/lit/ - Literature★

>>12974 (OP)

In his Letters from Prison, the Italian Marxist theorist Antonio Gramsci made this partisan declaration of his preference:

Father Brown is a Catholic who pokes fun at the mechanical thought processes of the Protestants and the book is basically an apologia of the Roman Church as against the Anglican Church. Sherlock Holmes is the 'Protestant' detective who finds the end of the criminal skein by starting from the outside, relying on science, on experimental method, on induction. Father Brown is the Catholic priest who through the refined psychological experiences offered by confession and by the persistent activity of the fathers' moral casuistry, though not neglecting science and experimentation, but relying especially on deduction and introspection, totally defeats Sherlock Holmes, makes him look like a pretentious little boy, shows up his narrowness and pettiness. Moreover, Chesterton is a great artist while Conan Doyle was a mediocre writer, even though he was knighted for literary merit; thus in Chesterton there is a stylistic gap between the content, the detective story plot, and the form, and therefore a subtle irony with regard to the subject being dealt with, which renders these stories so delicious.

>>12975

Goethe, in Wilhelm Meister (1796), book 4, chapter 13, pp. 145, says of

Hamlet: "'Just to think clearly about this young man, this son of a

prince,' Wilhelm went on to say. 'Visualize his position, and observe

him when he learns that his father's spirit is abroad. Stand by him

when, in that terrible night, the venerable ghost appears before his

eyes. He is overcome by intense horror, speaks to the spirit, sees it

beckon him, follows, and hears-the terrible accusation of his uncle

continues to ring in his ears, with its challenge to seek revenge, and

that repeated urgent cry: 'Remember me!' </p. 145> <p. 146>

'And when the ghost has vanished, what do we see standing before us? A

young hero thirsting for revenge? A prince by birth, happy to be charged

with unseating the usurper of his throne? Not at all! Amazement and

sadness descend on this lonely spirit; he becomes bitter at the smiling

villains, swears not to forget his departed father, and ends with a

heavy sigh: "The time is out of joint; O cursed spite! That ever I was

born to set it right!"

'In these words, so I believe, lies the key to Hamlet's whole behavior,

and it is clear to me what Shakespeare has set out to portray: a heavy

deed placed on a soul which is not adequate to cope with it. And it is

in this sense that I find the whole play constructed. An oak tree

planted in a precious pot which should only have held delicate flowers.

The roots spread out, the vessel is shattered.

'A fine, pure, noble and highly moral person, but devoid of that

emotional strength that characterizes a hero, goes to pieces beneath a

burden that it can neither support nor cast off. Every obligation is

sacred to him, but this one is too heavy. The impossible is demanded of

him-not the impossible in any absolute sense, but what is impossible for

him. How he twists and turns, trembles, advances and retreats, always

being reminded, always reminding himself, and finally almost losing

sight of his goal, yet without ever regaining happiness!'"