About
By Robert Lazu Kmita
In a world where formal pronouns have disappeared from almost every language, and where good manners are not merely rare but actively ridiculed, we are gradually turning into grotesque versions of Shrek. Even the dwarves from Tolkien's tales, as portrayed in films of recent decades, are boorish creatures who grunt and scrape the mud from their boots against the edges of one of the beautiful chests belonging to the Baggins family. We should not be surprised that educating children and adolescents today is more difficult than cracking open a coconut. But who is to form the younger generation when most adults themselves are ignorant of the art of conversation and manners?
Do not think that I have installed myself onto the bench of a self-appointed judge of a decadent world. Not at all. Everything I have said above comes from the bitter experience of my own failures. I will not mention them here. In most cases, they would be downright embarrassing. Suffice it to say that, at fifty-five years old, I possess enough memories that make me blush to seriously question my own manners and, at the same time, ask how I might become better. For one can never guide either children or grandchildren unless one knows oneself the path they ought to walk through the world – i.e., with grace and dignity.
Aware, therefore, of my own shortcomings, I have spent many years reading not only treatises on theology and philosophy, or comforting works of literature and poetry, but also old, tattered volumes in which authors from centuries past tell the story of a better world, one in which people knew what it meant to be well-mannered. One such book, written by an anonymous British duke, provided me not only with some of the finest lessons in practical Christianity but also with a great surprise. The central principle stated from the very beginning by this aristocrat, whose name we may never know, sounds strikingly evangelical:
"Treat others as you would wish others to treat you."
A faithful echo of the crucial teaching of Our Lord Jesus Christ: "All things therefore whatsoever you would that men should do to you, do you also to them" (Matthew 7:12). The duke's maxim translated the essence of eternal morality into an ethical principle. In doing so, he laid the foundation for every rule, from how we dress and speak, to how we eat and welcome guests.
Of all the chapters in the book, however, none impressed me more than the one devoted to concealing one's own ill humor. Who among us does not know what it means to feel irritable, depressed, sour – in a word, upset? But how many of us know that we should not allow any of these emotions to cast a shadow over others?
Contrary to the current mania of wildly telling whoever will listen in person or online every detail about ourselves, the gentleman, our unknown author tells us, just like the lady of the house, should never allow personal gloom or sorrow to darken the lives of others. For example, in the case of a difficult situation involving a family member, such as illness or injury, it is better to avoid a social engagement than to burden one's interlocutor with a long chain of sighs and complaints.
"How can that be?" I immediately asked myself. Are not such expressions of a troubled heart the best way to seek help and solidarity from one's neighbor? "Yes," the duke would reply, "but on one condition: that help is genuinely possible." Otherwise, the person exposed to our suffering, embarrassed and helpless, would not know what to do.
Therefore, the best course is to ask explicitly for help whenever such help can realistically be given. Otherwise, one's distress should be carefully concealed, and when that is impossible, social encounters should be avoided until the difficult moment has passed. This kind of concealment, through which we disguise the storm within, may be called, surprisingly and oxymoronically, holy hypocrisy.
No one would likely doubt that hypocrisy is among the gravest of...
In a world where formal pronouns have disappeared from almost every language, and where good manners are not merely rare but actively ridiculed, we are gradually turning into grotesque versions of Shrek. Even the dwarves from Tolkien's tales, as portrayed in films of recent decades, are boorish creatures who grunt and scrape the mud from their boots against the edges of one of the beautiful chests belonging to the Baggins family. We should not be surprised that educating children and adolescents today is more difficult than cracking open a coconut. But who is to form the younger generation when most adults themselves are ignorant of the art of conversation and manners?
Do not think that I have installed myself onto the bench of a self-appointed judge of a decadent world. Not at all. Everything I have said above comes from the bitter experience of my own failures. I will not mention them here. In most cases, they would be downright embarrassing. Suffice it to say that, at fifty-five years old, I possess enough memories that make me blush to seriously question my own manners and, at the same time, ask how I might become better. For one can never guide either children or grandchildren unless one knows oneself the path they ought to walk through the world – i.e., with grace and dignity.
Aware, therefore, of my own shortcomings, I have spent many years reading not only treatises on theology and philosophy, or comforting works of literature and poetry, but also old, tattered volumes in which authors from centuries past tell the story of a better world, one in which people knew what it meant to be well-mannered. One such book, written by an anonymous British duke, provided me not only with some of the finest lessons in practical Christianity but also with a great surprise. The central principle stated from the very beginning by this aristocrat, whose name we may never know, sounds strikingly evangelical:
"Treat others as you would wish others to treat you."
A faithful echo of the crucial teaching of Our Lord Jesus Christ: "All things therefore whatsoever you would that men should do to you, do you also to them" (Matthew 7:12). The duke's maxim translated the essence of eternal morality into an ethical principle. In doing so, he laid the foundation for every rule, from how we dress and speak, to how we eat and welcome guests.
Of all the chapters in the book, however, none impressed me more than the one devoted to concealing one's own ill humor. Who among us does not know what it means to feel irritable, depressed, sour – in a word, upset? But how many of us know that we should not allow any of these emotions to cast a shadow over others?
Contrary to the current mania of wildly telling whoever will listen in person or online every detail about ourselves, the gentleman, our unknown author tells us, just like the lady of the house, should never allow personal gloom or sorrow to darken the lives of others. For example, in the case of a difficult situation involving a family member, such as illness or injury, it is better to avoid a social engagement than to burden one's interlocutor with a long chain of sighs and complaints.
"How can that be?" I immediately asked myself. Are not such expressions of a troubled heart the best way to seek help and solidarity from one's neighbor? "Yes," the duke would reply, "but on one condition: that help is genuinely possible." Otherwise, the person exposed to our suffering, embarrassed and helpless, would not know what to do.
Therefore, the best course is to ask explicitly for help whenever such help can realistically be given. Otherwise, one's distress should be carefully concealed, and when that is impossible, social encounters should be avoided until the difficult moment has passed. This kind of concealment, through which we disguise the storm within, may be called, surprisingly and oxymoronically, holy hypocrisy.
No one would likely doubt that hypocrisy is among the gravest of...