Wholly Fool

Can a man be good without knowing it, or to phrase this quandary in Christian terms, can a man be good apart from revelation and the grace of Christ? The question has troubled the minds of some of the greatest moral philosophers and theologians throughout history. Thomas Aquinas would argue that for the man that could conduct himself in a model fashion within the civic context, goodness is indeed possible. But what is this worth in the absence of Christ?
Here, let us dwell upon the redeeming quality of logic and reason in the timeless dialogue with this enigma. Aristotelianism brings us frustratingly close to the essence of being, in its moral fullness and its complex examinations of goodness and its opposite; evil. And then, of course, there is Desmond Zammit Marmarà.
In the cosmic order of things, what is the moral value of a man whose essence, utterly divorced from the very slightest notion of either logic or reason, nonetheless lightens the darkest corners of the most melancholy soul? On what side of the Lord does the Punchinello archetype sit in all these grand celestial designs? The buffoon is after all a lord, if only of the absurd. A fool is sovereign over his own moral and emotional destiny, but is this autonomy a reward of subterfuge and low cunning?
Naturally, this is all the domain of mystery. To preserve the commedia dell’arte analogies, is Zammit Marmarà the comic and sometimes wily harlequin servant of countless opera, or the clumsy Petrushka of Russian folklore. An additional nuance to this query is lent by the latter figure. The original Petrushka comedies began to be sanitised in the early 20th century, at which point they were increasingly interpreted as a ill-coordinated marionette of childish appeal. Before then, in conformity with the often gruesome traits of Russian folklore, Petrushka was a murderous fool and no benign bedtime figure.
Perhaps, though, we are casting the net too far and back. For anyone who sniggered at the primitive spectacle a weeks back of a North Korean newsreader announcing her country’s entry into the ranks of nuclear powers, the tone and content of Zammit Marmarà’s latest column will seem strikingly familiar:

“I often meet people, whose involvement in politics is minimal, who ask me: ‘When one separates the facts from the fiction created by the Nationalist media about the Labour leader, who is the real Alfred Sant?’ Since Dr Sant will, hopefully, be Malta's next Prime Minister, this question deserves an immediate answer.

First of all, Dr Sant is a great leader. He brings out the best of the people who work for him, tolerates no incompetence but always adds a humane touch to all his actions…”

On this occasion, it is quite impossible to selective pluck quotable extracts as there as little in this article which cannot be savoured for full comic effect. All the text invariably evokes the kind of decadent laughter one might have imagined only existed in the performance halls graced by the Catholic Institute’s travelling troupe.
I have rarely seen an audience as gripped by hysterical laughter as the one I saw in Birzebbuga primary school reacting to some forgettable gag about pastizzi. For the more blue-eyed reader, it should be explained that this was an astoundingly gynaecological joke, which put lie to tired observations on the sexual immovability of the Catholic order, it must be said.
Anyhow, lest one should harbour illusions as to the virtuousness of the amusement to be derived from dipping into Zammit Marmarà’s breathtakingly craven musings, this is the level of wit we are operating on.
Which brings us inexorably to the opening point. What does natural order reserve for the joy and mirth that such tripe brings to the ordinary working man? Before rushing on to metaphysical matters, however, should the Maltese public not at least be urged to clamour for this man to awarded some sort of honorary republican order?