hollow by accident. But a key and a lock are both complex. And if a key
fits a lock, you know it is the right key.

But this involved accuracy of the thing makes it very difficult to do
what I now have to do, to describe this accumulation of truth. It is
very hard for a man to defend anything of which he is entirely
convinced. It is comparatively easy when he is only partially convinced.
He is partially convinced because he has found this or that proof of the
thing, and he can expound it. But a man is not really convinced of a
philosophic theory when he finds that something proves it. He is only
really convinced when he finds that everything proves it. And the more
converging reasons he finds pointing to this conviction, the more
bewildered he is if asked suddenly to sum them up. Thus, if one asked an
ordinary intelligent man, on the spur of the moment, "Why do you prefer
civilisation to savagery?" he would look wildly round at object after
object, and would only be able to answer vaguely, "Why, there is that
bookcase ... and the coals in the coal-scuttle ... and pianos ... and
policemen." The whole case for civilisation is that the case for it is
complex. It has done so many things. But that very multiplicity of proof
which ought to make reply overwhelming makes reply impossible.

There is, therefore, about all complete conviction a kind of huge
helplessness. The belief is so big that it takes a long time to get it
into action. And this hesitation chiefly arises, oddly enough, from an
indifference about where one should begin. All roads lead to Rome; which
is one reason why many people never get there. In the case of this
defence of the Christian conviction I confess that I would as soon begin
the argument with one thing as another; I would begin it with a turnip
or a taximeter cab. But if I am to be at all careful about making my
meaning clear, it will, I think, be wiser to continue the current