I’m not going to apologize for breaking my vow to write once a week. I think we can all agree that I’ve apologized enough, and you know how crazy life can be, anyway. Things. They just happen. Marriage. Cats. The usual.
And I won’t even apologize for this blog post itself, even though the majority of it won’t be my writing at all. The reason is simple: you get to read someone of infinitely superior talents.
G.K. Chesterton has always had my respect and admiration. I’ve read enough of his work to appreciate him as a true craftsman. It is a joy simply to read his sentences and follow out his ideas. He has that subtle, ironic humor of the British author, and his insight is really quite remarkable at times.
But recently I stumbled upon a little essay of his that cemented him as nothing less than a kindred spirit. Actually, he should have been my best friend, had Fate deemed it possible.
A few posts back I indulged in some comments about the lamentable lack of poems featuring food. I was really talking about cheese (as you can tell if you read this post), but not everybody likes cheese, unbelievably, so it had to be relatable.
You can imagine my delight, then, when I found, within The Gleaming Cohort (a compilation of Chesterton essays) a work entitled “Cheese.” Just “Cheese.” I was so excited that, Spartan library rules notwithstanding, I could have yelped aloud. My excitement, adoration, and conviction that Chesterton and I would have instantly hit it off only increased as I read. Every word, every sentence, was pure gold. (Pure cheese?)
Not to share this essay would have been a terrible crime, probably punishable by death. Or I would have been condemned to eat only spinach forever. Either one. Therefore I humbly submit to you some of the most perfect four pages ever written, copied below:
“My forthcoming work in five volumes, “The Neglect of Cheese in European Literature,” is a work of such unprecedented and laborious detail that it is doubtful if I shall live to finish it. Some overflowings from such a fountain of information may therefore be permitted to sprinkle these pages. I cannot yet wholly explain the neglect to which I refer. Poets have been mysteriously silent on the subject of cheese. Virgil, if I remember right, refers to it several times, but with too much Roman restraint. He does not let himself go on cheese. The only other poet I can think of just now who seems to have had some sensibility on the point was the nameless author of the nursery rhyme which says: “If all the trees were bread and cheese”—which is, indeed a rich and gigantic vision of the higher gluttony. If all the trees were bread and cheese, there would be considerable deforestation in any part of England where I was living. Wild and wide woodlands would reel and fade before me as rapidly as they ran after Orpheus. Except Virgil and this anonymous rhymer, I can recall no verse about cheese. Yet it has every quality which we require in exalted poetry. It is a short, strong word; it rhymes to “breeze” and “seas” (an essential point); that it is emphatic in sound is admitted even by the civilization of the modern cities. For their citizens, with no apparent intention except emphasis, will often say, “Cheese it!” or even “Quite the cheese.” The substance itself is imaginative. It is ancient—sometimes in the individual case, always in the type and custom. It is simple, being directly derived from milk, which is one of the ancestral drinks, not lightly to be corrupted with soda-water. You know, I hope (though I myself have only just thought of it), that the four rivers of Eden were milk, water, wine, and ale. Aerated waters only appeared after the Fall.
But cheese has another quality, which is also the very soul of song. Once in endeavouring to lecture in several places at once, I made an eccentric journey across England, a journey of so irregular and even illogical shape that it necessitated my having lunch on four successive days in four roadside inns in four different counties. In each inn they had nothing but bread and cheese; nor can I imagine why a man should want more than bread and cheese, if he can get enough of it. In each inn the cheese was good; and in each inn it was different. There was a noble Wensleydale cheese in Yorkshire, a Cheshire cheese in Cheshire, and so on. Now, it is just here that true poetic civilization differs from that paltry and mechanical civilization which holds us all in bondage. Bad customs are universal and rigid, like modern militarism. Good customs are universal and varied, like native chivalry and self-defence. Both the good and bad civilization cover us as with a canopy, and protect us from all that is outside. But a good civilization spreads over us freely like a tree, varying and yielding because it is alive. A bad civilization stands up and sticks out above us like an umbrella—artificial, mathematical in shape; not merely universal, but uniform. So it is with the contrast between the substances that vary and the substances that are the same wherever they penetrate. By a wise doom of heaven men were commanded to eat cheese, but not the same cheese. Being really universal it varies from valley to valley. But if, let us say, we compare cheese with soap (that vastly inferior substance), we shall see that soap tends more and more to be merely Smith’s Soap or Brown’s Soap, sent automatically all over the world. If the Red Indians have soap it is Smith’s Soap. If the Grand Lama has soap it is Brown’s soap. There is nothing subtly and strangely Buddhist, nothing tenderly Tibetan, about his soap. I fancy the Grand Lama does not eat cheese (he is not worthy), but if he does it is probably a local cheese, having some real relation to his life and outlook. Safety matches, tinned foods, patent medicines are sent all over the world; but they are not produced all over the world. Therefore there is in them a mere dead identity, never that soft play of slight variation which exists in things produced everywhere out of the soil, in the milk of the kine, or the fruits of the orchard. You can get a whisky and soda at every outpost of the Empire: that is why so many Empire-builders go mad. But you are not tasting or touching any environment, as in the cider of Devonshire or the grapes of the Rhine. You are not approaching Nature in one of her myriad tints of mood, as in the holy act of eating cheese.
When I had done my pilgrimage in the four wayside public-houses I reached one of the great northern cities, and there I proceeded, with great rapidity and complete inconsistency, to a large and elaborate restaurant, where I knew I could get many other things besides bread and cheese. I could get that also, however; or at least I expected to get it; but I was sharply reminded that I had entered Babylon, and left England behind. The waiter brought me cheese, indeed, but cheese cut up into contemptibly small pieces; and it is the awful fact that, instead of Christian bread, he brought me biscuits. Biscuits—to one who had eaten the cheese of four great countrysides! Biscuits—to one who had proved anew for himself the sanctity of the ancient wedding between cheese and bread! I addressed the waiter in warm and moving terms. I asked him who he was that he should put asunder those whom Humanity had joined. I asked him if he did not feel, as an artist, that a solid but yielding substance like cheese went naturally with a solid, yielding substance like bread; to eat it off biscuits is like eating it off slates. I asked him if, when he said his prayers, he was so supercilious as to pray for his daily biscuits. He gave me generally to understand that he was only obeying a custom of Modern Society. I have therefore resolved to raise my voice, not against the waiter, but against Modern Society, for this huge and unparalleled modern wrong.”
Ah, what could have been! Of course, he was far too brilliant to be friends with the likes of me, I realize. But one cheese-lover calls to another, and that seems as firm a foundation of friendship as any. I can almost see us, sitting in a little café somewhere…(if he did sit in cafes; hopefully he would not refuse to acknowledge one whose blog posts were so badly researched). Scratch that.
We are sitting in a pub. He has a glass of Scotch before him, which he sips meditatively from time to time, and I am drinking the strongest stuff I can stomach—freshly brewed Earl Grey. The bartender is eyeing me suspiciously as to my choice of poison, and my sips are very meek indeed. It is clear that my companion is the only reason I have not been hauled off and clapped in irons. We are both munching on fine specimens of very aged cheddar and looking supremely content with ourselves. “Not bad, eh, Ab?” Chesterton says, peering over his Scotch at me with a rascally grin. “Not at all bad, Chess. Not at all bad.” And we’d while away the afternoon, talking books, talking theology, talking anything we liked, or nothing, as friends do.
Sigh. If only.