Another key ingredient of adventure is having to work within limitations. In many instances, the greater the limitations, the greater the adventure. Chesterton asserts that Robinson Crusoe owes its eternal vivacity “to the fact that it celebrates the poetry of limits, nay, even the wild romance of prudence.” Had David been a giant Israelite lumbering out to fight Goliath, the story would be interesting but less adventurous. The adventure of Treasure Island owes much to Jim Hawkins being a boy facing ruthless pirates. Pressing up against personal limits and overcoming external limitations are often as much a part of the adventure as battling an enemy. Tolkien wisely gives his lead characters, the hobbits, no supernatural powers. Even Superman with all his powers must beware kryptonite.
The popularity of survival shows on television testifies that limitations are inherent to adventure. The shows focus on how to build a fire without matches, to provide shelter without a tent, to float down a river without boat, to find water in a desert. They tell us how to make use of whatever we find or whatever we had when we got stranded. The first step in a survival situation is to take inventory of supplies. Chesterton celebrates this by declaring that the best thing in Robinson Crusoe is “simply the list of things saved from the wreck.” He goes on to claim, “The greatest of poems is an inventory.”
Part of the glory of limits is the clarity it provides. As we inventory what little we have, we are able to see clearly the value of each item. Lost in the woods, we see three matches as pure gold, a pocket knife proves precious, and every drop of water becomes the nectar of the gods. I did not truly see or know water until I hiked in the desert to a small water fall surrounded by palms. I suspect David had never delighted more in the weight and smoothness of a stone than when he slipped it into his sling.
Not only do we see things more clearly when faced with scarcity, we become more thankful. The poetry of inventory often is a psalm of thanksgiving. The limits of a situation often change our relationships to the world around us. The discontent bred by ambition and greed is replaced by humble thanksgiving for each thing we have salvaged. The lost hiker receives huckleberries like a sacrament and thanks God for the slightest trace of a trail home.
Sometimes we are challenged to see humanity in a new light. This was certainly true in Crusoe’s rescue and relationship with Friday. In post-apocalyptic novels and movies the limitations are often the absence of government, law and order, and basic civility. The loss of humanity in post-apocalyptic stories can help us see the true value of friendship and kindness. The limitations of the post-apocalyptic world allow writers to explore what it means to be human. These stories explore and clarify the most basic of social relationships.
And in literature we often see limitations joyfully embraced by heroes. Beowulf, for instance, vows to use no sword or weapon against the monster Grendel. This self-imposed limit turns out to be fortuitous since Grendel is protected by a spell that makes him invulnerable to all weapons. Crusoe and Friday are outnumbered by the pirates and young Jim Hawkins thwarts the plans of the pirates in Treasure Island. In the epic Song of Roland, Oliver, Roland, and Bishop Turpin hold out against hordes of Saracens. In Shakespeare’s Henry the Fifth, the English “happy band of brothers” defeats a much larger French army. The limitations faced by heroes magnify their virtues and increase the glory of the victory or the sacrifice of the hero.
The adventure of limits, internal and external, is also central to the biblical narrative. Sarah and Abraham, despite their ages, gave birth to children and nations, Joseph rose from serving as slave to ruling as the Pharaoh’s viceroy, Gideon routed Midianites with an army of 300, and Samson battled Philistines with the jawbone of an ass. The incarnation, in which God himself accepts limits, is the most startling example of the adventure of limitations.
In his letter to the church in Corinth Paul explains that God chooses to work within limitations:
For consider your calling, brethren, that there were not many wise according tothe flesh, not many mighty, not many noble; but God has chosen the foolish things of the world to shame the wise, and God has chosen the weak things of the world to shame the things which are strong. I Corinthians 1:26—27
In adventure stories and the biblical narrative the limitations overcome by heroes testify that good, even when disadvantaged, is stronger than evil, that character matters more than weaponry. Some may claim this is unrealistic, untrue to historical events, yet we all believe that this is way life ought to be lived.
It is not surprising that when philosophic naturalism came to dominate western culture this David and Goliath motif was dismissed as a childish fantasy. At its heart, this wild poetry of limitations is a celebration of a moral universe and a divine providence. Without God and a universe tilted toward goodness, realism demands that Goliath crushes David, that Grendel devours Beowulf, that Saracens quickly dispatch Roland, that orcs eat the hobbits, that Crusoe is eaten by (or eats) Friday. The enduring popularity of the poetry of limits testifies to the human instinct that the universe is moral and that God is just. While elite intellectuals and academics may reject adventure for pandering to popular taste, Chesterton would urge us to trust democracy by valuing the opinion of the common man and giving tradition (all those who came before) a vote. People cheer for David and Frodo because God has woven adventure into the human heart. God has given us all a faith that right must triumph over might.
