Silvio Meli
The Philosophy of Law: A Brief Introduction
Kite Group 2020, xxx+218 pages,
Foreword by Rev. Dr Mark Montebello op
The pandemic having normalised off-site learning, it’s easy to conceptualise Silvio Meli’s The Philosophy of Law: A Brief Introduction as such an opportunity. In the sense that reading is very much like attending an introductory course in philosophy of law without having to set foot on campus. It’s a course couched in a style that’s lucid, a prose that’s measured and an execution that’s elegant and considered.
Readers might be inclined to shy away from a topic with such an off-putting name. I mean, the double whammy of philosophy and law seems conceived to clearly convey complexity and incomprehensibility. Not to put too fine a point on it, a one-way ticket to the United Kingdom of Great Boredom.
Nothing could be further from the truth.
Retired judge Silvio Meli pulls it off, masterfully, to boot. His approach is avuncular and down-to-earth, transforming potentially mind-numbing tedium into a genuinely pleasurable experience. The secret lies in the unconditional respect the author reserves for his readers. He wants them to learn complex concepts and terminology, but he goes about his task with humility and tact. Not all teachers possess the ability to avoid getting their ego in the way of teaching. My guess is that Dr Meli acquired this trait as a result of his in-depth studies and knowledge of St Augustine.
The problem with philosophy of law is that for most people it’s pointless. Practising lawyers don’t immediately reckon how they can make use of it in Court; laymen think it’s too specialised to serve any practical value. So what’s the point? they’ll ask you.
Dr Meli himself offers a couple of hints. Seasoned lawyers, he argues, will find it “may reveal a firm compass upon which to properly orient their professional actions” and for the laymen, it may help foster “an open mind” and thinking “in a structured manner” (p. xxx). I would humbly add that philosophy of law helps to spot more shades of an argument, necessary to capture the spirit of and background to the Law and a law and equally necessary to map out politics.
Probably every book can be defined with reference to the world of music. This particular book feels to me like a pavane. I find this remarkable, as it’s a style radically different from that of the late feisty and formidable Philosophy of Law professor Giuseppe Mifsud Bonnici (1930-2019), Dr Meli’s mentor.
Charles J. Scicluna
Religion and the 1921 Malta Constitution: Genesis and Implications
Kite Group 2019
344 pages
A book that – like Queen – will “rock” you is Archbishop Charles J. Scicluna’s Religion and the 1921 Malta Constitution: Genesis and Implications. It deals with State-Church relations. One needn’t be surprised by this rock feeling, for, all said and done, Christianity embraces a revolutionary worldview.
Just consider the idea that’s so revolutionary neither of the other two Abrahamic religions embrace it: all are children of God. Or the revolutionary idea that women should give their consent to their own marriage. Or the revolutionary idea that the Church has a supervisory competence in purely temporal matters.
Monsignor Scicluna’s book is timely. By discussing the background to the 1921 Constitution and its approach to the “Religion of Malta”, it helps us conceptualise the Church’s input to the running of the State in its current incarnation, as we experience radical changes imposed at unprecedented speed on a population that’s not always focussed on what’s going on.
For Christians who take Christianity seriously, but also for those whose Christianity is only anthropological, the role of the Church in a world that’s fast removing obstacles to libertinism and hedonism is vital to one’s moral and psychological well-being. Just like philosophy of law helps to structure one’s thoughts on the outside world, Christianity helps to structure thoughts on the inner world.
The most powerful part of this book – a taut chapter called “A Note on Church-State Relations” – can serve as the rock on which the reader erects a conceptual edifice of these possibly troublesome relations. It’s a must-read for the thinking citizen who prefers a society under Caesar and God rather than just Caesar.
The book’s audience consists of readers concerned with our country’s constitution, the teachings of the Church and the thorny issue of State-Church relations. And, of course, of the author’s fans, who, I am told, are numerous. And for good reason, in my opinion, as Monsignor Scicluna is the intellectual equivalent of a rock star.
The only defect I found in this book is that it fails to identify the author of the poetically eloquent and evocative photo that graces the cover. It’s a photo of Antonio Sciortino’s sculpture of Malta kneeling at Christ’s feet. It is as much a work of art as the sculpture it portrays.
Richard Muscat
Għandi Missjoni Għalik 1981-1987 (2nd ed.)
Self-published 2016
xxix+312 pages
Preface by Simon Busuttil
Introduction by Eddie Fenech Adami
If we continue with our music metaphor, Richard Muscat’s Għandi Missjoni Għalik is a progressive rock concept album. I’m playing on words here, mostly because its author articulates the case for a forceful concept of progress in difficult and perilous times.
Muscat’s book is an autobiographical narrative of his mission to implement the right of the country’s Opposition to broadcast its views on the airwaves. During Mintoff’s regime, the national broadcaster disallowed the Nationalist Opposition from conveying its political message to the electorate. When a religious programme was also discontinued, the priest involved in the programme conveyed his view to the Nationalists that those the State TV station left out, should broadcast from neighbouring Italy. The Nationalists didn’t let the grass grow under their feet and Muscat was immediately entrusted with the mission of acting on that advice.
It wasn’t easy though, but fraught with complex political and other situations that demanded great personal sacrifice: this book narrates that story. Oliver Friggieri told Muscat he expected a “thriller”, and indeed a thriller is what Muscat wrote. Those old enough to remember the events will want to read (or re-read) it to refresh their memories; younger readers will want to read it as a historical document and for the excitement of enjoying a captivating page-turner that unfolds at full throttle in refined Maltese. This book oozes with the potential for a political movie.
That both government and the Opposition should be given space on State TV is such an obvious concept in a developed democracy, that one wonders why Muscat had to go through all that personal sacrifice (not seeing his family, living precariously, and so on) for progress to be made on it. I believe so much in the fundamental nature of this concept for the well-being of democracy that I don’t think news outlets should depend on State handouts in the form of arbitrary advertising but should be subsidised by right, as is the case in certain other countries.
Be that as it may, Richard Muscat’s adventure makes fascinating reading. It’s testimony to a fateful chapter in the history of this country’s young democracy. But it’s also a story with inherent narrative value, for the emotions and democratic sensibilities it conveys.
Sergio Grech (ed.)
Giovanni Bonello: Bejn Storja u Miti
Horizons, 2021
256 pages
This is pure jazz.
I say this because I’m privy to some of the background to this book. In fact, I hasten to make a declaration of conflict of interest: there’s a contribution of mine in it.
Sergio Grech, editor of Giovanni Bonello: Bejn Miti u Storja approached some 20 people he probably considers virtuosos asking us to pen an essay each about Giovanni Bonello: what we know about him, what he told us, what he wrote, what he did, and so on. So there was a theme but no score; in essence, we were asked to “improvise”. Ergo, this book is jazzy.
Bonello’s reputation precedes him wherever he goes. His role as a leading Crusader intent on liberating the Holy Land of Human Rights when the Infidel took over is legendary. The international acclaim he earned as judge of the European Court of Human Rights is so renowned that questions were set about it in university exam papers abroad. His historical output is so prolific that in Malta he’s a household name in that domain too. So what’s there to say about him that is not already known?
This is where Grech’s formula comes in very handy. Inspired by the two opposing forces of “history” and “myth”, Grech sought out people who could shed light on the private background to Bonello’s public persona. This formula is quite astute, actually, as the reader catches a glimpse of a number of private, at times even intimate, snapshots of the public figure.
Though all the essays are worth the reader’s while, as they depict their subject from different angles (in beautiful Maltese prose), two essays were completely unexpected. One deals with Dr Bonello’s photography – a highly-developed hobby of the judge’s that probably few people were aware of – whereas the other is an essay on Dr Bonello’s father, Vincenzo, a prominent figure in the political and art scenes of the first half of the 20th century, who, to my mind, belongs to the common heritage of Europe.
Judge Bonello has two outstanding qualities: a brilliant intellect and leonine courage. This book does justice to both.
Merry CHRISTMAS to the readers of this newspaper and to all their loved ones!