Father Brown

Mary Celeste
Chesterton
Brown
John 8:31
"Then said Jesus to those Jews which believed on him, If ye continue in my word, then are ye my disciples indeed;"

PICT0016
Zion Park

Chess: "María Celeste" "Chesterton" "Brown"

Mary Celeste

The Mary Celeste (sometimes incorrectly spelled Marie Celeste) was a brigantine merchant ship famously discovered in early December 1872 in the Atlantic Ocean unmanned and apparently abandoned, in spite of the fact that the weather was fine and all crew had been experienced and able seamen. The Mary Celeste herself was in perfect condition and still under full sail heading towards the Straits of Gibraltar. The ship had been at sea for only a month and had over six months of food and water on board. Her cargo was virtually untouched and the personal belongings of passengers and crew were still in place, including valuables. The crew was never seen or heard from again, and what happened to them is often cited as the greatest maritime mystery of all time. The fate of the crew is the subject of much speculation. Theories range from alcoholic fumes to underwater earthquakes and waterspouts, along with a large number of fictional accounts such as aliens, sea monsters and the Bermuda Triangle. The Mary Celeste is often described as the archetypal ghost ship in the sense that it was discovered derelict without any evident explanation.

Origins

The Mary Celeste was a 282-ton brigantine. She was built by Joshua Dewis in 1861 as the Amazon at the village of Spencer's Island, Nova Scotia, Canada, and was the first of many large vessels built in this small community. Amazon was owned by a group of eight investors from Cumberland County and Kings County, Nova Scotia led by the builder Joshua Dewis and William Henry Bigalow, a local merchant.^[2] She was registered at the near-by town of Parrsboro, Nova Scotia, the closest local port of registry.
Her first captain, Robert McLellan, son of one of the owners^[6] contracted pneumonia nine days after taking command and died at the very beginning of her maiden voyage, the first of three captains to die aboard.^[7] John Nutting Parker, the next captain of the Amazon, struck a fishing boat and had to return to the shipyard for repairs. At the shipyard a fire broke out in the middle of the ship. Because of this incident, Captain Parker lost command of the Amazon.^{[citation needed]} The first trans-Atlantic crossing was also disastrous for her new captain, after it collided with another vessel in the English Channel near Dover. The incident resulted in the dismissal of the new captain.
The ship was thought by some to have had bad luck due to these misadventures^{[citation needed]}, but after this rough beginning, the brigantine had several profitable and uneventful years under her Nova Scotian owners, captained by Flinders Croston,^{[citation needed]} during which time she travelled far further afield to the West Indies, Central America and South America, and began to transport a wide variety of goods. In 1867, the ship ran aground during a storm in Glace Bay, Nova Scotia and, after it was salvaged, it was resold to Richard Haines, of New York, for $1750 and repaired at a cost of $8,825.03. In 1868 she was transferred to the American registry and renamed the Mary Celeste in 1869.^[8] Winchester's intention was to take her beyond the Americas across the Atlantic and make a profit trading with the Adriatic ports.
Ownership was finally divided into 24 shares as follows^[9]

• James H Winchester (12)
• Benjamin Spooner Briggs of Marion, Maine(sic) (8)
• Sylvester Goodwin (2)
• Daniel T Sampson (2)

SOBRE CHESTERTON
Because He does not take away
The terror from the tree...
CHESTERTON: A Second Childhood
Edgar Alian Poe escribió cuentos de puro horror fantástico o de
pura bizarrerie; Edgar Alian Poe fue inventor del cuento policial.
Ello no es menos indudable que el hecho de que no combinó los
dos géneros. No impuso al caballero Auguste Dupin la tarea de
fijar el antiguo crimen del Hombre de las Multitudes o de explicar
el simulacro que fulminó, en la cámara negra y escarlata, al
enmascarado principe Próspero. En cambio, Chesterton prodigó
con pasión y felicidad esos tours de forcé. Cada una de las piezas
deTa Saga del Padre Brown presenta un misterio, propone explicaciones
de tipo demoníaco o mágico y las reemplaza, al fin, con
otras que son de este mundo. La maestría no agota la virtud de
esas breves ficciones; en ellas creo percibir una cifra de la historia
de Chesterton, un símbolo o espejo de Chesterton. La repetición
de su esquema a través de los años y de los libros (The Man Who
Knew Too Much, The Poet and the Lunatics, The Paradoxes of
Mr. Pond) parece confirmar que se trata de una forma esencial,
no de un artificio retórico. Estos apuntes quieren interpretar esa
forma.
Antes, conviene reconsiderar unos hechos de excesiva notoriedad.
Chesterton fue católico, Chesterton creyó en la Edad Media de
los prerrafaeHstas (Of London, small and white, and clean), Chesterton
pensó, como Whitman, que el mero hecho de ser es tan
prodigioso que ninguna desventura debe eximirnos de una suerte
de cósmica j>Tatiñid. Tales creencias pueden ser justas, pero el
interés que promueven es limitado; suponer que agotan a Chesterton
es olvidar que un credo es el último término de una serie
de procesos mentales y emocionales y que un hombre es toda la
serie. En este país, los católicos exaltan a 'Chesterton, los librepensadores
lo niegan. Como todo escritor que profesa un credo,
Chesterton es juzgado por él, es reprobado o aclamado por él.
Su caso es parecido al de Kipling a quien siempre lo juzgan en
función del Imperio Británico.
Poe y Baudelaire se propusieron, como el atormentado Urizen
de Blake, la creación de un mundo de espanto; es natural que
su obra sea pródiga de formas del horror. Chesterton, me parece,
OTRAS INQUISICIONES 695
no hubiera tolerado la imputación de ser un tejedor de pesadillas,
un rnonstrorum artifex (Plinio, XXVIII, 2), pero invenciblemente
suele incurrir en atisbos atroces. Pregunta si acaso un hombre
tiene tres ojos, o un pájaro tres alas; habla, contra los panteístas,
de un muerto que.descubre en el paraíso; que los espíritus de los
coros angélicos tienen sin fin su misma cara a: habla de una cárcel
de espejos; habla de un laberinto sin centro; habla de un hombre
devorado por autómatas de metal; habla de Un árbol que devora
a los pájaros y que en lugar de hojas da plumas; imagina (The
Man Who Was Thursday, VI) que en los confines orientales del
mundo acaso existe un árbol que ya es más, y menos, que un
árbol, y en los occidentales, algo, una torre, cuya sola arquitectura
es malvada. Define lo cercano por lo lejano, y aun por lo
atroz; si habla de sus ojos, los llama con palabras de Ezequiel
(1:22) un terrible cristal, si de la noche, perfecciona un antiguo
horror (Apocalipsis, 4:6) y la llama un monstruo hecho de ojos.
No menos ilustrativa es la narración How I found the Superman.
Chesterton habla con los padres del Superhombre; interrogados
sobre la hermosura del hijo, que no sale de un cuarto oscuro,
éstos le recuerdan que el Superhombre crea su propio canon y
debe ser medido por él ("En ese plano es más bello que Apolo.
Desde nuestro plano inferior, por supuesto..."); después admiten
que no es fácil estrecharle la mano ("Usted comprende; la estructura
es muy otra"); después, son incapaces de precisar si tiene pelo
o plumas. Una corriente de aire lo mata y unos hombres retiran
un ataúd que no es de forma humana. Chesterton refiere en tono
de burla esa fantasía teratológica.
Tales ejemplos, que sería fácil multiplicar, prueban que Chesterton
se defendió de ser Edgar Alian Poe o Franz Kafka, pero
que algo en el barro de su yo propendía a la pesadilla, algo
secreto, y ciego y central. No en vano dedicó su primeras obras
a la justificación de dos grandes artífices góticos, Browning y Dickens:
no en vano repitió que el mejor libro salido de Alemania
era el de los cuentos de Grimm. Denigró a Ibsen y defendió
(acaso indefendiblemente) a Rostand, pero los Trolls y el Fundidor
de Peer Gynt eran de la madera de sus sueños, the stuff
his drearns tvere made of. Esa discordia, esa precaria sujeción
de una voluntad demoníaca, definen la naturaleza de Chesterton.
Emblemas de esa guerra son para mí las aventuras del Padre
1 Amplificando un pensamiento de Attar ("En todas partes sólo vemos
Tu cara"), Jalal-uddin Rumi compuso^ unos versos que ha traducido Rückert
{Werke, IV, 222), donde se dice que en los cielos, en el mar y en los
sueños hay Uno Solo y donde se alaba a ese Ünico por haber reducido a
unidad los cuatro briosos animales que tiran del carro de los mundos: la
tierra, el fuego, el aire y el agua.
6 9 6 JORGE LUIS BORGES—OBRAS COMPLETAS
Brown, cada una de las cuales quiere explicar, mediante la sola
razón, un hecho inexplicable.1 Por eso dije, en el párrafo, inicial
de esta nota, que esas ficciones eran cifras de la historia de Chesterton,
símbolos y espejos de Chesterton. Eso es todo, salvo que
la "razón" a la que Chesterton supeditó sus imaginaciones no era
precisamente la razón sino la fe católica o sea un conjunto de
imaginaciones hebreas supeditadas a Platón y a Aristóteles.
Recuerdo dos parábolas que se oponen. La primera consta en
el primer tomo de las obras de Kafka. Es la.historia del hombre
que pide ser admitido a la ley. El guardián de la primera puerta
le dice, que adentro hay muchas otras 2 y que no hay sala que no
esté custodiada por un guardián, cada uno más fuerte que el
anterior. El hombre se sienta a esperar. Pasan los días y los años,
y el hombre muere. En la agonía pregunta: "¿Será posible que en
los años que espero nadie haya querido entrar sino yo?". El guardián
le responde: "Nadie ha querido entrar porque a ti sólo
estaba destinada esta puerta. Ahora voy a cerrarla." (Kafka comenta
esta parábola, complicándola aun más, en el noveno capítulo
de El proceso.) La otra parábola está en el Pilgrim's Progress,
de Bunyan. La gente mira codiciosa un castillo que custodian
muchos guerreros; en la puerta hay un guardián con un libro
para escribir el nombre de aquel que sea digno de entrar. Un
hombre intrépido se allega a ese guardián y le dice: "Anote mi
nombre, señor." Luego saca la espada y se arroja sobre los guerreros
y recibe y devuelve heridas sangrientas, hasta abrirse camino
entre el fragor y entrar en el castillo.
Chesterton dedicó su vida a escribir la segunda de las parábolas,
pero algo en él propendió siempre a escribir la primera.
1 No la explicación de lo inexplicable sino de lo confuso es la tarea que
se imponen, por lo común, los novelistas policiales.
2 La noción de puertas detrás de puertas, que se interponen entre el pecador
y la gloria, está en el Zohar. Véase Glatzer: In Time and Eternity, 30;
también Martin Buber: Tales of the Hasidim, 92.

The following from:

Chesterton and Friends

Monday, May 28, 2007

Others on Chesterton - Borges

As I have suggested before - and hinted many times since - the Argentine master, Jorge Luis Borges (1899-1986), is worth noting. Among many other things, he died - June 14, 1986 - fifty years to the day after the passage of Chesterton, the man he loved so well.

In particular, his opinion is worth considering for its relative novelty. We often hear excellent authors praising Chesterton (justly, of course), but there is often more than a little sympathy of worldview between those doing the praising and he that is being praised. His cult (I do not use the term disdainfully) is alive and well among those of a Catholic persuasion, but outside of that broad circle things become more dicey. Many Christians of widely-varying persuasions have discovered how delightful he is, as well, but in the secular world he is not nearly so well-established. The schools, as we know, generally do not teach him; the writer-in-residence at my school this year (one Joan Barfoot, apparently an author of some note to someone) actually sneered with disdain when I mentioned his name.

To Borges, Chesterton was, as I've said, his "master;" a steady and unflagging influence on Borges' writing style, writing subjects, and general thought processes. The remarkable thing about all of this is that Borges was an esoteric Kabbalist, among many other frequently incompatible things. He saucily "refuted" both time and reality (or at least claimed to have done so), finding such vain constructs unsuitable to the maintenance of the world he desired to live in. On the few occasions he quotes from Aquinas it is usually to disagree with him. C'est la vie.

The thing is, though, you can frequently see the Chesterton coming through whether Borges likes it or not - and I suspect that he did indeed like it. Borges delighted in effect and image rather than any particular internal consistency. He derided Dostoevsky's novels - his favourites, in youth - as being overburdened with psychology by which any character could be made to do any foolish thing with enough elaborate sophistry, all of which is just as effective in the end as just having the character do things that you want him to do, whether you provide some elaborate rationale for it or not. It was because of such an outlook that Borges had no qualms whatever with supporting and venerating the work of a man so tidily opposed to his worldview. Within his fiction (Borges', that is) there can be found an almost lurid use of colour - learned, Borges says, from Chesterton. There are enigmatic professors and tragic detectives and impossibly mystic mysteries, and, as in Chesterton, relatively few women. There are ideas and possibilities brought forth in parable rather than the sort of conventional things one would expect from a popular work of fiction (ladies falling in love and marrying, great enemies destroying one another, etc.).

All of which brings me to the following passage, "Chesterton, Writer," which was a part of the larger article, "Modes of G.K. Chesterton," which appeared at the time of Chesterton's death ("he has suffered the impure process called dying," says Borges) in 1936. Other sections include "Chesterton, Church Father" and "Chesterton, Poet," and I may address them some other day, but for now we will stick to the passage at hand:

I am certain that it is improper to suspect or concede merits of a literary nature in a man of letters. Truly informed critics never cease to point out that the most forgettable thing about a man of letters is his literature and that he can only be of interest as a human being - is art inhuman, therefore? - as an example of this country, of that date, or of such-and-such illnesses. Uncomfortable enough for me, I cannot share those concerns. I feel that Chesterton is one of the finest writers of our time, not just for his fortunate invention, visual imagination, and the childlike or divine happiness that pervades his works, but for his rhetorical virtues, for the pure merits of his skill.

Those who have thumbed through Chesterton's work have no need of my demonstration; those who are ignorant of it can look over the following titles and perceive his fine verbal economy: "The Moderate Murderer," "The Oracle of the Dog," "The Salad of Colonel Clay," "The Blast of the Book," "The Vengeance of the Statue," "The God of the Gongs," "The Man with Two Beards," "The Man Who Was Thursday," "The Garden of Smoke." In that famous work Degeneration, which turned out to be such a fine anthology of the writers it tried to defame, Dr. Max Nordau ponders the titles of the French Symbolists: Quand les violons sont partis, Les palaise nomades, les illuminations. Granted that few of them, if any, are provocative. Few people judge their acquaintance with Les palais nomades as necessary or interesting, yet many do with "The Oracle of the Dog." Of course, with the peculiar stimulus of Chesterton's titles, our conscience tells us that these names have not been invoked in vain. We know that in Les palais nomades there are no nomadic palaces; we know that "The Oracle of the Dog" will not lack a dog and an oracle, or a concrete, oracular dog. In like manner, "The Mirror of the Magistrate," which was popular in England around 1560, was nothing more than an allegorical mirror; Chesterton's "Mirror of the Magistrate" refers to a real mirror.... The foregoing does not insinuate that these somewhat parodistic titles indicate the level of Chesterton's style. It means that this style is omnipresent.

At one time (and in Spain) there existed the inattentive custom of comparing the names and works of Gomez de la Serna and Chesterton. Such an approximation is totally fruitless. They both intensely perceive (or register) the peculiar hue of a house, of a light, of an hour of the day, but Gomez de la Serna is chaotic. Inversely, limpidity and order are constant throughout Chesterton's writings. I dare to sense (according to M. Taine's geographical formula) the heaviness and disorder of British fog in Gomez de la Serna and Latin clarity in G. K.

I will say without hesitation that, were it not for Chesterton, Borges would be the light of my literary life, if not philosophically. I have read lines in his prose that have made me cry out to Heaven in gratitude, in a literal and unabashed sense, and this reaction is all too rare from literature nowadays. To borrow the delighted rhetorical exclamation of Eliot Weinberger, "where else can one find Lana Turner, David Hume, and the heresiarchs of Alexandria in a single sentence?" (The sentence itself is found in a frustrated review of a film adaptation of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, which begins with the scandalized declaration, "Holywood has defamed, for the third time, Robert Louis Stevenson;" the film is described as having been "perpetrated" rather than produced.)

There is to be a talk about Borges and Chesterton at this year's Chesterton conference (coming up fast!). I will not be able to be there to see it, alas, but some of you might be. Be sure to give it a shot; hopefully you'll like what you find.

And, should you decide to pursue the shimmering monster that is Borges, there are plenty of good places to start. Labyrinths is an excellent and perpetually-reprinted edition of his short stories, essays and poems, and is certainly worth going to first. Thereafter such offerings as The Aleph or A Universal History of Infamy stand ready.

That's all until tomorrow, which is, as most of you are well aware, a Very Special Day.