Speech from the Throne, Independence Day, 2015/xxxvii
Dec 30, 2015 17:22:54 GMT -6
Sir C. M. Siervicül, Trotxâ, and 2 more like this
Post by King John on Dec 30, 2015 17:22:54 GMT -6
My fellow Talossans, I wish you all, as always at this time of year, a New Year filled with joy and goodness. A Merry and blessed Christmas to those who celebrate Christmas, happy Whatever to those who celebrate other things, and Happy Independence Day to all of us.
I’ve been thinking for days about this Speech (“many, many days”, someone mutters), trying to think how to share with you, how to communicate one single idea that I think might illumine one of the political difficulties we’ve had recently. I proceed by analogy; I hope this works.
Y’all see what I’m getting at. In Talossa, the Crown can’t do much decision-making, can’t order anyone to do anything, can’t put you in jail or collect taxes or draft you into the army. The Crown can, however, prevent an Organic change that, in its curmudgeonly and irresponsible opinion (that’s “irresponsible” in the political-science sense, meaning “not subject to electoral control”), will harm the Nation, or even make some as-yet-unforeseen future harm impossible to prevent.
G. K. Chesterton famously wrote that “Tradition […] is the democracy of the dead”, meaning that by following old ways and resisting changes, we’re not thwarting democratic progress, but in fact implementing democracy by letting those who have gone before us — the former generations of townspeople in my sketch, the many Talossans of former years who are no longer with us, or no longer very active — still have a “say” in how we do things. Old institutions, like big gnarled trees or twisty narrow streets, actually consitute our community, our communitas, our “one-ness together”, with those who’ve gone before us. And that’s a precious thing, and worth protecting.
It’s certainly not the case that I never want anything in Talossa to change. (Without actually counting, I’d guess that I've written and sponsored more Amendments to the OrgLaw than any other Talossan.) I almost always sign whatever legislation or PD is presented, and almost always proclaim any Amendment that passes the referendum. But I think it would be a bad, a very bad, idea for us to take away the power of the Curmudgeon to say “No” to things, even when the current Town Meeting wants to say “Yes”. Feel free to try to talk me out of bad choices I might make — I do change my mind sometimes; I can be persuaded. (Sometimes.) But I’ll go on doing my best to be a good Constitutional King, as I understand it, and that implies being careful not to give up a power that, in my best judgment, might someday be necessary to protect and preserve the Kingdom of Talossa, and the rights and privileges of her citizens.
May God bless and prosper the Regipäts Talossan! My friends and compatriots, I have the honour and great joy to remain your servant
— John, Regeu da Talossa
I’ve been thinking for days about this Speech (“many, many days”, someone mutters), trying to think how to share with you, how to communicate one single idea that I think might illumine one of the political difficulties we’ve had recently. I proceed by analogy; I hope this works.
Once upon a time there was a Town, ruled by its Town Meeting in a kind of direct democracy. It was a nice town, known for its picturesque and quaint houses, its pleasant well-wooded parks, and its twisty and often inconveniently narrow streets. Most of the townsfolk were quite content with their odd little town, and even a bit proud of its oddnesses. Visitors from other towns would come even from great distances to see the huge old oak trees that lined many of the streets, and to admire the quirky buildings that embodied and recorded the often idiosyncratic tastes of past generations of townspeople. Sometimes these visitors would decide they liked the funny old town so well they wanted to become townspeople themselves, and (in general) the town was happy to welcome them.
One day, there arrived in the town a Developer, and the Developer had a Plan. He intended, he said, to build a great big new sports complex and giant shopping mall, right in the middle of the town. The town’s tax base would expand vastly, hundreds of new jobs would be created, and everyone would be happy and prosperous. Of course, some things were going to have to go in order to clear space for the proposed Megaplex. Some of the twisty roads would have to be straightened, many old houses removed (and building codes established to ensure a more uniform up-scale look to things), and quite a few of the largest and messiest of the old trees cut down. Sad, yes, but totally worth it. The Developer had charts to prove everything he said.
Some people of course hated the Plan, but they were mostly dismissed as being fuddy-dudddies, out of touch with progress. The majority of townsfolk believed the Developer’s predictions about the great future which would infallibly follow after the impediments of old trees and old buildings and old streets had been removed, or rectified. The Mayor called a Town Meeting, and the excited townspeople voted by a substantial majority to let the Developer have his way.
Ah, but there was one hitch! Generations earlier, the people — for reasons that in retrospect seemed rather unclear — had established the largely ceremonial office of Town Curmudgeon. The Curmudgeon had very few official duties, but one of his little-known and little-exercised functions was this, that any demolition and construction plans approved by the Town Meeting were entirely null and void without his signature — and he didn’t have to sign any plans if he didn’t want to. In practice, the Curmudgeon signed just about everything the Town Meeting proposed, and many people had even forgotten that he had the right not to sign, and hence the legal power to block the democratically voted will of the people.
In the case of the Developer’s Plan, the Curmudgeon simply refused his signature. He liked the old narrow roadways, the giant trees, the strange little houses. He was, of course, accused of being “undemocratic”, of being behind the times, of being a relic of an earlier period of town government; and after all, the people had voted, and what the people vote Must Happen. But he went on being, well, curmudgeonly, and blocked the popular will.
After a couple of years, of course, the people came somewhat to their senses, and realized how much nicer their town was without the Major League Polo Park and Shopping Emporium, and they were glad that they — or in this case, their distant forebears — had had the wisdom or good luck to establish the Curmudgeonsqab. They would say, when the topic came up, that nobody would want to live in a town where a Curmudgeon decided everything, or even very many things; but that it had been a really good thing, at least for their town, that there was one guy who could say “No, you can’t tear down those houses, No, you can’t cut down those trees”, even when everyone else thought it was a good idea.
One day, there arrived in the town a Developer, and the Developer had a Plan. He intended, he said, to build a great big new sports complex and giant shopping mall, right in the middle of the town. The town’s tax base would expand vastly, hundreds of new jobs would be created, and everyone would be happy and prosperous. Of course, some things were going to have to go in order to clear space for the proposed Megaplex. Some of the twisty roads would have to be straightened, many old houses removed (and building codes established to ensure a more uniform up-scale look to things), and quite a few of the largest and messiest of the old trees cut down. Sad, yes, but totally worth it. The Developer had charts to prove everything he said.
Some people of course hated the Plan, but they were mostly dismissed as being fuddy-dudddies, out of touch with progress. The majority of townsfolk believed the Developer’s predictions about the great future which would infallibly follow after the impediments of old trees and old buildings and old streets had been removed, or rectified. The Mayor called a Town Meeting, and the excited townspeople voted by a substantial majority to let the Developer have his way.
Ah, but there was one hitch! Generations earlier, the people — for reasons that in retrospect seemed rather unclear — had established the largely ceremonial office of Town Curmudgeon. The Curmudgeon had very few official duties, but one of his little-known and little-exercised functions was this, that any demolition and construction plans approved by the Town Meeting were entirely null and void without his signature — and he didn’t have to sign any plans if he didn’t want to. In practice, the Curmudgeon signed just about everything the Town Meeting proposed, and many people had even forgotten that he had the right not to sign, and hence the legal power to block the democratically voted will of the people.
In the case of the Developer’s Plan, the Curmudgeon simply refused his signature. He liked the old narrow roadways, the giant trees, the strange little houses. He was, of course, accused of being “undemocratic”, of being behind the times, of being a relic of an earlier period of town government; and after all, the people had voted, and what the people vote Must Happen. But he went on being, well, curmudgeonly, and blocked the popular will.
After a couple of years, of course, the people came somewhat to their senses, and realized how much nicer their town was without the Major League Polo Park and Shopping Emporium, and they were glad that they — or in this case, their distant forebears — had had the wisdom or good luck to establish the Curmudgeonsqab. They would say, when the topic came up, that nobody would want to live in a town where a Curmudgeon decided everything, or even very many things; but that it had been a really good thing, at least for their town, that there was one guy who could say “No, you can’t tear down those houses, No, you can’t cut down those trees”, even when everyone else thought it was a good idea.
G. K. Chesterton famously wrote that “Tradition […] is the democracy of the dead”, meaning that by following old ways and resisting changes, we’re not thwarting democratic progress, but in fact implementing democracy by letting those who have gone before us — the former generations of townspeople in my sketch, the many Talossans of former years who are no longer with us, or no longer very active — still have a “say” in how we do things. Old institutions, like big gnarled trees or twisty narrow streets, actually consitute our community, our communitas, our “one-ness together”, with those who’ve gone before us. And that’s a precious thing, and worth protecting.
It’s certainly not the case that I never want anything in Talossa to change. (Without actually counting, I’d guess that I've written and sponsored more Amendments to the OrgLaw than any other Talossan.) I almost always sign whatever legislation or PD is presented, and almost always proclaim any Amendment that passes the referendum. But I think it would be a bad, a very bad, idea for us to take away the power of the Curmudgeon to say “No” to things, even when the current Town Meeting wants to say “Yes”. Feel free to try to talk me out of bad choices I might make — I do change my mind sometimes; I can be persuaded. (Sometimes.) But I’ll go on doing my best to be a good Constitutional King, as I understand it, and that implies being careful not to give up a power that, in my best judgment, might someday be necessary to protect and preserve the Kingdom of Talossa, and the rights and privileges of her citizens.
May God bless and prosper the Regipäts Talossan! My friends and compatriots, I have the honour and great joy to remain your servant
— John, Regeu da Talossa
"Ceterum censeo republicam proclamandum esse."