"Mr. Bernard Shaw"
The truth is, that all genuine appreciation rests on
a certain mystery of humility and almost of darkness. The man who said,
"Blessed is he that expecteth nothing, for he shall not be
disappointed," put the eulogy quite inadequately and even falsely.
The truth "Blessed is he that expecteth nothing, for he shall be
gloriously surprised." The man who expects nothing sees redder roses
than common men can see, and greener grass, and a more startling sun.
Blessed is he that expecteth nothing, for he shall possess the cities and
the mountains; blessed is the meek, for he shall inherit the earth. Until
we realize that things might not be we cannot realize that things are.
Until we see the background of darkness we cannot admire the light as a
single and created thing. As soon as we have seen that darkness, all light
is lightening, sudden, blinding, and divine. Until we picture nonentity we
underrate the victory of God, and can realize none of the trophies of His
ancient war. It is one of the million wild jests of truth that we know
nothing until we know nothing,
"Science and the
Savages" (Chapter 11)
A permanent disadvantage of the study of folk-lore
and kindred subjects is that the man of science can hardly be in the
nature of things very frequently a man of the world. He is a student of
nature; he is scarcely ever a student of human nature. And even where this
difficulty is overcome, and he is in some sense a student of human nature,
this is only a very faint beginning of the painful progress towards being
human. For the study of primitive race and religion stands apart in one
important respect from all, or nearly all, the ordinary scientific
studies. A man can understand astronomy only by being an astronomer; he
can understand entomology only by being an entomologist (or, perhaps, an
insect); but he can understand a great deal of anthropology merely by
being a man. He is himself the animal which he studies. Hence arises the
fact which strikes the eye everywhere in the records of ethnology and
folk-lore--the fact that the same frigid and detached spirit which leads
to success in the study of astronomy or botany leads to disaster in the
study of mythology or human origins. It is necessary to cease to be a man
in order to do justice to a microbe; it is not necessary to cease to be a
man in order to do justice to men. . . .For the secrets about which
anthropologists concern themselves can be best learnt, not from books or
voyages, but from the ordinary commerce of man with man. The secret of why
some savage tribe worships monkeys or the moon is not to be found even by
travelling among those savages and taking down their answers in a
note-book, although the cleverest man may pursue this course. The answer
to the riddle is in England; it is in London; nay, it is in his own heart.
When a man has discovered why men in Bond Street wear black hats he will
at the same moment have discovered why men in Timbuctoo wear red feathers.
The mystery in the heart of some savage war-dance should not be studied in
books of scientific travel; it should be studied at a subscription ball.
If a man desires to find out the origins of religions, let him not go to
the Sandwich Islands; let him go to church.
"Paganism and Mr. Lowes
Dickinson" (Chapter 12)
Now, the psychological discovery is merely this,
that whereas it had been supposed that the fullest possible enjoyment is
to be found by extending our ego to infinity, the truth is that the
fullest possible enjoyment is to be found by reducing our ego to zero.
Humility is the thing which is for ever renewing the
earth and the stars. It is humility, and not duty, which preserves the
stars from wrong, from the unpardonable wrong of casual resignation; it is
through humility that the most ancient heavens for us are fresh and
strong. The curse that came before history has laid on us all a tendency
to be weary of wonders. If we saw the sun for the first time it would be
the most fearful and beautiful of meteors. Now that we see it for the
hundredth time we call it, in the hideous and blasphemous phrase of
Wordsworth, "the light of common day." We are inclined to
increase our claims. We are inclined to demand six suns, to demand a blue
sun, to demand a green sun. Humility is perpetually putting us back in the
primal darkness. There all light is lightning, startling and
instantaneous. Until we understand that original dark, in which we have
neither sight nor expectation, we can give no hearty and childlike praise
to the splendid sensationalism of things. The terms "pessimism"
and "optimism," like most modern terms, are unmeaning. But if
they can be used in any vague sense as meaning something, we may say that
in this great fact pessimism is the very basis of optimism. The man who
destroys himself creates the universe. To the humble man, and to the
humble man alone, the sun is really a sun; to the humble man, and to the
humble man alone, the sea is really a sea. When he looks at all the faces
in the street, he does not only realize that men are alive, he realizes
with a dramatic pleasure that they are not dead.
"Mr. McCabe and a Divine
Frivolity" (Chapter 16)
He ought himself to be importing humour into every
controversy; for unless a man is in part a humorist, he is only in part a
man. To sum up the whole matter very simply, if Mr. McCabe asks me why I
import frivolity into a discussion of the nature of man, I answer, because
frivolity is a part of the nature of man. If he asks me why I introduce
what he calls paradoxes into a philosophical problem, I answer, because
all philosophical problems tend to become paradoxical. If he objects to my
treating of life riotously, I reply that life is a riot. And I say that
the Universe as I see it, at any rate, is very much more like the
fireworks at the Crystal Palace than it is like his own philosophy. About
the whole cosmos there is a tense and secret festivity--like preparations
for Guy Fawkes' day. Eternity is the eve of something. I never look up at
the stars without feeling that they are the fires of a schoolboy's rocket,
fixed in their everlasting fall.
"Concluding Remarks on the
Importance of Orthodoxy" (Chapter 20)
Let us, then, go upon a long journey and enter on a
dreadful search. Let us, at least, dig and seek till we have discovered
our own opinions. The dogmas we really hold are far more fantastic, and,
perhaps, far more beautiful than we think. In the course of these essays I
fear that I have spoken from time to time of rationalists and rationalism,
and that in a disparaging sense. Being full of that kindliness which
should come at the end of everything, even of a book, I apologize to the
rationalists even for calling them rationalists. There are no
rationalists. We all believe fairy-tales, and live in them. Some, with a
sumptuous literary turn, believe in the existence of the lady clothed with
the sun. Some, with a more rustic, elvish instinct, like Mr. McCabe,
believe merely in the impossible sun itself. Some hold the undemonstrable
dogma of the existence of God; some the equally undemonstrable dogma of
the existence of the man next door.
Truths turn into dogmas the instant that they are
disputed. Thus every man who utters a doubt defines a religion. And the
scepticism of our time does not really destroy the beliefs, rather it
creates them; gives them their limits and their plain and defiant shape. .
. . It is a rational thesis that we are all in a dream; it will be a
mystical sanity to say that we are all awake. 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.