It occurred to me this morning as I sat in the WC reading A Short History of the Catholic Church that such books, and in fact all that falls under the rubric of historical studies, consist of nothing more than gossip on a grand scale. But I wouldn’t therefore dismiss historical studies. Gossip can be good, can weave the threads that bind us together in a meddlesome and beautiful fabric of love.
An Idea For a Children’s Book I’ll Never Write: Pinnochio isn’t made of wood, but, he is a real child who yearns to turn others into wood. At some point in this crusade he notices that he is, in fact, becoming a wooden puppet.
A young man in prison, somebody’s Bitch, rises to become supreme potentate of the world. Under his inspiration a cult arises which has as its sacrament the act of imprisoning oneself and others. People would wear little cages around their necks and no one would be satisfied until all the earth had been conformed to a prison and we were all inmates.
In the present age we have more sources of information than ever and never has there been less information worth knowing. We can communicate with each other more efficiently than ever, never have there been so many with so little to say. True ignorance, Socratic or otherwise, would be a revelation. That’s why the next great prophet will be a Nascar Hillbilly, inbred, playing banjo on the porch and married to his sister.
I’ve often wished that I had clear,
For life, six hundred pounds a year,
A handsome house to lodge a friend,
A river at my garden’s end.
— Jonathan Swift, Imitation of Horace
I wish I were an extravert –
not so prim and not so curt.
Instead of mumbling, I would blurt
Out truths that now remain inert.
I wish I had the Internet
embedded in my brain,
then maybe I could forget
the memory of my pain.
I wish I’d win the lottery.
I’d go shopping at the Pottery
Barn and buy things for my daughter, E-
Dith who is neither old nor doddery.
I could fish.
A fresh trout
would be delish
without a doubt.
I wish I may, I wish I might
Turn all the colored people white
And turn the white folks into coloreds
And turn the smart ones into dullards.
Sometimes it’s worse when everybody’s right than when everybody’s wrong. Everybody in fifteenth-century Spain was wrong about where China was and as a result, Columbus discovered Caribbean vacations. On the other hand, everybody in fifteenth century Spain was right about heresies. They’re heretical. But that didn’t make the Spanish Inquisition more fun for the people who were burned at the stake. –P.J. O’Rourke, Parliament of Whores, p. 194.
The Catholic Church is the keeper of the truth and a sign of contradiction in a world that swings madly every which way but loose. But the Church is run by the same knuckleheaded species that inhabits the rest of the world. Therefore it should not be surprising if the institutional behavior of the Church sometimes fails to measure up to the profundity of its magisterial teachings. Pettiness, paranoia, rigidity, bickering, backbiting, snivelling, prissiness, stupidity, and pharisaism creep in through the cracks. Moreoever the truths that the Church promelgates must be received within the sphere of subjective experience, within the complex interplay of sin and love and virtue and logic and insanity that characterize the human experience. That is why everything must point back to Christ. In Christ the mess of human subjectivity is confronted by divine objective truth incarnate.
These are the correctives. It is a woeful error if he who is used for applying the corrective becomes impatient and would make the corrective normative for others. That is the temptation to bring everything to confusion. –Soren Kierkegaard
With regard to the “established order,” then, seeing that my special concern was “the individual,” which was the point of my polemic against the numerical, the crowd, etc., I have always done the very opposite of attacking it; I have never been in or with the “opposition” which wants to get rid of the “government,” nor have I been allied with it; but I have furnished what may be called a “corrective.” — Soren Kierkegard, “On My Work as an Author”