Two evenings spent at La Scala, Milan, one of them standing up, the other sitting down. On the first evening, I was continuously conscious of the existence of the spectators who were seated. On the second evening, I was completely unconscious of the existence of the spectators who were standing up (and of those who were seated also).
— Simone Weil, quoted in W.H. Auden, A Certain World, 1970
In the matter of reforming things, as distinct from deforming them, there is one plain and simple principle; a principle which will probably be called a paradox. There exists in such a case a certain institution or law; let us say, for the sake of simplicity, a fence or gate erected across a road. The more modern type of reformer goes gaily up to it and says, ‘I don’t see the use of this; let us clear it away.’ To which the more intelligent type of reformer will do well to answer: ‘If you don’t see the use of it, I certainly won’t let you clear it away. Go away and think. Then, when you can come back and tell me that you do see the use of it, I may allow you to destroy it.’
— G.K. Chesterton, The Thing: Why I Am a Catholic, 1929
A story told by the Viscount De L’Isle, V.C., K.G., quoted by J. Bryan in Hodgepodge, 1986:
“Old Lord Leicester, watching a cricket match at Lord’s, dropped his umbrella. The Duke of Portland, sitting near him, picked it up and handed it back, saying, ‘I’m Portland.’ There was no response, so he repeated, ‘I’m Portland.’ Lord Leicester grunted, ‘I never said you weren’t,’ and returned his attention to the match.”
In 1952 Nancy Mitford asked Evelyn Waugh, “What do you do with all the people who want interviews, with fan letters & with fans in the flesh? Just a barrage of nos?” He responded with his own rules:
(a) Humble expressions of admiration. To these a post-card saying ‘I am delighted to learn that you enjoyed my book. E. W.’
(b) Impudent criticism. No answer.
(c) Bores who wish to tell me about themselves. Post-card saying ‘Thank you for interesting letter. E. W.’
(d) Technical criticism, eg. One has made a character go to Salisbury from Paddington. Post-card: ‘Many thanks for your valuable suggestion. E. W.’
(e) Humble aspirations of would-be writers. If attractive a letter of discouragement. If unattractive a post-card.
(f) Requests from University Clubs for a lecture. Printed refusal.
(g) Requests from Catholic Clubs for lecture. Acceptance.
(h) American students of ‘Creative Writing’ who are writing theses about one & want one, virtually, to write their theses for them. Printed refusal.
(i) Tourists who invite themselves to one’s house. Printed refusal.
(j) Manuscript sent for advice. Return without comment. …
(k) Autograph collectors: no answer.
(l) Indians & Germans asking for free copies of one’s books: no answer.
(m) Very rich Americans: polite letter. They are capable of buying 100 copies for Christmas presents.
“In case of very impudent letters from married women I write to the husband warning him that his wife is attempting to enter into correspondence with strange men. … I think that more or less covers the field.”
[Samuel] Rogers met Lord Dudley at one of the foreign watering-places, and began in his vain way, ‘What a terrible thing it is how one’s fame pursues one, and that one can never get away from one’s own identity! Now I sat by a lady the other night, and she began, ‘I feel sure you must be Mr. Rogers.’ — ‘And were you?’ said Lord Dudley.
— Augustus Hare, The Story of My Life, 1896
In 1957, a runaway cow in Guildford knocked down a man on a pedestrian crossing. At trial, the defendant’s counsel argued that the owner of a tame animal was not liable for damage it did that was “foreign to its species.” Since a cow was undoubtedly tame, he would seek to prove that “the cow attacked the plaintiff; if that were so, there was no liability.” This was followed by a memorable exchange:
His Lordship: Is one to abandon every vestige of common sense in approaching this matter?
Counsel: Yes, my Lord.
The hearing was adjourned, and the court eventually decided for the defendant.
“Tradition means giving votes to the most obscure of all classes — our ancestors. It is the democracy of the dead. Tradition refuses to submit to the small and arrogant oligarchy of those who merely happen to be walking around.” — G.K. Chesterton
Cruising off Rhode Island in 1717, pirate Samuel Bellamy plundered a Boston sloop and granted his crew’s wish to sink her. Before putting the captain ashore, Bellamy told him:
I am sorry they won’t let you have your sloop again, for I scorn to do any one a mischief, when it is not to my advantage; damn the sloop, we must sink her, and she might be of use to you. Though you are a sneaking puppy, and so are all those who will submit to be governed by laws which rich men have made for their own security; for the cowardly whelps have not the courage otherwise to defend what they get by knavery; but damn ye altogether: damn them for a pack of crafty rascals, and you, who serve them, for a parcel of hen-hearted numbskulls. They vilify us, the scoundrels do, when there is only this difference, they rob the poor under the cover of law, forsooth, and we plunder the rich under the protection of our own courage. Had you not better make then one of us, than sneak after these villains for employment?
The captain replied that his conscience forbade him to break the laws of God or man. Bellamy returned, “You are a devilish conscience rascal! I am a free prince, and I have as much authority to make war on the whole world as he who has a hundred sail of ships at sea and an army of 100,000 men in the field; and this my conscience tells me! But there is no arguing with such snivelling puppies, who allow superiors to kick them about deck at pleasure.”
(From Charles Johnson, A General History of the Robberies and Murders of the Most Notorious Pyrates, 1724.)
John Alexander Smith, Waynflete Professor of Moral and Metaphysical Philosophy at Oxford, opened a course of lectures in 1914 with these words:
“Gentlemen — you are now about to embark upon a course of studies which will occupy you for two years. Together, they form a noble adventure. But I would like to remind you of an important point. Some of you, when you go down from the University, will go into the Church, or to the Bar, or to the House of Commons, to the Home Civil Service, to the Indian and Colonial Services, or into various professions. Some may go into the Army, some into industry and commerce; some may become country gentlemen. A few — I hope a very few — will become teachers or dons. Let me make this clear to you. Except for the last category, nothing that you will learn in the course of your studies will be of the slightest possible use to you in after life — save only this — that if you work hard and intelligently you should be able to detect when a man is talking rot, and that, in my view, is the main, if not the sole, purpose of education.”
With Love and with Lust, I often have reckoned,
Whichever comes first soon turns into the second.
(By Oxford English professor Nevill Coghill, 1899-1980.)