(No) Ideas from the East

It's not as if I've been blogging all that regularly lately anyway, BUT I'm sorry to announce that Ideas From the North will be momentarily suspended, while I travel around China with a fine and upstanding friend of mine. Fine and upstanding as we both are, I feel a tad reserved about blogging in a country that is currently quite famous for its Great Firewall. Not that I would necessarily be likely to write anything all that subversive here, although I must admit that the part of me which takes after my big brother would make me quite tempted to write posts with key-words like "Tibet" or "Falun Dafa", just to be difficult, and who knows where that might lead.

Best to play it safe, I suspect. Besides, to be perfectly honest, I think I'll be too busy having a holiday to bother writing anything here anyway.

But look forward to plenty of ideas from the east (coast of China) when I return; one or two ideas, at the very least.

I'm driving this way to piss you off

Assumptions are wonderful things. Don't we all just love people imputing motives into everything we do, whether they know us or not?

Ever noticed how much we do that when driving? Someone takes too long to turn right, and CLEARLY they're doing it because they're either stupid or willfully annoying - take your pick.

That's why I was very much amused by the bumper sticker that I saw the other day with the line that I've quoted in the title of this post. Because I know the feeling, from both ends. I know how it feels to make assumptions, and how it feels to assume.

And it's been making me think a bit lately about this guy a few years back who had something to say, on a more general note, but that I think applies quite well to this situation. It was something like, "Do to others as you'd like them to do to you."

Perhaps, in this situation, I could dare to add to it, "And don't condemn others for doing what, five minutes ago, you did to someone else." I suspect he'd approve. And I suspect he'd be happy to see his philosophy applied a little more often to our driving habits.

I also suspect I should practise what I preach.

What if she won't be apples?

It's tough being an Aussie male. It's even tougher being an Aussie male with feelings.

Here's a typical interchange between Australian men:

"How's it goin', buddy? Keeping out of trouble?"

"Yeah."

"That's the way."

What's the way? And, while we're on the topic: The way to what? The way to emotional repression? It's almost as if being not okay, not keeping out of trouble, is somehow Not The Way.

Which isn't so surprising. We do, after all, live in the country where "How's it going?" is a greeting, not a question, and where the response is all too often a repeated "How's it going?", a defiance of all laws of grammar, and not an answer at all. Of course, there's always, "Not bad," or "Alright," as alternative answers. But what it you aren't Not Bad? What it you aren't Alright? What then?

I guess then we blog. It's not as if our feelings will ever come up in conversation.

"Chesterton's a swell guy"

Something inspired me recently to re-read some of Chesterton's wonderful Father Brown short stories. I was remembering how Father Brown's "arch nemesis" for the first several stories, the extremely tall French criminal mastermind Flambeau, later becomes his closest friend and partner in - well - solving crime. Something about this attracted me to the stories again, and I've been very pleased to rediscover them.

Here's the wonderful moment when Father Brown confronts Flambeau for the last time (and, of course, there's a spoiler alert):

"'Stand still', [Flambeau] said, in a hacking whisper. 'I don't want to threaten you, but -'

'I do want to threaten you,' said Father Brown, in a voice like a rolling drum. 'I want to threaten you with the worm that dieth not, and the fire that is not quenched.'

'You're a rum sort of cloakroom clerk,' said the other.

'I am a priest, Monsieur Flambeau,' said Brown, 'and I am ready to hear your confession.'"

Most people love Father Brown because he is such an unlikely sleuth. Where Holmes has become a cliché - wandering around with his deerstalker hat and magnifying glass - Brown trades on people's trust in him, and their common assumption that he's, at best, a bit of a dill. As a young reader, I was inspired by the concept of a man who no-one suspects and who is thus enabled to see what no-one else sees. I tried my hand at creating a few "unlikely" detectives myself, although, sadly, they were all a little too unlikely, and hence it became quite unlikely that anyone would want to read about them.

Father Brown, on the other hand, is brilliant but misunderstood - by Chesterton's characters, and also by his readers. Often, the point people make about Father Brown is that he seems so innocent (indeed, the first collection was called "The Innocence of Father Brown"). After all, he's a priest, isn't he? Of course he'd be innocent, if not a bit ignorant. How can he solve crime? I mean, that's funny, right? A priest who can solve crimes?

Chesterton, I suspect, would be having a bit of a jovial chuckle at that idea. How can a priest possibly be ignorant of crime, and of sin? What makes Father Brown so wonderful as a detective is his intuitive knowledge of human nature. And what makes me love him, for many other reasons, is that he offers his criminals a chance at redemption. Flambeau is testament to that. Holmes solves the mystery, but quite often doesn't give a stuff if the criminal is brought to justice or let run free to commit more crimes (see "A Case of Identity" if you need proof of this). For Father Brown, however, crimes - all human crimes - run deeper than the mere identification of "whodunnit". In fact, if there were to be a truly theological approach to writing detective fiction, surely the real question should be - who didn't do it?

And Chesterton, just like Father Brown, would be ready with the answer. When asked by The Times, along with other "eminent authors", to comment on the question, "What's Wrong with the World?", Chesterton wrote a suitably short, witty and profound response:

"Dear Sirs,
I am.
Sincerely yours,
G.K. Chesterton."