So says Chesterton, that most neglected of 20th century writers. Most neglected, and paradoxically, most prolific, having written 100 (I mean, ONE HUNDRED) books, poems, plays, novels, short stories, 4,000 newspaper essays, and decades of columns. AND he invented Father Brown. Why aren’t we hearing about this guy anymore?
I don’t know. But I do know that I love his aphorisms, and especially the one serving as title for these musings. Anything worth doing is worth doing badly. A passionate plea against perfectionism, and “just doing it”.
The phrase actually comes in a somewhat politicized context, that of us nowadays outsourcing any activity to others, that is, professionals, be it sports, cooking, entertainment, childcare, porn. We prefer watching tennis rather than learning it ourselves, go to restaurants, watch Netflix, dump our children in wards at the age of six months, and visit Gentlemen’s Special Interest websites. That’s of course all related to material conditions and capitalist systems of (monetary) exchange: if you don’t earn enough, you can only watch tennis, because a club is too expensive. And anyway, you won’t have time to visit one, since you’re stupidly slaving away in a soul-crushing office. So, I’d take Chesterton’s criticism with a pinch of salt in terms of people’s proclivities, but rather find reasons in the way things are. Still, it’s true, isn’t it, that we prefer having done for us, rather than doing.
Same goes with literary criticism. We read what other people think about a poem before we read it, and have thoughts ourselves. Not always, but often. That’s to do with anxiety about the new, the uncertain, ambiguity. Something you might not understand. But that’s like eating pre-digested food rather than the fresh stuff. Of course, we need both, the poem and the critics (and the monster), but first, surely, we should always pick the delightful wonder of encountering literature itself, shiny and new. Which is not to speak against experts. Goodness, we do need experts in these our days, and we need to listen to them. But we also need to experience ourselves, however bad a job we are doing, to speak with Chesterton.
I feel like that when I start a new project. Amateurish. I’m doing it badly, and I’m producing lots of waste in the wake of my journey towards better understanding, a journey with plenty blind-alleys to be sure, and at the end of it (though it’s endless, of course), a realization that I still know so little. Everything is the snapshot of a moment, even a monograph coming out of three years intensive research. Of making many books there is no end.
Right now, I’m just reading articles about brackets, I’m reading around topics of punctuation, and typography. That’s all very well and relevant, but I’m not reading the texts themselves. I’m scared of them. I’m scared I’m missing meanings and allusions, so I don’t even start in the first place. I’m scared of not having world-changing thoughts while reading. I shouldn’t be. And I know I’m not really, once I actually open Sidney or Wroth, (re)discovering their crazy way with words. Anything worth doing – reading – is worth doing badly. With time, less so.