A Piece of Chalk

A Piece of Chalk

By G. K. Chesterton.

I remember one splendid morning, all blue and silver, in the summer holidays when I reluctantly tore myself away from the task of doing nothing in particular, and put on a hat of some sort and picked up a walking-stick, and put six very bright-coloured chalks in my pocket. I then went into the kitchen (which, along with the rest of the house, belonged to a very square and sensible old woman in a Sussex village), and asked the owner and occupant of the kitchen if she had any brown paper. She had a great deal; in fact, she had too much; and she mistook the purpose and the rationale of the existence of brown paper. She seemed to have an idea that if a person wanted brown paper he must be wanting to tie up parcels; which was the last thing I wanted to do; indeed, it is a thing which I have found to be beyond my mental capacity. Hence she dwelt very much on the varying qualities of toughness and endurance in the material. I explained to her that I only wanted to draw pictures on it, and that I did not want them to endure in the least; and that from my point of view, therefore, it was a question, not of tough consistency, but of responsive surface, a thing comparatively irrelevant in a parcel. When she understood that I wanted to draw she offered to overwhelm me with note-paper, apparently supposing that I did my notes and correspondence on old brown paper wrappers from motives of economy.

I then tried to explain the rather delicate logical shade, that I not only liked brown paper, but liked the quality of brownness in paper, just as I liked the quality of brownness in October woods, or in beer, or in the peat-streams of the North. Brown paper represents the primal twilight of the first toil of creation, and with a bright-coloured chalk or two you can pick out points of fire in it, sparks of gold, and blood-red, and sea-green, like the first fierce stars that sprang out of divine darkness. All this I said (in an off-hand way) to the old woman; and I put the brown paper in my pocket along with the chalks, and possibly other things. I suppose every one must have reflected how primeval and how poetical are the things that one carries in one’s pocket; the pocket-knife, for instance, the type of all human tools, the infant of the sword. Once I planned to write a book of poems entirely about the things in my pockets. But I found it would be too long; and the age of the great epics is past.

With my stick and my knife, my chalks and my brown paper, I went out on to the great downs. I crawled across those colossal contours that express the best quality of England, because they are at the same time soft and strong. The smoothness of them has the same meaning as the smoothness of great cart-horses, or the smoothness of the beech-tree; it declares in the teeth of our timid and cruel theories that the mighty are merciful. As my eye swept the landscape, the landscape was as kindly as any of its cottages, but for power it was like an earthquake. The villages in the immense valley were safe, one could see, for centuries; yet the lifting of the whole land was like the lifting of one enormous wave to wash them all away.

I crossed one swell of living turf after another, looking for a place to sit down and draw. Do not, for heaven’s sake, imagine I was going to sketch from Nature. I was going to draw devils and seraphim, and blind old gods that men worshipped before the dawn of right, and saints in robes of angry crimson, and seas of strange green, and all the sacred or monstrous symbols that look so well in bright colours on brown paper. They are much better worth drawing than Nature; also they are much easier to draw. When a cow came slouching by in the field next to me, a mere artist might have drawn it; but I always get wrong in the hind legs of quadrupeds. So I drew the soul of the cow; which I saw there plainly walking before me in the sunlight; and the soul was all purple and silver, and had seven horns and the mystery that belongs to all the beasts. But though I could not with a crayon get the best out of the landscape, it does not follow that the landscape was not getting the best out of me. And this, I think, is the mistake that people make about the old poets who lived before Wordsworth, and were supposed not to care very much about Nature because they did not describe it much.

They preferred writing about great men to writing about great hills; but they sat on the great hills to write it. They gave out much less about Nature, but they drank in, perhaps, much more. They painted the white robes of their holy virgins with the blinding snow, at which they had stared all day. They blazoned the shields of their paladins with the purple and gold of many heraldic sunsets. The greenness of a thousand green leaves clustered into the live green figure of Robin Hood. The blueness of a score of forgotten skies became the blue robes of the Virgin. The inspiration went in like sunbeams and came out like Apollo.

But as I sat scrawling these silly figures on the brown paper, it began to dawn on me, to my great disgust, that I had left one chalk, and that a most exquisite and essential chalk, behind. I searched all my pockets, but I could not find any white chalk. Now, those who are acquainted with all the philosophy (nay, religion) which is typified in the art of drawing on brown paper, know that white is positive and essential. I cannot avoid remarking here upon a moral significance. One of the wise and awful truths which this brown-paper art reveals, is this, that white is a colour. It is not a mere absence of colour; it is a shining and affirmative thing, as fierce as red, as definite as black. When, so to speak, your pencil grows red-hot, it draws roses; when it grows white-hot, it draws stars. And one of the two or three defiant verities of the best religious morality, of real Christianity, for example, is exactly this same thing; the chief assertion of religious morality is that white is a colour. Virtue is not the absence of vices or the avoidance of moral dangers; virtue is a vivid and separate thing, like pain or a particular smell. Mercy does not mean not being cruel or sparing people revenge or punishment; it means a plain and positive thing like the sun, which one has either seen or not seen.

Chastity does not mean abstention from sexual wrong; it means something flaming, like Joan of Arc. In a word, God paints in many colours; but He never paints so gorgeously, I had almost said so gaudily, as when He paints in white. In a sense our age has realised this fact, and expressed it in our sullen costume. For if it were really true that white was a blank and colourless thing, negative and non-committal, then white would be used instead of black and grey for the funeral dress of this pessimistic period. We should see city gentlemen in frock coats of spotless silver linen, with top hats as white as wonderful arum lilies. Which is not the case.

Meanwhile, I could not find my chalk.

I sat on the hill in a sort of despair. There was no town nearer than Chichester at which it was even remotely probable that there would be such a thing as an artist’s colourman. And yet, without white, my absurd little pictures would be as pointless as the world would be if there were no good people in it. I stared stupidly round, racking my brain for expedients. Then I suddenly stood up and roared with laughter, again and again, so that the cows stared at me and called a committee. Imagine a man in the Sahara regretting that he had no sand for his hour-glass. Imagine a gentleman in mid-ocean wishing that he had brought some salt water with him for his chemical experiments. I was sitting on an immense warehouse of white chalk. The landscape was made entirely out of white chalk. White chalk was piled more miles until it met the sky. I stooped and broke a piece off the rock I sat on; it did not mark so well as the shop chalks do; but it gave the effect. And I stood there in a trance of pleasure, realising that this Southern England is not only a grand peninsula, and a tradition and a civilisation; it is something even more admirable. It is a piece of chalk.

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Tremendous Trifles

Tremendous Trifles

G. K. Chesterton was one of the greatest writers of the 20th century and one who has had a great influence on my thinking and has captured my imagination. I can still remember the first time I encountered Chesterton as a junior in high school. I had to write a literary analysis of a short piece of writing from a select list of authors. Being one of the last to sign up, I only had a few authors from which to choose. I had wanted to write about C. S. Lewis, but by the time I got to sign up, he was already taken. So, looking over the few authors left, I signed up for G. K. Chesterton because I can remember hearing some good quotes from him at Worldview Academy. I count this as a special act of divine providence because after being introduced to Chesterton through his essay, “A Piece of Chalk,” my life has never been the same.

Chesterton was a poet, essayist, apologist, and novelist. He wrote on such diverse topics as the history of England, family life, croquet, art, economics, Christianity, eugenics, and much more. Though Chesterton was a staunch Roman Catholic for most of his life and a firm opponent of Calvinism (and I am both a staunch protestant and a firm proponent of Calvinism), I always find him a joy to read. He writes with such clarity and penetrating wit that even when he is wrong he is worth reading, and when he is right – he is invaluable. As I learned more about Chesterton I discovered that he had already influenced my life for years through his influence on C. S. Lewis and J. R. R. Tolkien.

We happen to live long enough after Chesterton’s death that the government has decided not to prosecute the free use and distribution of his ideas; therefore I have decided to post a weekly essay by Chesterton for the foreseeable future, beginning with the collection, “Tremendous Trifles.” This is the first installment of that series. So, without further ado, here is Gilbert Keith Chesterton:

Continue reading “Tremendous Trifles”

8 Reasons to Use a Fountain Pen

8 Reasons to Use a Fountain Pen

Six years ago, when I matriculated into Grove City College, I took all my notes by hand with a blue Pentel 0.5mm twist-erase mechanical pencil. I wrote in small sloppy print, but it was legible. I soon found that taking notes that way was not enjoyable and it was a pain to go back and reread my notes. So I did what any self-respecting millennial would do – I began taking notes on my computer for three years. However, spring semester senior year I went back to taking notes by hand for a very important reason: the Christmas before the semester started I asked for a fountain pen and ink because I had been convinced that handwriting my notes was better for my retention. I chose to write with a fountain pen mainly for two reasons, it looked cool and I found the rich saturated color of the ink very appealing. I am now in my third year of seminary and continue to use a fountain pen for all my note taking – tens of hours every week and hundreds of hours every year. Below are eight reasons why I continue to use a fountain pen and encourage others to consider using one as well.

Continue reading “8 Reasons to Use a Fountain Pen”

77 Questions to ask about Technology

77 Questions to ask about Technology

Technology is a tool and as with any other tool the saying is true, “We make our tools and our tools make us.” Man makes hammers and hammers make callouses on man’s hand. Use a hammer too much and you’ll have blisters instead. We use our brains to create digital media and digital media shapes how our brains think.

French philosopher Jacques Ellul recognized the powerful effect of technology on the individual and the community and proposed 77 questions we should ask before adopting any given technology into our lives. If we were to answer these questions before accepting the use of a given technology into our lives…well it might have the potential to change our lives. At the very least we would be conscious of what kind of live we are choosing to live. As Socrates famously said, “The unexamined life is not worth living.” Continue reading “77 Questions to ask about Technology”

Short Sermons?

T. G. Drummond

A few months ago I heard of a certain young gentleman, we shall call him “Sam”, who has advocated for 8 minute sermons in church, because that is the average attention span of Americans today.[1] I have not heard Sam’s arguments personally, but I imagine they go along the lines of this: the average American attention span is 8 minutes (or less), therefore any part of a sermon that goes beyond 8 minutes will fall on inattentive ears and be useless, so why even preach it? It will do no good and might do much harm in frustrating the congregation by making them sit on uncomfortable pews for longer than they can pay attention to, and will ultimately turn people away from the church. Continue reading “Short Sermons?”

Does God Care What Kind of Music I Like?

This question was posed to Ken Myers at the Edwards Institute 2011 Conference on Apologetics and the Arts. It is the subject of his fourth and last lecture, all of which can be listened to and downloaded here. Myers poses 16 further questions that need to be asked in order to answer the original question. I encourage any who listen to music to go through and ask themselves these questions (it will be helpful to listen to his lectures given at the conference first): Continue reading “Does God Care What Kind of Music I Like?”

Let the Reader Understand, Part 2

In my previous post, I outlined the rules for analytical reading of expository literature that Mortimer Adler and Charles Van Doren give in their book, “How to Read a Book.” In this post, I will outline the rules that they give for analytical reading of imaginative literature. Imaginative literature encompasses some of “easiest” (e.g. novels) and “hardest” (e.g. epic poems) literature to read. I put those descriptors in quotes because the genres assumed “easy” are often harder than they appear, and the ones assumed “hard” are often easier than they appear. Without further ado, here are the rules: Continue reading “Let the Reader Understand, Part 2”