Call me an anarchist, but I don’t like books to be all the same size. They aren’t, of course, but there are people who would like them to be. I don’t want them to be all the same colour, or smell. I can handle a fairly long set, here or there, but not the prospect of interminable rows. I am inflamed by the sight of matching spines on the shelves in the offices of lawyers.
I don’t like envelopes to be in standard sizes, or notepaper, either; or magazines. I don’t like newspapers to be all the same size, especially if it’s a weird size like 12 inches wide by almost 24 high, but perhaps this isn’t the place to discuss that.
I do not like standard sizes for shirts, and while I can afford no better, am opposed in principle to prêt-à-porter.
I do not like container ships, or even too many matching boxcars on a train. My distaste for such things is not restricted to publishing.
And as readers who have followed me over the years may recall, I do not like the metric system, which, among its other notorious evils, is the mother and father of innumerable standardization schemes. It is a quirkless system, and must therefore be condemned.
All these things are a source of irritation, though I must boast that Nature is on my side, and that she may be relied upon to put an end to all projects of regimentation, in due course; and in the meantime, to be a constant source of sabotage.
Mother Nature does this often through means more subtle than hurricanes, earthquakes, pestilence and plagues. One of the most powerful anarchic forces operating within the mind of a society is, for instance, the human faculty for boredom. No other animal seems to share this gift, or rather—since even dolphins eventually tire of following the same yacht—no other animal quite shares in the splendour of this human faculty, for disgust with repetitive assignments. A human being, left for years to weld the same joint on an auto assembly line, will sooner or later weld a beer can to it; and by doing so, he asserts his humanity.
Note that my critique of modernity goes beyond the measurable dimensions of things. I—and we, on the assumption that my reader is also fully human—are revolted by endless sameness. And this, even though we may be trained to accept it, or otherwise pressured to conform. But the seed of revolution—true Tory revolution—is ever germinating in the field.
I used to be moved almost to despair by the contemplation of immensely sprawling suburbs, with houses almost identical, cars almost identical, people dressed alike, and their lawns cut flat by nearly identical mowers. As a child of the town, and of the inner city, I suspected the suburbans had been reduced to automata. There was more confirming superficial evidence; and it is not good to be reviewing such evidence.
But then I actually met some persons who lived in these suburbs.
Sure enough, each had a living room, with a matching suite of furniture, preserved from dust under matching slipcovers. There would be a dining room suite, too; and glimpses of bedrooms with bed, sidetable and dresser combos. But observe: life congregated in the kitchen.
Later, as I became more fully trusted, I’d be taken downstairs. In the basement of each house there was a “recreation room,” floored and panelled in a boilerplate manner. The furniture might be somewhat unusual, however—perhaps a broken chair—and somewhat unusual objects might hang on the walls. To my delight and amazement, by examining these, I was eventually apprised of the great Secret of suburban life.
It was the Hobby.
This was the private sanctuary where each tenant, condemned in the daytime to his production line, his “service” job, his office cubicle, indulged an obsession. It might be old jazz records, it might be sophisticated carpentry and joinery, it might be learned genealogical research; in one case it was a most extraordinary collection of mounted butterflies. And the man one has taken for an aspirant to the function of an interchangeable part is suddenly revealed as an eccentric genius. Show the slightest interest, and he reveals himself as a unique and magnificent human being.
Now, in this age of feminist tyranny, I must immediately admit that such people tend to be male, and might therefore be excoriated on that account. Yet I am convinced that women, too, beneath their shrouds of conformity, harbour each of them a universe of ingenious obsessions. I just don’t happen to know what they are.
A revolution will come: has come, for it is constantly in progress.
It is, and will be, a revolution not in the Marxist or “progressive” sense—a new Gulag, more fashionable than the last—but rather a true revolution.
For the word, “revolution,” connotes a turning and return to the true order of things, in which systems serve man, and not man systems.
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