Orwell and Chesterton

Written as a response to this post: Orwell hadn't always been so rough on G.K. One of his first publications as a struggling author just home from the Parisian slums was in Chesterton's own paper, "G.K.'s Weekly." His mature criticism of G.K., the most varied and voluminous writer of his age, grew to a contemptuous dismissal that, while technically accurate, was nonetheless unfair because incomplete. I've probably read more non-fiction by G.K. than I have any other writer. In wit and style he has perhaps no equal. But in many ways he remained perpetually a child. He never challenged the Victorian sexual values of the England of his youth, and as a result addressed anything touching Eros that might appear in his work with overgentlemanly euphemism. Never having fought himself, he embraced the mystique of the noble knight and soldier, a mystique states have created have never ceased to use to encourage men to kill on its behalf. His religiosity was the classic bout of illusionism, writing all the negative attributes out of existence, outlined in Freud's writings. And, despite his good humor and genuine compassion, he could never shake the racism and anti-Semitism inherent in his time and place. For all this, though, his writings still scintillate with artistry, genius and moral integrity. He was incapable of dishonesty just as he was incapable of recognizing dishonesty in those leaders and institutions he couldn't help but believe in. We go to Orwell to learn the hard truths of the human condition. We go to Chesterton to smile, admire and wish that we too had his capacity for wishing.