and solitaries as if they were savages and man-haters.

But it is not true. It is not true in History or human fact. The line that ran, "Turn, gentle hermit of the Vale," was truer to the real tradition about the real hermits. They were doubtless, from a modern standpoint, lunatics; but they were nice lunatics. Twenty touches could illustrate what I mean; for instance, the fact that they could make pets of the wild animals that came naturally to them. But many of them really had charity--even to human beings. They felt more kindly about men than men in the Forum or the Mart felt about each other. Doubtless there have been merely sulky solitaries; unquestionably there have been sham cynics and cabotins, like Diogenes. But he and his sort are very careful not to be really solitary; careful to hang about the market-place like any demagogue. Diogenes was a tub-thumper, as well as a tub-dweller. And that sort of professional sulks remains; but it is sulks without solitude. We all know there are geniuses, who must go out into polite society in order to be impolite. We all know there are hostesses who collect lions and find they have got bears. I fear there was a touch of that in the social legend of Thomas Carlyle and perhaps of Tennyson. But these men must have a society in which to be unsociable. The hermits, especially the saints, had a solitude in which to be sociable.

St. Jerome lived with a real lion; a good way to avoid being lionised. But he was very sociable with the lion. In his time, as in ours, sociability of the conventional sort had become social suffocation. In the decline of the Roman Empire, people got together in amphitheatres and public festivals, just as they now get together in trams and tubes. And there were the same feelings of mutual love and tenderness, between two men trying to get a seat in the Colosseum, as there are now between two men trying to get the one remaining seat on a Tooting tram. Consequently, in that last Roman phase, all the most amiable people rushed away into the desert, to find what is called a hermitage; but might almost be called a holiday. The man was a hermit because he was more of a human being; not less. It was not merely that he felt he could get on better with a lion  than with the sort of men who would throw him to the lions. It was also that he actually liked men better when they let him alone. Now nobody expects anybody, except a very exceptional person, to become a complete solitary. But there is a strong case for more Solitude; especially now that there is really no Solitude.

The reason why even the normal human being should be half a hermit is that it is the only way in which his mind can have a half-holiday. It is the only way to get any fun even out of the facts of life; yes, even if the facts are games and dances and operas. It bears most resemblance to  the unpacking of luggage. It has been said that we live on a railway station; many of us live in a luggage van; or wander about the world with luggage that we never unpack at all. For the best things that happen to  us are those we get out of what has already happened. If men were honest with themselves, they would agree that actual social engagements, even with those they love, often seem strangely brief, breathless, thwarted or inconclusive. Mere society is a way of turning friends into acquaintances, the real profit is not in meeting our friends, but in having met them. Now when people merely plunge from crush to crush, and from crowd to crowd, they never discover the positive joy of life. They are like men always hungry, because their food never digests; also, like those men, they are cross. There is surely something the matter with modern life when all the literature of the young is so cross. That is something of the secret of the saints who went into the desert. It is in society that men quarrel with their friends; it is in solitude that they forgive them. And before the society-man criticises the saint, let him remember that the man in the desert often had a soul that was like a honey-pot of human kindness, though no man came near to taste it; and the man in the modern salon, in his intellectual hospitality, generally serves out wormwood for wine.

In conclusion, I will take one very modern and even topical case. I do not believe in Communism, certainly not in compulsory Communism. And it is typical of this acrid age that what we all discuss is compulsory Communism. I often sympathise with Communists, which is quite a different thing; but even these I respect rather as bold or honest or logical than as particularly genial or kindly. Nobody will claim that modern Communism is a specially sweet-tempered or amiable thing. But if you will look up the legends of the earliest Hermits, you will find a very charming anecdote, about two monks who really were Communists. And  one of them tried to explain to the other how it was that quarrels arose about private property. So he thumped down a stone and  observed theatrically, "This stone is mine." The other, slightly wondering at his taste, said, "All right; take it." Then the teacher of economics became quite vexed and said, "No, no; you mustn't say that. You must say it is yours; and then we can fight." So the second hermit said it was his; whereupon the first hermit mechanically gave it up; and the whole lesson in Business Methods seems to have broken down. Now you may agree or disagree with the Communist ideal, of cutting oneself off from commerce, which those two ascetics followed. But is there not something to suggest that they were rather nicer people than the Communists we now meet in Society? Somehow as if Solitude improved the temper?

A Catholic Reading List

Father John McCloskey over at Catholicity.com has compiled A Catholic Lifetime Reading Plan. He is not alone in having done this - I even remember a book by that title by Father Hardon a few years back.

There are a number of interesting titles on Father McCloskey's list - including ones by some of our favorite authors here.

Chesterton shows up with four titles: Everlasting Man, Orthodoxy, St. Thomas Aquinas, and St. Francis of Assisi. I can't argue with any of those choices. I wonder if an essay collection could be added - but which one? (Maybe In Defense of Sanity, selected by Ahlquist, Mackey, and Pearce?)

If I read the list correctly, by the way, Chesterton has the most individual titles listed. However, Father does say "Opera Omnia" (the complete works) for Popes Benedict XVI and John Paul II. 

Belloc shows up with three titles: The Great Heresies, How The Reformation Happened, and Survivals and New Arrivals, Alas, no room for his poetry!

C. S. Lewis also has three titles: The Problem of Pain, Mere Christianity, and The Screwtape Letters. No Narnia. Interestingly, Fathers has a typo here, calling the first book the Problem with Pain! And, of course, Lewis' good friend, J. R. R. Tolkien, makes the list with The Lord of Rings. Since that was published as a trilogy, maybe we should count that as three titles. 

Among the other authors associated with this blog who made the list are Christopher Dawson, Christianity and European Culture; Monsignor Ronald Knox, Enthusiasm; and Malcolm Muggeridge, Something Beautiful for God ( a lovely book about Mother Teresa).

There are other favorite of mine:

Dorothy Day – The Long Loneliness
Scott Hahn – Rome Sweet Home
Pope John XXIII – Journal of a Soul
Thomas Merton – Seven Storey Mountain
Gerard Manley Hopkins (poetry)
Confessions of St. Augustine

There are plenty of other titles I'd like to read. I think maybe the list could have more poetry (Date made the list, by the way.) And drama - though of course plays are more meant to be watched than read (ah, but something like A Man for All Seasons is a wonderful read.)

Now, what should I read next?