THE POETRY OF THE REVOLUTION

Utopia of Userers, et al

by Gilbert K. Chesterton

THE POETRY OF THE REVOLUTION, UTOPIA OF USERERS, ET AL by Gilbert K. Chesterton
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Everyone but a consistent and contented capitalist, who must be something
pretty near to a Satanist, must rejoice at the spirit and success of the
Battle of the 'Buses. But one thing about it which happens to please me
particularly was that it was fought, in one aspect at least, on a point
such as the plutocratic fool calls unpractical. It was fought about a
symbol, a badge, a thing attended with no kind of practical results, like
the flags for which men allow themselves to fall down dead, or the shrines
for which men will walk some hundreds of miles from their homes. When a
man has an eye for business, all that goes on on this earth in that style
is simply invisible to him. But let us be charitable to the eye for
business; the eye has been pretty well blacked this time.

But I wish to insist here that it is exactly what is called the
unpractical part of the thing that is really the practical. The chief
difference between men and the animals is that all men are artists; though
the overwhelming majority of us are bad artists. As the old fable truly
says, lions do not make statues; even the cunning of the fox can go no
further than the accomplishment of leaving an exact model of the vulpine
paw: and even that is an accomplishment which he wishes he hadn't got.
There are Chryselephantine statues, but no purely elephantine ones. And,
though we speak in a general way of an elephant trumpeting, it is only by
human blandishments that he can be induced to play the drum. But man,
savage or civilised, simple or complex (always desires to see his own soul
outside himself; in some material embodiment. He always wishes to point
to a table in a temple, or a cloth on a stick, or a word on a scroll, or a
badge on a coat, and say: "This is the best part of me. If need be, it
shall be the rest of me that shall perish." This is the method which
seems so unbusinesslike to the men with an eye to business. This is also
the method by which battles are won.


The Symbolism of the Badge

The badge on a Trade Unionist's coat is a piece of poetry in the genuine,
lucid, and logical sense in which Milton defined poetry (and he ought to
know) when he said that it was simple, sensuous, and passionate. It is
simple, because many understand the word "badge," who might not even
understand the word "recognition." It is sensuous, because it is visible
and tangible; it is incarnate, as all the good Gods have been; and it is
passionate in this perfectly practical sense, which the man with an eye to
business may some day learn more thoroughly than he likes, that there are
men who will allow you to cross a word out in a theoretical document, but
who will not allow you to pull a big button off their bodily clothing,
merely because you have more money than they have. Now I think it is this
sensuousness, this passion, and, above all, this simplicity that are most
wanted in this promising revolt of our time. For this simplicity is
perhaps the only thing in which the best type of recent revolutionists
have failed. It has been our sorrow lately to salute the sunset of one of
the very few clean and incorruptible careers in the most corruptible phase
of Christendom. The death of Quelch naturally turns one's thoughts to
those extreme Marxian theorists, who, whatever we may hold about their
philosophy, have certainly held their honour like iron. And yet, even in
this instant of instinctive reverence, I cannot feel that they were
poetical enough, that is childish enough, to make a revolution. They had
all the audacity needed for speaking to the despot; but not the simplicity
needed for speaking to the democracy. They were always accused of being
too bitter against the capitalist. But it always seemed to me that they
were (quite unconsciously, of course) much too kind to him. They had a
fatal habit of using long words, even on occasions when he might with
propriety have been described in very short words. They called him a
Capitalist when almost anybody in Christendom would have called him a cad.
And "cad" is a word from the poetic vocabulary indicating rather a
general and powerful reaction of the emotions than a status that could be
defined in a work of economics. The capitalist, asleep in the sun, let
such long words crawl all over him, like so many long, soft, furry
caterpillars. Caterpillars cannot sting like wasps. And, in repeating
that the old Marxians have been, perhaps, the best and bravest men of our
time, I say also that they would have been better and braver still if they
had never used a scientific word, and never read anything but fairy tales.


The Beastly Individualist

Suppose I go on to a ship, and the ship sinks almost immediately; but I
(like the people in the Bab Ballads), by reason of my clinging to a mast,
upon a desert island am eventually cast. Or rather, suppose I am not cast
on it, but am kept bobbing about in the water, because the only man on the
island is what some call an Individualist, and will not throw me a rope;
though coils of rope of the most annoying elaboration and neatness are
conspicuous beside him as he stands upon the shore. Now, it seems to me,
that if, in my efforts to shout at this fellow-creature across the
crashing breakers, I call his position the "insularistic position," and my
position "the semi-amphibian position," much valuable time may be lost. I
am not an amphibian. I am a drowning man. He is not an insularist, or
an individualist. He is a beast. Or rather, he is worse than any beast
can be. And if, instead of letting me drown, he makes me promise, while I
am drowning, that if I come on shore it shall be as his bodily slave,
having no human claims henceforward forever, then, by the whole theory and
practice of capitalism, he becomes a capitalist, he also becomes a cad.

Now, the language of poetry is simpler than that of prose; as anyone can
see who has read what the old-fashioned protestant used to call
confidently "his" Bible. And, being simpler, it is also truer; and, being
truer, it is also fiercer. And, for most of the infamies of our time,
there is really nothing plain enough, except the plain language of poetry.
Take, let us say, the ease of the recent railway disaster, and the
acquittal of the capitalists' interest. It is not a scientific problem
for us to investigate. It is a crime committed before our eyes; committed,
perhaps, by blind men or maniacs, or men hypnotised, or men in some other
ways unconscious; but committed in broad daylight, so that the corpse is
bleeding on our door-step. Good lives were lost, because good lives do
not pay; and bad coals do pay. It seems simply impossible to get any
other meaning out of the matter except that. And, if in human history
there be anything simple and anything horrible, it seems to have been
present in this matter. If, even after some study and understanding of
the old religious passions which were the resurrection of Europe, we
cannot endure the extreme infamy of witches and heretics literally burned
alive--well, the people in this affair were quite as literally burned
alive. If, when we have really tried to extend our charity beyond the
borders of personal sympathy, to all the complexities of class and creed,
we still feel something insolent about the triumphant and acquitted man
who is in the wrong, here the men who are in the wrong are triumphant and
acquitted. It is no subject for science. It is a subject for poetry.
But for poetry of a terrible sort.