Materialism and Its Discontents
In this passage from The Chymical Wedding by Lindsay Clarke, the conversation turns sharply toward one of the novel’s central philosophical tensions: the conflict between materialism and the deeper, symbolic order of the universe. Through the voice of the old poet Nesbit, Clarke challenges the reductive worldview of modern materialism, urging a return to reverence, imagination, and the “sacramental quick of life.” Rather than viewing matter as inert substance, Nesbit insists it contains mystery, rooted in ancient traditions and spiritual realities. The moment serves as a powerful reminder that without imagination and a sense of the sacred, humanity risks becoming severed from its soul—and from the luminous order that gives meaning to existence:
‘If history shows anything it’s that a great deal more than memory is required to avoid the recurrence of calamity. It requires – I think you will agree – some spark of insight into the darker operations of the human soul. And for that we shall need a more luminous exercise of the imagination than your naïve materialism has on offer. Speak to me from your best self, dear heart. Recall your glassy essence.’
Bob had the air of an earthquake survivor – patient and dazed beneath the fallen masonry, but managing a gallant, good-natured smile. ‘I don’t think it’s my materialism that’s naïve.’
‘And I don’t care what you think. It may be our common misfortune to live in a vast supermarket of opinion, but your particular brand loyalties are no concern of mine. What interests me is what you know. You call yourself a materialist, but do you know, for instance, what matter is? Have you given the matter any thought? Have you tried taking the word back to its roots? It goes right back to Sanskrit and doubtless beyond. Push through the fissive nature of matter, penetrate to its roots, and where do you find yourself? Not, I assure you, in the black hole of the Magna Mater. Yes, the Great Mother herself, and it is a terrible thing to fall into the lap of the living Goddess. Now there’s a thing we might do well to remember. Isn’t that so, Ralph?’ Nesbit nodded briefly at his host who had entered from the hall and was pouring himself a much-needed drink as he listened in resignation to the soliloquy.
The old poet seemed oblivious of, or indifferent to, the embarrassment he had caused, and paused for no answer. ‘If we accorded her the reverence she demands we might begin to recover something of the sacramental quick of life. We might come alive again to the tremendous symbolic dignity of things.’ I watched him silence Bob with an imperious hand. ‘But perhaps you prefer to suck your thumb in the literally dia-bolic junkyard that such bright opinions as yours erect around themselves – yes, I grant you – historically determined inevitability. If so, Heaven help you, for you leave me at a loss.’
