60 in 60: #7 - Swift's A Tale of a Tub (Penguin's Great Ideas)

This blog post is part of my ongoing "60 Books in 60 Days" encounter with the Penguin Great Ideas series. From mid-December to mid-February, I will read one book in the series each night and post a blog entry about it the next morning. For more on this beautifully designed series, visit Penguin's page about the books.A Tale of a Tubby Jonathan Swift (1667-1745)Memorable Line (among so many that their full recital would require a full reproduction of the book, mirroring a prior situation, e.g. "Pierre Menard, Author of the Quixote")"Now, from this heavenly descent of criticism, and the close analogy it bears to heroic virtue, it is easy to assign the proper employment of a true ancient genuine critic, which is, to travel through this vast world of writings; to pursue and hunt those monstrous faults bred within them; to drag out the lurking errors, like Cacus from his den; to multiply them like Hydra's heads; and rake them together like Augeas' dung; or else drive away a sort of dangerous fowl, who have a perverse inclination to plunder the best branches of the tree of knowledge, like those stymphalian birds that eat up the fruit...These reasonings will furnish us with an adequate definition of a true critic; that he is discoverer and collector of writers' faults; which may be farther put beyond dispute by the following demonstration; that whoever will examine the writings of all kinds, wherewith this ancient sect has honored the world, shall immediately find, from the whole thread and tenor of them, that the ideas of the authors have been altogether conversant and taken up with the faults and blemishes and oversights, and mistakes of other writers; and, let the subject treated on be whatever it will, their imaginations are so entirely possessed and replete with the defects of other pens, that the very quintessence of what is bad does of necessity distil into their own; by which means the whole appears to be nothing else but an abstract of the criticisms themselves have made."The SkinnySwift weaves an extended satire of organized religion around a series of digressions brutally and brilliantly taking the piss out of critics, writers, pontificators, lecturers, and the like. (And what of the tub? Swift identifies it in his introduction as what sailors put out to distract the leviathan that may otherwise ram their ships.)Relevance? Argument?Swift makes me cackle.* Not a thin, self-satisfied cackle. Something deeper and more from the belly, but not yet a belly laugh. Not a chortle, either, for a chortle conveys an unironic mirth. I am cackling from some deep place, like a raven, because Swift, of all the satirists I have read, comes from the deepest place, and clothes his satire in such fecund detail. Much of his prose is like an Arcimboldo painting: the overall effect is unnatural, but the parts of which it is composed are life-like and real and of the world.The "main" parts of A Tale of a Tub--and I use "main" guardedly because the strength of this book, unlike Montaigne's, is in the endless spiraling transgressions--concern a parody of religion as embodied by the adventures of three men, Peter (Church of Rome), Martin (Church of England), and Jack (Protestant dissent). The ungovernable strength of Swift comes through in these sections as a kind of force of nature, because you can enjoy these tales even if you completely miss the subtext. They read, in that lack of context, like the direct ancestor of Flann O'Brien in the offhand surrealism, sense of humor, and eye for the perfect detail.Swift also builds and builds to crescendo in extended metaphor, as if creating a Tower of Babel that perversely makes perfect sense. The effect is hard to excerpt, because each detail depends on the one before,* but here, for example, is part of a reverie on the world and classes of people in it: "To conclude from all, what is man himself but a microcoat, or rather a complete suit of clothes with all its trimmings? As to his body there can be no dispute; but example even the acquirements of his mind, you will find them all contribute in their order towards furnishing out an exact dress: to instance no more; is not religion a cloak, honesty a pair of shoes worn out in the dirt, self-love a surtout, vanity a shirt, and conscience a pair of breeches, which, though a cover for lewdness as well as nastiness, is easily slipt down for the service of both?"A Montaigne might have gotten that far, but Swift has only just applied the mortar to the first or second level of his tower. He continues with "it will follow in due course of reasoning that those beings, which the world calls improperly suits of clothing, are in reality the most refined species of animals" and provides examples: "If one of them be trimmed up with a gold chain, and a red gown, and white rod, and a great horse, it is called a lord-mayor: if certain ermines and furs be placed in a certain position, we style them a judge; and so an apt conjunction of lawn and black satin we entitle a bishop." Thus grounded, Swift's tower spirals into the sky as he discusses the difference between a natural and celestial suit, the qualities of certain "systems of religion" in which, for example, "gold fringe was agreeable conversation," and then vaults upward to a platform on which we return to our three heroes, now suitably cloaked in context, and themselves wearing very special coats.Yet this main story is not even the best part of A Tale of the Tub. The very best part is "A Digression Concerning Critics," every word of which applies to our modern world, especially in this frontier age of intertubes, blogospheres, and both the softening and roughening of published opinion. Swift identifies several kinds of critic, their uses (see: Memorable Lines), and their associations down through the ages. One amazing description after another creeps up on the reader in this critical bestiary: "...there is a serpent that wants teeth, and consequently cannot bite; but if its vomit, to which it is much addicted, happens to fall upon anything, a certain rottenness or corruption ensues; these serpents are generally found among the mountains where jewels grow, and they frequently emit a poisonous juice: whereof whoever drinks, that person's brains fly out of his nostrils." By the time Swift was crescendoing to asses, I quite frankly had lost all semblance of analytical reading and the cackle was again upon me: "whereas all other ASSES wanted a gall, these horned ones were so redundant in that part, that their flesh was not to be eaten, because of its extreme bitterness."Sustaining a metaphor is like holding a note: only those most naturally skilled can do it. And only those most daring will attempt it in front of an audience, especially if you must broaden the note, reach other octaves, and play the fiddle and the banjo while doing so. Especially if your entire tower will crash to pieces if you stop. Swift's genius lies in his endless controlled yet frenzied invention and his utter fearlessness. My cackle in response is a recognition of both the attempt and the achievement, as well as an appreciation for the kind of black humor that bravely tears down institutions and the pompous as the raw materials for its own, more honest, structure.* Although I had not read this book before.** The best kinds of absurdism build naturally from specific and reasonable bits of logic, just as surrealism often builds naturally from application of specific, realistic detail.ConclusionI will always remember and treasure this book.Question for ReadersWhat is your favorite satire?Next up, Jean-Jacques Rousseau's The Social Contract