On Realism

     Alleluia, He is risen! Happy Easter to all! As you may have noticed, I went off of blogging for Lent, but now I'm back to the blogosphere. (Goodness, what a horrifically dull introduction... My oratory skills are going to be stunning today...)

    Anyhow, I've come back to get right to business. I'd like to discuss a rather more big-picture concept in writing: the concept of realism and depicting things realistically or fantastically in general. In short, how realistic should fiction be? What side of reality should it portray and how much? 

    Now, before we begin, I'd like to make a bit of a disclaimer. These are only my own thoughts and my own philosophy. I do not claim to have all the answers, and there have great, virtuous, admirable writers on both sides of this debate and everywhere in between. I myself enjoy and love many works on all places in the spectrum. So, going through my thoughts here, just take them with a grain of salt. 

    In the usual way of things, my mind starts clattering with ideas and long freight trains when I'm supposed to be paying attention to something else, and my most recent rabbit hole was no exception. In my music history class, the topics were first Romantic Age grand opera, and then Romantic Age realistic opera. Now, without going too deeply into either of those things, they essentially boil down to this: earlier stories in opera were about larger than life figures with somewhat fantastical, romanticized stories and great questions asked and explored, while later opera stories were about more real, relatable people with sometimes hard or decrepit lives and more direct, tangible morals to the story. If you're at all familiar with opera, good examples would be Verdi's Nabucco and Bizet's Carmen respectively. Some classic literature parallels would be Beowulf and Little Women, or The Scarlet Pimpernel and The Great Gatsby. There are many more parallels too: Oedipus Rex and Our Town; Ten Commandments and Mr. Smith Goes to Washington; Les Miserables and West Side Story; Shakespeare and Tennessee Williams; the list goes on and on. (For the sake of clarity, from here on out, when referring to the philosophy as opposed to the usual meaning of the adjective, I'll capitalize "Realistic," and, while both things I'm referring to are sort-of Romantic, I'll refer to the non-Realist style as "Romantic.")

    The idea behind the change in storytelling was simple on the surface, but I think it merits a closer look. As the theory goes, we should depict real life more closely to how it is because audiences will connect with it more and be more engaged by it. They will be more moved by it and understand it better if it relates to them closely. While it's true that depicting certain things will not be pretty, neither is real life. Suffering is such a real part of life that neglecting to depict it, or depicting it in a way that is surreal and unrelatable, makes the work difficult to read/watch/hear without skepticism. Additionally, if what's being depicted as ordinary contradicts the everyday experience of the audience, then they may dismiss the work - setting, theme, and all - as unbelievable or untrue. 

    It has been countered that some things should never be portrayed. I agree wholeheartedly, and many people who wrote in a Realistic style also did. While later modernist writers took the philosophy to a whole new level, I don't think the intention of Realism is to simply shock the audience with vulgarity, bleakness, or depravity. While it came out that way sometimes for the sake of delivering the moral of the story - as in The Great Gatsby depicting the alcoholic, abusive life of the rich class to tell us that this world and all things of it are vanity - most Realist stories are not meant to be sensationalist for the sake of it, per se. 

    That said, I believe Realist stories are deeply sensationalistic. The comment is often leveled against Romantic stories that they are larger than life and don't depict reality accurately. Now, the problem with this criticism is that Realist stories don't either. I'll come back to that in a moment. On a shallower note, we really don't want them to. Any story that depicted reality exactly as we experienced it would be dull as paint. If I started reading a novel wherein the heroine wakes up early every morning, goes to school, works, and then goes home and does homework, I would lay it away pretty quickly. 

    When consuming works of art, we want something bigger than ourselves. While it's good for us to be reminded from time to time of the flaws in our patterns and lifestyles, we become desensitized to it if we hear it all the time. If all novels in the 1920s had been oratories on the upper class's dissipation and emptiness, the message would have been thoroughly ignored. As it was, Gatsby made an astonishing effect because it was unique in its depiction. While other writers glorified the '20s glitz and leisure, F. Scott Fitzgerald tore away the glitter and beads and showed it as the lost, restless culture that it was. And that is the real point of Realist stories. The point is not as much homogeneousness as it is homily. Realist stories have to be a little harsher, a little more familiar, and a little more down-to-earth because their point is to deliver a quick, hard, simple message that people need to hear. 

    It's extremely effective whenever it's been used. Sometimes people remember the characters and the settings, and sometimes not, but they remember the bottom line of the story. I probably couldn't tell you the names of half the characters in West Side Story, but I remember vividly the visceral repugnance at the gang violence that I was meant to feel. A Realist story is like someone in a speech saying "listen up" - it catches your attention and lets you know that this last thing is really important. 

    The problem with saying "listen up" in a speech too many times is that is loses its power. It becomes monotonous and signifying of nothing. You've probably listened to a speaker before who uses the same potent phrase or comparison too many times and loses his audience's engagement as a result. Realist stories are very much like this. They serve a good purpose in a crisis, but they become desensitizing in large doses. If we take in too much of the hard, direct, and the gray - especially the morally gray - then we can come to accept it as normal and tune it out. If we're constantly fed things we're supposed to relate to, then we tend to come to see it as being indeed everyday, and thus mundane and ignorable. 

    That's a bit of a problem with writing stories in general. While we want to relate to our audience, like I said above, too much relatability creates predictability or boredom. We don't want our stories to perfectly reflect real life, and I think there is a deeper reason for that. Life in this world is never perfect - quite the opposite - and if we are only fed with the ugly, the commonplace, and the familiar, then we feel unfulfilled and lacking. We feel a distinct need for something more - some sort of resolve to our suspended existence. 

    This leads to my other problem with Realist writing. Like I said above, I think that Realist writing is quite profoundly sensationalistic. It's always an exaggeration. Realist writing is by its nature stuck in this world, and, while that may offer us a lot of wisdom on how to (or how not to) conduct our daily lives, it doesn't give us anything more universal to look to. What's more, much (not all, but much) of Realist writing is stuck in a sort-of incomplete version of this world. It's true - suffering, hardship, and immorality exist, but they are only a piece of our nature and existence. In fact, they are a small piece, like a parasite on an independent body. Poverty, sickness, and depravity are true in daily life, but so are other more beautiful, good things like marriage, children, humor, health, and simple everyday love. Most Realist stories focus on those former, uglier qualities and forget that the beautiful part of everyday life exists. And in a sense, that can be a good thing. It's hard to deliver a tough message without cutting to the quick and focusing on one thing. But nobody likes to listen to a fire-and-brimstone preacher all the time, and that's why these stories can be dulling to our senses even more than any other Realist stories. It's easy to see why we go to Realist stories more like Little Women or Mr. Smith Goes to Washington when we want something lighter - while they do focus more on this world and its issues, they're uplifting because they present us with both the ugly and the beautiful sides of life. Even if they don't pack quite as much of a gut-punch when it's needed, they are good reminders in a more regular way. 

    Now to get to the meat of the matter. I believe that a more Romantic worldview is the superior one when it comes to writing stories. While it's true that it doesn't match up to real life, as I demonstrated above, no stories really do - that's rather the point of stories. We tend to ignore things that are too familiar to us. Romantic writing also can't come to arms in a crisis the same way a hard Realist story can, but, again, hard Realist stories are best to have in crises and not as the standard. Because Realist stories are stuck in this world - whether they present its good or not - they are always incomplete and imperfect. They may be splendid works, they may be some of history's masterpieces, but they never quite reach the thing that is most beautiful in them: the transcendental. 

    In any reaching for virtue, either by criticizing its lack or by encouraging its daily practice, a work touches on something universal. In Realist works, we only get these universal values through a human lens, but we yearn for a better look at them. Everyone wants the answers to the wide, vast questions of life, and this world can't give them to us. Nothing touches the heart and inflames the mind and soul like a work that explores a great question or some transcendental good. After all, one of the transcendental goods, beauty, is the basis of all art, including writing. Without it, there would be no good writing at all. Many love to read the Gospels and the Acts of the Apostles, but most Christians I've talked to agree that the books that captivate them the most are books like Psalms, Lamentations, and Revelation: the books of mystery and of the great, universal ideas. 

    As immortal beings, we are designed to love and be drawn to the immortal. Things that mystify and go beyond our senses are what interest and benefit us most. Mysteries are not relatable; if they were, they would not be mysteries. That's precisely the beauty and the attraction of them to our nature. Fiction should reflect that truth, that ultimate Reality: that we are not alone in this immense world, and there is so much more to know than what we see and experience. Beowulf sacrificing himself to slay the dragon is Christ on the Cross; Nabucco's people exiled in a foreign land are the Church, the New Jerusalem, chosen to suffer through this world; Jean Valjean in his struggle against the world to become a truly just person is Fallen Man on his path back to God. In that sense, Romanticism is really the true realism because it depicts and hints at the Reality that is more real than anything on this earth: the Reality of goodness, truth, beauty, and of God, who is all these things and Being Itself. 

    Grand scale characters and plots exploring questions that are perennial and maybe seem obvious to us can be overdone like anything we human beings do. However, I think that they communicate the vastness of this universe and this existence much better than stories trapped on this earth do. Because Romantic works give us such a huge view to look at, they force us to actively consider and choose what our focus is. We can't passively take in a good, Romantic work; we have to internalize the ideas presented or else we can't understand it. There is no way for us to simply let it be. On that note, this can often be why many people profess not to enjoy grand, Romantic works as much. They take more intellectual effort to appreciate and cannot be taken in without engagement. Oftentimes, it's easier to have a moral handed to us without further ado, like Christ giving us parables in the Gospels. (And there's nothing wrong with that.) Remember, though, Christ also gave us Revelation. We're not meant only to be pushed towards Heaven and the transcendental goods, but also to push ourselves, to make a constant, real effort to ask the questions we must answer and pursue the goods we must acquire. For those reasons, we need the challenges in our stories to look not down at the earth, but up to the Heavens, and to ask What lies within. 

Well, that's my two cents, anyhow. What are your thoughts? Do you prefer to read more Romantic or Realistic works? Which do you prefer to write? Share your thoughts, if you have any, and, meanwhile, have a wonderful Easter season! (And give Megan some extra applause if you enjoyed this post... Some parts were inspired by an old post of hers about language in writing, but I can't find the post anywhere to link to it anymore... [EDIT: Thanks to Megan, it's now linked in the comments below.]) 

On Shoes, Gloves, and Romance

    There was once, I hear, a cobbler who had a marvelous ability. His skill with making shoes was so phenomenal that it extended beyond creation into transformation. He could take two shoes which were completely different, and he could alter them so that they would be a completely new pair, quite alike in every way. People came from far and wide simply to see this curiosity take place. Nobody knew how he did it, but they came and tried to figure it out just the same. The rich and the eccentric would bring shoes of different pairs and makes and designers to see them change form, and the less rich and eccentric would bring lone shoes without partners to make them of use again. Though all watched the process with their own eyes, the skill was beyond their understanding, and it completely eluded their senses. 

    Now, it came to pass one day that a young person became dissatisfied with the cobbler's mysterious ability and the way it worked. He brought to the tailor two shoes quite unalike, just like many others before him had. He had, however, a different demand: he wanted the tailor to only alter one and not the other. He wanted one to remain the same, and the other to change to be like it. Now, there was no reason for this. Both shoes were decent, plain shoes without adornment or beauty, and both were still useful to some pair of feet for a time. Neither one was particularly special. The fact of the matter was only this: the man simply disliked the limitation the cobbler put on what seemed to be an infinite ability. If the cobbler's custom of only transforming shoes together was arbitrary, then why not break it? The cobbler clearly had the skill to. 

    When the young man came with this request, however, the cobbler refused him. The young man, of course, wanted to know why. To this, the cobbler's reply was short and simple. We are given what we are given, he told the young man, and we must be content with it. A blessing is a blessing, and distinguishing between them, or favoring one over the other for oneself is ingratitude. Everything we receive, after all, is a gift. 

    Forgive me for starting with a small story, but I feel that this bit of musing probably would not make much sense without the train of thought that came before it, this little tale. For the moment, the tale stands alone, but I'll come back to it. 

    Have you ever noticed the use of romantic curios in stories? Things like handkerchiefs or roses or such things. At first, they're something silly and mundane, but then they take on a greater meaning as the couple's story and development go on. Here's one example, for those who have read Little Women. Do you remember Meg and Mr. Brooke? Their romance begins, perhaps, when Mr. Brooke finds Meg's missing glove. It is a little thing, and Meg dismisses it as gone, so he keeps the thing and cherishes it. Later on, it is a factor of revelation, telling us of Mr. Brooke's true intentions and helping Meg to realize her direction in life. She marries Mr. Brooke, and the gloves are reunited, a complete pair once more. 

    Such a little thing, but it's a lovely little bit of metaphor, isn't it? Of course, we've all heard that cliche old chestnut about couples completing each other and what not. Very often, that stuff is nonsense, or at least heavily diluted therewith, talking about soulmates and fated matches and such drivel. Of course, couples are not fated to be with one another anymore than anyone is fated to do anything, and one good man is equal to the next when it comes to choosing a spouse, if things are done properly. 

    But let me indulge in another example before I continue. I'm sure even those who have not read Little Women know the story of Cinderella. Cinderella loses one glass slipper, and the Prince finds it and returns it to her, restoring unity just like with Meg's gloves.

    In human romantic love, the two shoes or the two gloves are exactly what each spouse should be. One is like to the other in the same way - their fragility. Is it a coincidence that Cinderella's shoes should be made of glass, or that Meg's glove should be lost? The shoes and gloves are like to each other and are one set. 

    That's all well and good, and more competent literary scholars than myself have probably already noted the allegory. Something much more important, however is present in the image. Shoes and gloves are pairs, they are designed for one another, and they make a complete set of something, but there is another aspect as well. Shoes and gloves alike are designed for a purpose, a purpose even beyond completing each other. Shoes are meant to protect the feet and gloves to warm the hands. If shoes or gloves existed independently of any wearer, they would be completely meaningless. 

    The truth of the matter is, we are gloves or shoes or what have you. We are meant for each other in a smaller, more temporal sense (not meaning temporary, but, rather, within time), but we have a greater purpose that we must serve together. If we do it apart, with only one party serving, only half the goal is met. One glove alone does not keep the hands warm, though it's better than none. One spouse on the road towards Heaven alone may get there, but he is missing his traveling companion. We are meant to be together because Heavenly Love is a difficult ideal. For many of us, it is not given that we can know it directly in an intimate way. Instead, we are part of a pair, made to work together and learn of God by serving Him with our human love. If both shoes are found and united, only then are they of full use to the Wearer. 

    This brings me back to my story and to the fallacy of fated lovers. We are not unchanging beings - this is exactly why we cannot be fated for anything other than Heaven. After all, the only unchanging thing in us is the bit of God in us. Only His Holy Image in us does not change. God is the Cobbler in the story. We cannot remain the same and hope to find a match. Both parties must change for love to happen because love is a radical change, only capable of moving and perfecting when it meets with something hardened and imperfect. Love will always be in motion as long as it is finite because it longs so much to reach a state of infinity. The cobbler in my story cannot bear to leave one shoe as it is. He creates, but, more importantly, he transforms. 

    Without being changed, we cannot hope to become perfect. If we cannot hope to become perfect, we cannot hope to achieve Heaven. Fate has nothing to do with romance, really. There is nothing less romantic than being fated to something; it takes all nobility, all beauty, and any influence of God out of the picture of romance. We are malleable, changeable beings, just needing to be hammered into shape to work out as we ought. Ultimately, Our Lord is a Cobbler, making out of even mismatched, useless shoes a beautiful pair, worthy of a King.

Sorry for rambling a bit again... Hope it made some little sense, at least. Either way, Happy St. Valentine's Day, all!

Tradition, Progress, and Building on Seashells: Some Thoughts on Disney's Moana

[A Note: I know I am pretty behind the times in writing something about Moana, but the Muse calls when it calls, I suppose. Anyhow, this is an essay I wrote originally for school, so while I have tried to spruce it up in some regards, it still may be a little formal... Apologies on that account - hopefully it still has some interest to it, at least as a thought experiment.]

***

                 In 2016, Disney released a children’s film, Moana, detailing the story

of a Pacific Island princess and her quest to save her home. I saw it a good bit later

than that, but we'll leave that fact aside. There is one moment in the movie that

has always piqued my interest (as well as other emotions), near the end of the

movie. It's a potent little curio, and the last shot in the film: a seashell on top of a

tower of stones. But I'll get back to that in a minute.

                 In the film, the eponymous princess, Moana, is drawn to the ocean even

though her father, the king, forbids venturing beyond their island’s waters. Moana

is the crown heir of the kingdom, and she is taught many of her people’s traditions

by her parents. She, however, feels locked in by those traditions. A malignant

goddess is slowly poisoning the islands, making them fall into decay, and this

state of things is beginning to threaten even Moana’s island. Moana decides to

go against her people’s present law and search for someone who can return an

ancient artifact and restore her island’s vitality. Eventually, of course, the mission

is accomplished, Moana returns to her island and people, and she plans to tear

down the laws in favor of the ancient ways of voyaging, with everything

hunky-dory a la classic Disney style.

                   Through the film, the watcher is presented with an idea that to truly be

happy or progress as a society, we have to break down tradition and discard it.

Even though that's the movie's conscious message, however, Moana 

unconsciously undermines it. Accidentally, the film shows us how off the idea

is because it skews the definition of progress, fails to take advantage of the past,

and has no tangible goal or standard.

         Within the movie, the themes of tradition and progress are perhaps best

represented by the curio beginning when Moana’s father takes her up to the top

of the island to show her something. He shows her a stack of stones at the top of

the mountain, each one placed by a chieftain of the island upon his crowning to

“raise the island higher.” Moana is expected to place her own stone one day. At

the end of the movie, Moana returns to the island briefly and we see that she has

placed a seashell atop the stones, giving a visual symbol of her tearing down the

old ways.

         Moana is different from her people and their expectations in many ways.

She loves hearing the stories of other worlds outside her home. She has trouble

accepting the idea of being chief one day, a role destined for her from birth. She

feels called to go beyond the reef around their island, the symbol of her father’s

laws. There is something freeing in the beautiful music and wide, open aesthetic

of the scene when Moana finally makes it beyond the reef successfully. Clearly,

we as the watchers are meant to glean that freedom from tradition means

fulfillment and progress.

         The problem with this idea is that the progress Moana accomplishes

is not fulfillment, even in the scope of the movie. What we are meant to see as

the end goal – Moana transcending her people’s ways – is really only a means

to an end. Throughout the film, the ultimate evil is seen as the destruction of

Moana’s island and home, the paragon of her people’s traditions and

domesticity. Conversely, the ultimate good in the film could be seen as the

preservation of this home and people, and Moana’s safe return to her family.

The very reason Moana disobeys the laws and leaves the island is to save her

people’s way of life from destruction. If Moana’s people had merely become

voyagers at the beginning of the movie, they could have fished and sailed to 

their heart’s content, not needing the island as a home. Even at the end of the

movie, when Moana’s people do voyage, the lyrics of the ending song show an

attachment to home and the old ways: “We keep our island in our mind, and

when it’s time to find home, we know the way… We are explorers,” rather than,

say, “we are nomads” or “we are voyagers.” If the breaking of tradition and the

casting off of old ways were really the route to happiness, then why does the

happy ending of the movie merely show an addition to old traditions, rather

than their eradication?

         The key to both the intentional and unintentional portrayals of the

theme in the film is that tradition and progress are inherently related. Let's go

back to the stone tower now. Like the stones on Moana’s island, tradition is the

foundation that lets progress raise a civilization higher. With each stone, more

is added to society, but the tower would fall and break if one of the lower stones

was removed. That little seashell on the tower is such a powerful moment,

illustrating the clash of themes perfectly. The seashell does raise the island 

higher for one generation, and it looks beautiful at first, but then it makes it 

impossible for future generations to build on the tower without either discarding

or crushing the seashell. In other words, the seashell can’t remain the standard or

else no progress will be made. Tradition – the stones – must remain a part of

society’s standard in order for progress to be made. The fact of it is this: like

Moana’s people, we need to respect tradition in order to move forward in society.

While the movie wants us to see tradition as outdated and inhibitive, what it

accidentally shows us is that tradition is a healthy part of society. Even Moana’s

return to the old ways of voyaging is not a destruction of the stone tower. It makes

use of an old way of life, just altering details for the time’s needs. This is the very

definition of progress.

         In short, while the conscious theme of Moana is the harmfulness of

tradition, the movie can’t escape from the truth that tradition is necessary to

have any kind of goal or standard for civilization. The film tells us that the laws

and traditions are a handicap to fulfillment in life, but what it accidentally shows

us is that the laws and traditions are a necessary step on the path to happiness.

The "path less traveled" in the movie is, in truth, merely a branch off of the old

path. Humanity needs tradition. After all, you can’t build on seashells.

(Well, those are my thoughts, anyhow. Let me know what you think! Anything to add or contest? I offer yet another apology for the formatting... I can't seem to figure out the new way Blogger works...)

A Catholic American's Defense of Monarchy - Essay

[A note, and some background: I had a teacher this past year to teach American government. Needless to say, her seeming opinion on monarchy was that it is an inherent evil and incapable of being just or Christian or any of that. So for our year end project, this essay was born, to advocate just the opposite point of view. Without offense intended towards the teacher in question - her class was very informative and helpful aside from that - I shall produce the essay to ye like-minded or at least tolerant buddies. Unfortunately, because it's academic, it's a bit short and a bit less fun than perhaps is par. Enjoy, or enjoy skipping over to wait 'til next post.]

“For forms of government let fools contest; whate’er is best administered is best.”1 Thus does

the great poet, Alexander Pope, declare all governments acceptable if morally kept. For many years,

this has also been the teaching of the Catholic Church2: that there is no one government which is

specially fashioned for mankind, and no governmental form which is infallible. As an American, this

view can be difficult to accept. Many traditional Americans are taught from a young age that the

American form of government, a constitutional republic, is best, and no other form of government

coming before or after can rival it for Christian legitimacy, ethical standard, and a realistic

applicability in the world. It is this essay’s purpose, however, to challenge that notion in favor of

monarchy, a singularly unpopular idea in America. It is my aim to prove that monarchy can be

legitimate, ethical, and even realistic as a governmental form despite common doubts.

Monarchy’s legitimacy as a Christian form of government is often called into question 

in recent times despite having a long history of accompanying Christianity. Christendom is no 

stranger to kingdoms and empires in its long history, and not all of these institutions 

persecuted or were opposed to the Catholic faith. Even when the Roman Empire held the rod 

of power in the civilized world –that once great enemy of the Faith – Christian bishops and 

leaders told their flocks to obey the government and regard it as legitimate. Consider the 

words of Paul to the Romans, even after he has been arrested and scourged by the authorities: 

“Let every soul be subject to higher powers: for there is no power but from God: and those that 

are, are ordained of God. Therefore he that resisteth the power, resisteth the ordinance of 

God. For princes are not a terror to the good work, but to the evil.”3 Note that Paul makes no 

exception for kings or emperors; his statement is unqualified and general, admonishing all 

Christians to obey their superiors in all things but sin. Think of Christ’s order to “[r]ender 

unto Caesar the things that are Caesar’s, and to God the things that are God’s.”4 Christ seems 

to acknowledge Caesar’s authority, though Caesar was himself an emperor. “And do ye servants

submit yourselves to your masters with reverence and fear, as being the type of God,” reiterates the

Didache, an ancient pillar of Christian teaching.5 Once more, no exception is made for any kind of

master or what form this master uses to govern; in fact, if any governmental form is being promoted,

a sole master is implied in the latter two quotes. Christian teaching appears to urge obedience to the

law and the government, no matter what the form. If monarchy is not made an exception by Paul,

Christ, or the Church Fathers, then what Catholic has a right to make it so?

Monarchy’s history with the Catholic Church is not irrelevant to discussion of its legitimacy.

Many great saints have revered monarchical or even imperial authority at the risk of isolating

themselves from other Christians.6 Beyond this, a multitude of great saints have held the office of

king, emperor, or other sole ruler: saints such as Karl of Austria, Henry II of the Holy Roman Empire,

Louis IX of France, Adelaide of the Holy Roman Empire, Wenceslas I of Bohemia, and many, many

others. The Church proclaims it impossible for a saint’s complete life to promote evil,7 and yet many

of these saints died in their office unashamedly and in the good graces of the Church. It must

necessarily follow, then, that monarchy is not an inherent evil, and is at least capable of constituting a

legitimate Christian governmental form.

If monarchy is a legitimate and acceptable governmental form, the next question 

becomes that of its ethical status. Circumstances and times change, and many forms of 

government waiver in their justice depending upon how they are administered. The fact that 

saints have held kingship allows the possibility of justice, but not all men are saints. Perhaps a 

lesser man would fail at keeping an empire just; many have. This is true, however, of every 

governmental form since the beginning of time: it takes a good man to be a good ruler. In the 

case of a republic or democracy, the only difference is that it takes many good men to be a 

good ruler, which is far less easy to accomplish. The difference is made by the law, not by the 

number of men squabbling over the throne. In a just civilization, just laws govern the actions 

of every man, subject and ruler (or rulers) alike. With a truly just moral code governing the 

land, a sovereign, as well as his people, cannot help but be just.

This brings monarchy to its final test – its realistic applicability in the modern world. 

Because monarchies are not commonly seen in this time, it is often assumed that they cannot 

exist in this time. This is a most erroneous perception; it is like saying because faithful 

Catholicism is not commonly seen in this time, it cannot exist therein. Monarchy can, in fact, 

work well as a governmental form, and takes a far greater part in the modern world than is 

often assumed by republic- or democracy-minded Americans. Consider the structure brought 

about in the English monarchy so long ago; the Magna Carta, a governing law brought by the 

king’s courtiers, became the justice of the land. English monarchy exists to this day, despite its 

weakening by democracy. Many governments cannot survive without the support of a 

monarchy or ruling family. Consider many of the Germanic states, where the once-imperial 

Habsburg family still has prestige, a pillar stabilizing the central European countries despite 

the American attempt to filter them out of society, an effort which plunged Germany and 

Austria into humiliation and societal decay. Consider Lichtenstein and Monaco, Catholic 

constitutional monarchies which have had peace for decades,8 and enjoy financial and economic

success like few other countries in the world.9 In fact, many countries that began as monarchies were

prosperous and active until attempting to take on a democratic, republican, or dictatorial form of

government, and only then plunged into societal or financial degradation.10

Monarchy, then, can be legitimate, ethical, and realistic in theory and even in the 

modern world. Its Christian legitimacy is supported by Church teaching and history. The 

justice and ethical standard of a monarchy can be as virtuous as any other governmental form, 

and has many saints for its patrons (presidents and prime ministers are notably absent from 

the ranks of the Church’s declared saints). The stability and realistic tenability of a monarchy 

is proven by many successful examples in the modern world. In short, even the most 

American of minds cannot deny the truth of what the poet wrote, that “whate’er is best 

administered is best,”11 be it monarchy or republic.

J.M.J.

Sources/Footnotes:

1  Alexander Pope, An Essay on Man, Epistle III, l.303-304.

2  See Catechism of the Catholic Church, 1896, “…There is no solution to the social question apart from the Gospel.” See also Pope Pius XII’s Pentecost Radio Address of June 1, 1941 and Pope Leo XIII’s 1892 encyclical, Au Milieu des Sollicitudes.

3  Romans 13:1-2, Douay-Rheims Translation. All Bible quotes are taken from the Douay-Rheims Translation.

4  Mark 12:17

5  Didache 4:11

6  Think of St. Ignatius of Antioch, who wrote to his flock telling them not to rebel and break him out of prison, even as he faced being “ground by the teeth of the wild beasts.” (St. Ignatius to the Romans, ch. 4)

7  See CCC, 828: canonization of the saints is there defined as “solemnly proclaiming that they practiced heroic virtue and lived in fidelity to God’s grace… proposing the saints to [the faithful] as models…” All of the saints mentioned are fully and officially canonized by the Church except Bl. Karl of Austria, who has only been beatified as of yet.

        8 About 100 years and 70 years, respectively.

9 See CIA – The World Factbook – Country Comparison: GDP – per capita (PPP)

10 Consider more proverbial examples such as France’s Revolution of 1789, but also modern cases, such as Germany after World War I, or Russia’s regime, which both suffered governmental upheaval after the forcible removal of their monarchs.

       11 Alexander Pope, An Essay on Man, Epistle III, l.104.

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