John Buchan and the hate-filled ‘humanitarians’

This article is a companion to the one featuring Rafael Sabatini’s wise words on the subject of equality as a by-product of envy. 

There are some related ideas in Mr Standfast, one of John Buchan’s Richard Hannay spy thrillers. Buchan suggests that humanitarianism and pacifism are a by-product of hatred:

“'Hazlitt was the academic Radical of his day,' he said. 'He is always lashing himself into a state of theoretical fury over abuses he has never encountered in person.

Men who are up against the real thing save their breath for action.'“

These words were written over 100 years ago, but they are still very relevant. They probably always were and always will be. 

I have seen for myself that some people ignore the suffering around them that they could or should be doing something about in favour of getting all worked up and ranting on about some injustice far away. 

Getting things the wrong way round is a characteristic of evil. 

And yes, letting off steam is often a substitute for action; the real activists just get on with it. The more noise some people make, the less they actually achieve. As Shakespeare put it in Macbeth:

“It is a tale Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, Signifying nothing.”

Mr Standfast: John Buchan nails a problem

I was much more interested in the exciting action and adventures than the philosophising when I first read John Buchan’s books; now it is the more subtle elements that hold my attention. 

Something I read in Mr Standfast recently really hit home this time around: it is a soul-baring speech made by the character Launcelot Wake.

“"I see more than other people see," he went on, "and I feel more. That's the curse on me. You're a happy man and you get things done, because you only see one side of a case, one thing at a time. How would you like it if a thousand strings were always tugging at you, if you saw that every course meant the sacrifice of lovely and desirable things, or even the shattering of what you know to be unreplaceable? I'm the kind of stuff poets are made of, but I haven't the poet's gift, so I stagger about the world left-handed and game-legged... 

I'm not as good a man as you, Hannay, who have never thought out anything in your life. My time in the Labour battalion taught me something. I knew that with all my fine aspirations I wasn't as true a man as fellows whose talk was silly oaths and who didn't care a tinker's curse about their soul… I'd give all I have to be an ordinary cog in the wheel, instead of a confounded outsider who finds fault with the machinery...""

“I'm the kind of stuff poets are made of, but I haven't the poet's gift...”

This goes right to the heart of the matter; it is the essence of the problem that some people have. 

Life is very difficult for anyone who is unfortunate enough to have the creative temperament without much in the way of creative abilities to go with it. Such people may feel stuck between two worlds, getting the worst of both and not fully belonging to either. 

Unable to function as well in everyday life as the ordinary people in the outer world do, unable to create anything or demonstrate any particular talent, gift or genius as the artists of various kinds who are in touch with other dimensions and the inner world do, they may feel inferior to the inhabitants of both worlds. 

Being able to demonstrate abilities far above normal in some areas may be compensation for and explanation of being obviously far below normal in others; having creative abilities may be some compensation for having to endure the torment of a creative temperament, while being able to function well in the ordinary world may be some compensation for being collective-minded and not having any special talents.

Considering that the highlighted words quoted above were spoken by someone who says he has no gift for poetry, it is ironic that, with the addition of a line or two, they could be part of a poem, perhaps something written by Rudyard Kipling! 

The Lament of Launcelot Wake 

I'm the kind of stuff poets are made of,

  But I haven't the poet's gift.

Between me and the world of the poets,

  There lies an unbridgeable rift!