Chesterton

In the spirit of my post/advertisement concerning Feyerabend's writings, I present you with some remarks about and quotes by G.K. Chesterton (also known simply as G.K.C. or one half of the Chesterbelloc). Many of the things that endear Feyerabend to me also attract me to G.K.C.'s work - disdain for the Zeitgeist, a love of turning things on their head, and extravagant rhetorical gestures (which will be too melodramatic for some). And a certain usefulness in apologetic exercises, of course.

He was an English Catholic with what were, in those days, liberal political views. The vitriol he poured on "robber baron" capitalists put Marx to shame, though he was no communist. He had a healthy disdain for imperialism of any kind; he severely and consistently criticised fascism and the Boer War from the beginning and objected to the British attitude to the Irish. For his objections to English political actions he had the most patriotically English of reasons: his attitude could be summed up by saying that he did not think it "cricket" (he thought that rather than referring to "capitalists" one might simply call them "cads").

There is one particularly charming aspect of Chesterton's rhetorical strategy. When he is striking triumphal attitudes one always feels that the pomp is somewhat self-satirical: he is being a Don Quixote for the amusement of his audience (though he believes himself to be attacking real evils - particularly that of taking oneself too seriously). His majestic processions always turn out as majestic (really majestic) farces. It is when he is being silly that his enemies should beware: when you see him with his three-cornered hat, you may be sure that the emperor will be seen to have no clothes and the mighty will be cast from their thrones (think of Shakespeare's fools).

And now a little Chesterton:
Truths turn into dogmas the instant they are disputed. Thus every man who utters
a doubt defines a religion. And the skepticism of our time does not really destroy
the beliefs, rather it creates them; gives them their limits and their plain and defi-
ant shape. We who are Liberals once held Liberalism lightly as a truism. Now it has
been disputed, and we hold it fiercely as a faith. We who believe in patriotism once
thought patriotism to be reasonable, and thought little more about it. Now we
know it to be unreasonable, and know it to be right. We who are Christians never
knew the great philosophic common sense which inheres in that mystery until
the anti-Christian writers pointed it out to us. The great march of mental destruc-
tion will go on. Everything will be denied. Everything will become a creed . . .

Fires will be kindled to testify that two and two make four. Swords will be drawn to
prove that leaves are green in summer. We shall be left defending, not only the
incredible virtues and sanities of human life, but something more incredible still,
this huge impossible universe which stares us in the face. We shall fight for
visible prodigies as if they were invisible. We shall look on the impossible grass and
the skies with a strange courage. We shall be of those who have seen and yet have
believed.

(On Charles Dickens:)
The kind of man who had the courage to write so badly in one case is the kind of
man who would have the courage to write so well in the other.
And herein is shown the frigid and feeble imagination of our modern wits. They make violent efforts, they make heroic and almost pathetic efforts, but they cannot really write badly. There are moments when we think they are almost achieving the effect, but our hope shrivels to nothing the moment we compare their little failure with the enormous imbecilities of Byron or of Shakespeare.

(from The Napoleon of Notting Hill:)The human race, to which so many of my readers belong, has been playing at
children's games from the beginning, and will probably do it till the end,
which is a nuisance for the few people who grow up. And one of the games which
it is most attached is called, "Keep tomorrow dark," and which is also named
(by the rustics in Shropshire, I have no doubt) "Cheat the Prophet." The
players listen very carefully and respectfully to all that the clever men have
to say about what is to happen in the next generation. The players then wait
until all the clever men are dead, and bury them nicely. Then they go and do
something else. That is all. For a race of simple tastes, however, it is great
fun.

(ditto:)
"I made a kind of vow," he said, "that I would not talk seriously, which always means answering silly questions. But the strong man will always be gentle with politicians.

(An instance of almost divine smugness from Father Brown, the original priest-detective:)

"How in blazes do you know all these horrors?" cried Flambeau.

The shadow of a smile crossed the round, simple face of his clerical opponent.

"Oh, by being a celibate simpleton, I suppose," he said. "Has it never struck you that a man who does next to nothing but hear men's real sins is not likely to be wholly unaware of human evil? But, as a matter of fact, another part of my trade, too, made me sure you weren't a priest."

"What?" asked the thief, almost gaping.

"You attacked reason," said Father Brown. "It's bad theology."

Do Re Mi

I've been doing some more analysis of Glass and noticing recent refinements in how he uses his standard devices. The "Do Re Mi" motif from Einstein on the Beach (CM: vi-V-i) crops up again in Northstar (as the Aeolian cadence Am: bVI7-bVII-i, later altered to something very like CM: IV7-V-I), Satyagraha (FM: I7-IIadd6-iii, but altered repeatedly and leaving open the possibility of CM/Am readings), the "Low" Symphony, and the Harpsichord Concerto (as bVII-bVI-i-I). In later works it is interspersed with other material; interestingly, it tends to crop up mainly in slow movements, with a lengthened "Mi", and always has a cadential function.

In two recent works that are mentioned on his official blog, the Second Violin Concerto and the Violin Sonata, the motif opens the soloist part in the slow movement, but the harmonization is much subtler and milder, making use of Neapolitan or supertonic chords and reminding one more of Schubert (perhaps deliberately, as Glass mentions Schubert as a favourite) or Franck rather than Orff or Reich. I'm still not in a position to hear my harmonic analyses of these works, but perhaps you will be subjected to them eventually.

From what I can see, Glass' stylistic change and frankly appalling variation in quality conceal a careful and methodical, even plodding, extension of his use of the most basic materials - three-note motifs, arpeggios, neighbour-notes and trills, modal cadences. If yesterday he repeatedly drew attention to a third-relation Am: i-bVI by the use of the neighbour-note figure E-F-E, you can be sure that today he is adding a chord to the end, extending the melodic figure to E-F-G-F, or keeping the melodic figure unaltered and trying i-v instead.

Yet somehow each time some will notice no differences and others will claim that his compositional technique has crossed a major boundary. The truth is that since Einstein his works have shown a slow, steady evolution.