The Man Who was Thursday

[Dave Monroe]

>From G.K. Chesterton, The Man Who was Thursday (1908), Ch. 1, "The Two
Poets of Saffron Park":

I say that there are some inhabitants who may remember the evening if
only by that oppressive sky. There are others who may remember it
because it marked the first appearance in the place of the second poet
of Saffron Park. For a long time the red-haired revolutionary had
reigned without a rival; it was upon the night of the sunset that his
solitude suddenly ended. The new poet, who introduced himself by the
name of Gabriel Syme was a very mild-looking mortal, with a fair,
pointed beard and faint, yellow hair. But an impression grew that he
was less meek than he looked. He signalised his entrance by differing
with the established poet, Gregory, upon the whole nature of poetry.
He said that he (Syme) was poet of law, a poet of order; nay, he said
he was a poet of respectability. So all the Saffron Parkers looked at
him as if he had that moment fallen out of that impossible sky.
  In fact, Mr. Lucian Gregory, the anarchic poet, connected the two events.
  “It may well be,” he said, in his sudden lyrical manner, “it may
well be on such a night of clouds and cruel colours that there is
brought forth upon the earth such a portent as a respectable poet. You
say you are a poet of law; I say you are a contradiction in terms. I
only wonder there were not comets and earthquakes on the night you
appeared in this garden.”
  The man with the meek blue eyes and the pale, pointed beard endured
these thunders with a certain submissive solemnity. The third party of
the group, Gregory’s sister Rosamond, who had her brother’s braids of
red hair, but a kindlier face underneath them, laughed with such
mixture of admiration and disapproval as she gave commonly to the
family oracle.    7
  Gregory resumed in high oratorical good humour.    8
  “An artist is identical with an anarchist,” he cried. “You might
transpose the words anywhere. An anarchist is an artist. The man who
throws a bomb is an artist, because he prefers a great moment to
everything. He sees how much more valuable is one burst of blazing
light, one peal of perfect thunder, than the mere common bodies of a
few shapeless policemen. An artist disregards all governments,
abolishes all conventions. The poet delights in disorder only. If it
were not so, the most poetical thing in the world would be the
Underground Railway.”
  “So it is,” said Mr. Syme.
  “Nonsense!” said Gregory, who was very rational when anyone else
attempted paradox. “Why do all the clerks and navvies in the railway
trains look so sad and tired, so very sad and tired? I will tell you.
It is because they know that the train is going right. It is because
they know that whatever place they have taken a ticket for that place
they will reach. It is because after they have passed Sloane Square
they know that the next station must be Victoria, and nothing but
Victoria. Oh, their wild rapture! oh, their eyes like stars and their
souls again in Eden, if the next station were unaccountably Baker
Street!”
  “It is you who are unpoetical,” replied the poet Syme. “If what you
say of clerks is true, they can only be as prosaic as your poetry. The
rare, strange thing is to hit the mark; the gross, obvious thing is to
miss it. We feel it is epical when man with one wild arrow strikes a
distant bird. Is it not also epical when man with one wild engine
strikes a distant station? Chaos is dull; because in chaos the train
might indeed go anywhere, to Baker Street or to Bagdad....

http://www.bartleby.com/158/1.html
http://www.bartleby.com/158/
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Man_Who_Was_Thursday