What I Saw in America is less about what G.K. Chesterton saw in America than what the idea of America meant to him as an Englishman. Not a word is saiWhat I Saw in America is less about what G.K. Chesterton saw in America than what the idea of America meant to him as an Englishman. Not a word is said about whether GKC took the train or any Mississippi River steamboats, what he ate, whether he visited anyone at home, whether he saw any of the country's vaunted beauty spots, or anything of the sort that would appear in a Lonely Planet guidebook.
What we have in this book are a series of essays on the subject of America. Chesterton was here on a lecture tour, so he really did not act the part of a tourist.
One thing I found interesting is that the author thinks (from his vantage point during the Harding Administration) that lip service was paid to democracy, but that many Americans are being ground into wage slavery if not actual slavery:
So far as democracy becomes or remains Catholic and Christian, that democracy will remain democratic. In so far as it does not, it will become wildly and wickedly undemocratic. Its rich will riot with a brutal indifference far beyond the feeble feudalism which retains some shadow of responsibility or at least of patronage. Its wage-slaves will either sink into heathen slavery, or seek relief in theories that are destructive not merely in method but in aim; since they are but the negation of the human appetites of property and personality.
Given the 2016 Presidential Race now in progress, these seem prophetic words.
One thing on which we can always rely on Chesterton for is his very genuine sense of democracy. It is possible to read on for page after page, only to be stopped dead in one's tracks with some truism expressed with style and verve. ...more
This short collection of nonsense verse was G.K. Chesterton's first published work, and it was privately published, as was The Wild Knight and Other PThis short collection of nonsense verse was G.K. Chesterton's first published work, and it was privately published, as was The Wild Knight and Other Poems. Greybeards at Play is a quick read and has a number of droll moments -- but it was only the beginning of what was to be a great career.
Accompanying the poems are drawings by Chesterton, which go well with poems such as the one that ends:
We aged ones play solemn parts— Sire—guardian—uncle—king. Affection is the salt of life, Kindness a noble thing.
The old alone may comprehend A sense in my decree; But—if you find a fish on land, Oh throw it in the sea.
I can identify the exact moment I fell in love with G.K. Chesterton. Many years ago, as I read The Man Who Was Thursday for the first time, I came acrI can identify the exact moment I fell in love with G.K. Chesterton. Many years ago, as I read The Man Who Was Thursday for the first time, I came across this line by Gilbert Syme, the narrator: "Just at present you only see the tree by the light of the lamp. I wonder when you would ever see the lamp by the light of the tree." It hit me like a bolt of lightning that here was a man that all was one, and that everything affected everything else. Indeed, why not the light of the tree?
Decades later, I finally read Garry Wills's first book, Chesterton. It is not only the best work about the author I have ever read, but it made me realize that: (1) Chesterton was not a sort of Jolly Green Giant, and that what peace he finally attained was hard won; (2) As the First World War and the books he wrote at that time showed, he was a very indifferent propagandist (see The Appetite of Tyranny and The Utopia of Usurers); (3) When Chesterton finally converted to Catholicism in 1922, he became another type of propagandist -- one for his faith -- but more effectively than in his political work; and (4) Perhaps Chesterton's most interesting work was before the Great War.
The best thing about Chesterton is Wills's detailed analysis of the early work, including the poems "The Wild Knight" and "The Ballad of the White Horse" and most particularly, my favorite GKC book, The Man Who Was Thursday.
In an essay on dreams in The Coloured Lands, Chesterton wrote one of the most cogent expressions of the complexity of his dance with joy and nightmare:
In this subconscious world, in short, existence betrays itself; it shows that it is full of spiritual forces which disguise themselves as lions and lamp-posts, which can as easily disguise themselves as butterflies and Babylonian temples.... Life dwells alone in our very heart of hearts, life is one and virgin and unconjured, and sometimes in the watches of the night speaks in its own terrible harmony.
I have only one minor quibble, and that is that Wills ignored much of Chesterton's fiction, which was almost always good, from his Father Brown stories (which he covers) to such titles as The Club of Queer Trades, The Paradoxes of Mr. Pond, The Return of Don Quixote, and The Poet and the Lunatics. At the same time, what Wills does accomplish is to excellent that I cannot but see myself re-reading this excellent book, and maybe even searching for a hardbound copy for my burgeoning GKC collection.
G.K. Chesterton is generally at his weakest in political polemic: His most difficult books to wade through are such titles as The Appetite of Tyranny,G.K. Chesterton is generally at his weakest in political polemic: His most difficult books to wade through are such titles as The Appetite of Tyranny, The Utopia of usurers, and The Barbarism of Berlin. Fortunately, The Crimes of England is among his better polemical works.
What Chesterton does is examine the history of England going back several centuries and finds that it was too favorably impressed by the Germans, as opposed to the French, Irish, and other European peoples. This was published after the First World War had already begun, and its author is trying to see what errors led to this conflagration. Instead of seeing the typical historical causes -- the assassination of the Archduke Franz Ferdinand, the desire of Austria to punish the Serbs, the huge military and naval buildup by the Germans -- he sees a weakness in his country of essentially having the wrong friends. For instance, on the subject of Ireland, he writes:
The truth about Ireland is simply this: that the relations between England and Ireland are the relations between two men who have to travel together, one of whom tried to stab the other at the last stopping-place or to poison the other at the last inn. Conversation may be courteous, but it will be occasionally forced.
At times, GKC startles with insights that are as germane today as when they were written a century ago:
By some of the dark ingenuities of that age of priestcraft a curious thing was discovered—that if you kill every usurer, every forestaller, every adulterater, every user of false weights, every fixer of false boundaries, every land-thief, every water-thief, you afterwards discover by a strange indirect miracle, or disconnected truth from heaven, that you have no millionaires.
I doubt that The Crimes of England will ever become more popular than the author's Father Brown stories, Orthodoxy or Heretics, or The Man Who Was Thursday, but it is a thoughtful self-examination of what led to the awful mess that England found itself in during 1914 and the following few years....more
My review will concentrate on The Scandal of Father Brown as well as the two previously uncollected stories, "The Vampire of the Village" and "The MasMy review will concentrate on The Scandal of Father Brown as well as the two previously uncollected stories, "The Vampire of the Village" and "The Mask of Midas." (The other two were previously read and reviewed by me.)
G.K. Chesterton's Father Brown stories follow a pretty clearly definable pattern: Near the beginning of the story, we are introduced, almost in passing, to a dumpling of a man in clerical garb, most notable for his general aura of nondescriptability. Around the time the crime is introduced, we have a brief, strikingly described scene of nature somehow gone awry, indicating an atmosphere of moral wrong. (This is not true of all the stories, but certainly most of them.) Finally, the little priest tags along with the policemen, or his colleague Flambeau, or some other person and it is always his comments which solve the crime.
Does Father Brown ever actually physically collar the malefactor? I can't recall any case of that happening. It is his unique responsiveness to the fact that something is amiss in the natural order of things that brings his powerful mind into play.
I had thought that, after three volumes of short stories about that intrepid priest/detective, Father Brown, G K Chesterton would tire of his creationI had thought that, after three volumes of short stories about that intrepid priest/detective, Father Brown, G K Chesterton would tire of his creation, with a resulting diminution in the quality of the stories. But, no, The Secret of Father Brown is as fresh as ever; and its author has instituted some interesting changes.
First of all, the stories are framed within a story in which an American writer comes to ask Father Brown about his "secret." The priest's answer startles him: "You see, it was I who killed all those people.... So, of course, I knew how it was done." He did not mean that he had literally committed the murders: Rather, he had looked deeply enough into the heart of man to understand how and why the crime was committed.
You see, Father Brown's interest in crime is actually an interest in sin, in the psyche and soul of the person who committed the crime. This is perhaps shown to best advantage in "The Vanishing of Vaudrey," though at least three of the other stories also develop this theme.
My favorite stories in the volume were "The Worst Crime in the World" and "The Chief Mourner of Marne," in which Brown manages to penetrate particularly resistant knots to arrive at paradoxical truths.
Although I call Father Brown a detective, he really wasn't one. In fact, he has no interest in apprehending the guilty party and seeing him or her standing in the dock to receive sentencing. Once he has determined who and why and what, he leaves the rest to the police. There is only one policeman in this volume, James Bagshaw in "The Mirror of the Magistrate," and he is no more than a secondary character who doesn't have a clue. ...more
As much as I love the works of G K Chesterton, I am forced to admit that A Short History Of England is not one of his best works. Chesterton just doesAs much as I love the works of G K Chesterton, I am forced to admit that A Short History Of England is not one of his best works. Chesterton just does not do well on more lengthy, sustained polemics. It is only when he can break his work down into individual essays, such as in Orthodoxy and Heretics that he shines.
Perhaps this work is best titled Some Thoughts on British Social History and Religion. He skips from Richard II to the 18th century Whigs, then zig-zags back to the Middle Ages until one's head begins to spin. I would have enjoyed this book much more if it were presented as a book of loosely connected essays....more
We all live in a world that threatens to make us depressed and anxious. So, too, did Chesterton. Anarchy and international socialism were at their apogee; and Germany and Britain were slowly sliding into a world war. Then, too, GKC was grossly overweight and uncertain about his own personal future. But he had a powerful weapon: He faced down the darkness and denied it the power to harm him: All the things that threatened were mere phantasms that we ourselves created to keep us down.
What better analogy was there than the great scourge of anarchism, which resulted in numerous assassinations of heads of state in the 1890s and early 1900s. A poet named Gabriel Syme is appointed to a sinister Central Anarchist Council, consisting of seven men, each of whom is named after a day of the week. In charge is Sunday. Syme gets himself elected as Thursday, and the fun begins ...
In a way, GKC gives it all away at the beginning, in a poem dedicated to his friend, the mystery writer E. C. Bentley:
This is a tale of those old fears, even of those emptied hells, And none but you shall understand the true thing that it tells -- Of what colossal gods of shame could cow men and yet crash, Of what huge devils hid the stars, yet fell at a pistol flash. The doubts that were so plain to chase, so dreadful to withstand -- Oh, who shall understand but you; yea, who shall understand?
What I remember most, however, is this quote from Syme when confronted by an anarchist named Lucian Gregory:
"All the same," replied Syme patiently, "just at present you only see the tree by the light of the lamp. I wonder when you would ever see the lamp by the light of the tree."
And that is what Chesterton is all about: By repositioning ourselves, we see the lamp by the light of the tree. ...more
It is never fun to find fault with one's favorite writers. G K Chesterton, however, is such a prolific author that one can, without too much difficultIt is never fun to find fault with one's favorite writers. G K Chesterton, however, is such a prolific author that one can, without too much difficulty, find some pretty dicey volumes in the lot. The Appetite of Tyranny: Including Letters to an Old Garibaldian is one of several books that its author wrote around the beginning of World War I that represent a low point in his opus.
Granted that England was in a particularly bloody war with Germany at the time, but a book consisting of nothing but platitudes about national characteristics partakes of a particularly low form of political discourse. Sentences like the following abound: "But a German's rudeness is rooted in his never being embarrassed. He eats and makes love noisily. He never feels a speech or a song or a sermon to be what the English call 'out of place' in particular circumstances." No one is spared the broad brush strokes: GKC uses the N-word against Blacks, and "Heathen Chinee" against, you guessed it, the heathen Chinese. Germans he mostly refers to as Prussians, and treats them all as if there were no variation between individuals.
The one thing a person can count on, however, is that there is a wide spectrum of behavior even in a place such as Chesterton's "Prussia." Even the French realized that in Jean Renoir's great WWI film epic, The Grand Illusion, with his German characters, especially the camp commandant played by Erich von Stroheim.
Fortunately, Chesterton got better than such observations as:
Rome, at her very weakest, has always been a river that wanders and widens and that waters many fields. Berlin, at its strongest, will never be anything but a whirlpool, which seeks its own center, and is sucked down.
While The Innocence of Father Brown and The Wisdom of Father Brown contain more spritely stories, The Incredulity of Father Brown by G.K. Chesterton iWhile The Innocence of Father Brown and The Wisdom of Father Brown contain more spritely stories, The Incredulity of Father Brown by G.K. Chesterton is still worthy of a closer look. If one goes to the Father Brown stories expecting to find more traditional whodunits, perhaps in the style of Arthur Conan Doyle or Richard Austin Freeman, he or she will be perplexed and disappointed. To begin with, Father Brown has no particular interest in seeing the guilty party being led to judgment. There are, in fact, no trials in these stories; and one is equally likely to see Father Brown passing heavier judgment on the victims than on the murderers.
In The Incredulity of Father Brown, all the stories involve murders. We find the usual Chesterton "moral landscape" -- in which the author paints a picture of nature somehow mirroring the fact that something is very wrong. A good example is this descriptive paragraph from "The Dagger with Wings":
The rolling country round the little town was sealed and bound with frost, and the sky was as clear and cold as steel except in the north-east, where clouds with lurid haloes were beginning to climb up the sky. It was against these darker and more sinister colours that the house on the hill gleamed with a row of pale pillars, forming a short colonnade of the classical sort. A winding road led up to it across the curve of the down, and plunged into a mass of dark bushes. Just before it reached the bushes, the air seemed to grow colder and colder, as if he were approaching an icehouse or the North Pole.
By the time he solves the mystery, which he does, as is usual with him, with his lightning intuition, the priest wends his way back down the hill -- but the ominous quality is all gone, because the moral Gordian knot has been cut by the Father Brown's intellect:
When the priest went forth again and set his face homeward, the cold had grown more intense and yet was somehow intoxicating. The trees stood up like silver candelabra of some incredibly cold Candlemas of purification.
Perhaps the best and most typical story in the collection is "The Doom of the Darnaways," in which a painting with a grim prediction has cast a pall of gloom over succeeding generations of an old English family:
In the seventh heir I shall return, In the seventh hour I shall depart, None in that hour shall hold my hand, And woe to her that holds my heart.
The action is set in a half-ruined estate bordering the sea (with one of the best examples of Chesterton's moral landscapes). Fortunately, the little priest is there to unravel the skeins of gloom that are draped on this grim household.
As he wrote in 1930 in the Illustrated London News, "[t]he essence of a mystery tale is that we are suddenly confronted with a truth which we have never suspected and yet can see to be true." And that is what the Father Brown stories are all about. ...more
I would wager that some of you who are reading this do not know who G K Chesterton was, and I am virtually certain that even fewer have ever heard ofI would wager that some of you who are reading this do not know who G K Chesterton was, and I am virtually certain that even fewer have ever heard of the Victorian painter George Frederick Watts. Just for the record, he is the artist who painted Hope, as shown at the following website: http://www.culture24.org.uk/asset_are...
G F Watts was one of Chesterton's earliest works, being published in 1904, and it is one of his most obscure. Yet for all that it is genial and approachable like all his best work. Writing about Hope, he says:
He [the painter] would see something for which there is neither speech nor language, which has been too vast for any eye to see and too secret for any religion to utter, even as an esoteric doctrine. Standing before that picture, he finds himself in the presence of a great truth. He perceives that there is something in man which is always apparently on the verge of disappearing, but never disappears, an assurance which is always apparently saying farewell and yet illimitably lingers, a string which is forever stretched to snapping yet never snaps. He perceives that the queerest and most delicate thing in us, the most fragile, the most fantastic, is in truth the backbone and indestructible.
Chesterton's writing reminds us that he studied at the Slade School of Art, that he was a noted illustrator in his own right. (See, especially, The Coloured Lands.)
Comparing Watts to Gladstone, Chesterton notes that "they knew that not only life, but every detail of life, is most a pleasure when it is studied with the gloomiest intensity." This is no mere idle paradox: the painter's Hope is, from one point of view, gloomy; from another, it is incredibly optimistic. But then, Chesterton is like that. I regard him as a great teacher -- one who always leads me by strangely diverse paths to realization and contentment....more
This volume contains two collections of stories -- The Innocence of Father Brown and The Wisdom of Father brown -- and the story "The Donnington AffaiThis volume contains two collections of stories -- The Innocence of Father Brown and The Wisdom of Father brown -- and the story "The Donnington Affair." I had read The Innocence of Father Brown separately and reviewed it here. This review is of The Wisdom of Father Brown and "The Donnington Affair."
What is so brilliant about Chesterton's Father Brown stories is that, on one hand, its detective is totally nondescript, even dumpy, and, on the other, that no one is better able to think outside the box. In some of the stories, there is no crime at all, or suspects are not at all what or who they seem to be, or the crime is so odd as to almost beggar description. And yet, through logic or even through incredible accident, Father Brown is able to zero in on the facts of the case long before anyone else, including the reader. Along the way he delivers himself of gnomic comments like, "What we all dread most ... is a maze with no center. That is why atheism is only a nightmare."
Another time, in the story entitled "The Purple Wig," he says:
"I know the Unknown God," said the little priest, with an unconscious grandeur of certitude that stood up like a granite tower. "I know his name; it is Satan. The true God was made flesh and dwelt among us. And I say to you, wherever you find men ruled merely by mystery, it is the mystery of iniquity. If the devil tells you something is too fearful to look at, look at it. If he says something is too terrible to hear, hear it. If you think some truth unbearable, bear it...."
Chesterton carries his love of paradox into these wonderful little tales. And he also carries his gift for what I call moral landscapes, in which even his descriptions of houses and trees reflect the innate wrongness of whatever has happened or is threatened to happen. It reminds me of s scene in Alfred Hitchcock's Marnie (1964) in which a distraught Tippi Hedren visits her mother in a scene where the end of the street is a painted backdrop of docked freighter with children singing a depressing song while skipping rope. When she has confronted her demons, Hitchcock replaces the backdrop with a real shot of freighters on a sunny day with birds chirping in the background.
"The Donnington Affair" is not quite up to the level of the other stories in this volume, mostly because it was written in two parts, the first by Mex Pemberton in which he poses a mystery, and the second by G. K. Chesterton in which he sets Father Brown to solve it. Unfortunately, there is too much of a difference between the two minds for the two halves of the story to come together. Chesterton did a lot of this sort of jeu during his career, but none of the results are memorable.
For over thirty years, G. K. Chesterton has been one of my favorite authors, but this month has made me question my evaluation to some extent. First IFor over thirty years, G. K. Chesterton has been one of my favorite authors, but this month has made me question my evaluation to some extent. First I read Lord Kitchener, which had the virtue of being short and crisp; but The Utopia of Usurers and Other Essays displayed the author as a fish out of water. He begins by describing a nebulous plot by rich capitalists to sap the rights of the common man. He tries to follow a closely reasoned approach -- which is exactly what this author should not do. Chesterton is a man of wit, wit that is coruscating and penetrating. But as a paragon of logic, he is seriously lacking.
Part of the problem, I believe, is that GKC was at this time (the early stages of World War I) trying to arrive at his later passion for distributism. Unfortunately, the War kept interfering, much like the head of King Charles I kept finding its way into Mr. Dick's head in David Copperfield. Curiously, I find he is better when discussing religion, perhaps because he could not write about religion without passion. But where politics and economics are concerned, the earnestness is there; but the wit is off to Brighton on holiday.
This is the first Chesterton book I have read that lacked any memorable quotes. Fortunately, I think that G.K. realized he had produced a clinker, because he was to return soon to much better efforts. There does, however, seem to be a five year period beginning with 1916 that saw Chesterton being too serious for his special talents....more
A hundred years after his death in the early days of World War I -- his transport ship to Russia was sunk by a German mine -- Lord Herbert Horatio KitA hundred years after his death in the early days of World War I -- his transport ship to Russia was sunk by a German mine -- Lord Herbert Horatio Kitchener is seen as a representative of the fusty Colonel Blimp British officer. Writing shortly after Kitchener's death, G. K. Chesterton attempted to evaluate the military leader's career more as a succession of triumphs, from the defeat of the Mahdi at Omdurman to the defusing of a potential war with France at Fashoda to victories in South Africa's Boer War, to diplomatic and military leadership in India.
But it was the war in Europe that saw Kitchener at his best. He was able to raise and train a large army from England's civilian-minded population, and he was able to come to terms with British trade unionists at a time when most general officers were more intent on opposing them.
This short biography in the form of a long eulogy makes for interesting reading, though it is not GKC at his best. One section I liked was the author's view of Islam, which struck me as still being applicable in our world:
There is in Islam a paradox which is perhaps a permanent menace. The great creed born in the desert creates a kind of ecstasy out of the very emptiness of its own land, and even, one may say, out of the emptiness of its own theology. It affirms, with no little sublimity, something that is not merely the singleness but rather the solitude of God. There is the same extreme simplification in the solitary figure of the Prophet; and yet this isolation perpetually reacts into its own opposite. A void is made in the heart of Islam which has to be filled up again and again by a mere repetition of the revolution that founded it. There are no sacraments; the only thing that can happen is a sort of apocalypse, as unique as the end of the world; so the apocalypse can only be repeated and the world end again and again. There are no priests; and yet this equality can only breed a multitude of lawless prophets almost as numerous as priests. The very dogma that there is only one Mahomet produces an endless procession of Mahomets.
Because the first G.K. Chesterton story I had ever read -- many years ago -- was "The Blue Cross," the story that opens The Innocence of Father Brown,Because the first G.K. Chesterton story I had ever read -- many years ago -- was "The Blue Cross," the story that opens The Innocence of Father Brown, I have been consciously avoiding the Father brown stories and reading just about everything else by GKC that I could lay my hands on. Was it that I didn't like the story? Not at all! It was just that I was saving it for another occasion. Well, that occasion arose this week.
There is a strange disconnect between the characters in the Father Brown mysteries and the landscape that they move around in. The stories center around a group of singularly flawed individuals, and the strange oddly repellent landscape they inhabit reflects on their moral turpitude or odd beliefs or other factors limiting their personality.
The detective Catholic priest seems to draw energy from this singular disjunction and succeed every time in exposing what flaw had led to the crime being investigated. The technique is simple and flawless; and the stories are all among Chesterton's best....more
Reading the early essays of G.K. Chesterton (before he got too involved with politics or religion) is one of the best experiences of my reading life.Reading the early essays of G.K. Chesterton (before he got too involved with politics or religion) is one of the best experiences of my reading life. A Miscellany of Men was published in 1912 and contains some thirty or forty short essays that range in quality from good to magnificent -- particularly in "The Mystagogue," in which he says everything there is to say about criticism.
At the same time I read this book, I have been reading the music criticism of Aldous Huxley, which he wrote for The Weekly Westminster Gazette during the 1920s. Instead of just indicating that the great classical music he reviews is ineffable, he tries to analyze how it achieves its effects. This is exactly what GKC looks for in a good critic (I wonder if they ever met):
The man who really thinks he has an idea will always try to explain that idea. The charlatan who has no idea will always confine himself to explaining that it is much too subtle to be explained. The first idea may really be very outrée or specialist; it may really be very difficult to express to ordinary people. But because the man is trying to express it, it is most probable that there is something in it, after all. The honest man is he who is always trying to utter the unutterable, to describe the indescribable; but the quack lives not by plunging into mystery, but by refusing to come out of it.
A Miscellany of men may not be a great book, but it is a great read. It is always fascinating to see where the man's mind leads.
Whenever I feel that the shadows are gathering around me, and all my efforts are coming to naught, I pick up a volume of G.K. Chesterton and find thatWhenever I feel that the shadows are gathering around me, and all my efforts are coming to naught, I pick up a volume of G.K. Chesterton and find that I've just been looking at things through the wrong end of the telescope.
Twelve Types: A Collection of Mini-Biographies is ostensibly a collection of essays on literary subjects. I don't know why the subtitle refers to "Mini-Biographies," because GKC is not interested in biographies. Instead he concentrates on how we see the world around us, as suggested by the lives and work of figures such as Sir Walter Scott, Tolstoy, Robert Louis Stevenson, Thomas Carlyle, Charles II, and Lord Byron, to name just a few. Some he excoriates, like Carlyle and Tolstoy, for urging us into dead ends; others, like Scott, he praises for seeing things in a different light, even when it has seemed to become unfashionable:
Closely connected with this is one of the charges most commonly brought against Scott, particularly in his own day—the charge of a fanciful and monotonous insistence upon the details of armour and costume. The critic in the 'Edinburgh Review' said indignantly that he could tolerate a somewhat detailed description of the apparel of Marmion, but when it came to an equally detailed account of the apparel of his pages and yeomen the mind could bear it no longer. The only thing to be said about that critic is that he had never been a little boy. He foolishly imagined that Scott valued the plume and dagger of Marmion for Marmion's sake. Not being himself romantic, he could not understand that Scott valued the plume because it was a plume, and the dagger because it was a dagger. Like a child, he loved weapons with a manual materialistic love, as one loves the softness of fur or the coolness of marble. One of the profound philosophical truths which are almost confined to infants is this love of things, not for their use or origin, but for their own inherent characteristics, the child's love of the toughness of wood, the wetness of water, the magnificent soapiness of soap. So it was with Scott, who had so much of the child in him. Human beings were perhaps the principal characters in his stories, but they were certainly not the only characters. A battle-axe was a person of importance, a castle had a character and ways of its own. A church bell had a word to say in the matter. Like a true child, he almost ignored the distinction between the animate and inanimate. A two-handed sword might be carried only by a menial in a procession, but it was something important and immeasurably fascinating—it was a two-handed sword.
There is something about being able to rotate the axis of one's life by a few degrees so that the sun shines more brightly and the megrims are dispelled. Sometimes I think he was the greatest psychologist who ever lived. ...more
This is the third time I have read Orthodoxy by G.K. Chesterton, and I hope it will not be the last. Written near the beginning of his career, it is bThis is the third time I have read Orthodoxy by G.K. Chesterton, and I hope it will not be the last. Written near the beginning of his career, it is by far his best book on the subject of religion. Although he was to return a number of times to the same well, the water was fresher in 1908, some fourteen years before he made his decision to convert to Catholicism. Afterwards, there was an institutional tinge to his writing that vitiated many of his later efforts.
As a lapsed Catholic, I was surprised to have forgotten that he was still an Anglican when Orthodoxy was published: As I followed his arguments, I thought they were equally relevant to Catholic belief:
Mysticism keeps men sane. As long as you have mystery you have health; when you destroy mystery you create morbidity. The ordinary man has always been sane because the ordinary man has always been a mystic. He has permitted the twilight. He has always had one foot in earth and the other in fairyland. He has always left himself free to doubt his gods; but (unlike the agnostic of to-day) free also to believe in them. He has always cared more for truth than for consistency.
There are few writers as quotable as Chesterton. He deserves to be read slowly, one chapter at a time. It is so easy to lose his train of thought in the succession of paradoxes that is so characteristic of his writing.
And now the Catholic Church has begun the process toward canonizing Chesterton as a saint. Are we ever going to be ready for Saint Gilbert? I already am, as I have always regarded his work as keeping me within hailing distance of my own past of Catholicism (along with Thomas Merton, Francois Mauriac, and a few others).
All the towering materialism which dominates the modern mind rests ultimately upon one assumption; a false assumption. It is supposed that if a thing goes on repeating itself it is probably dead; a piece of clockwork. People feel that if the universe was personal it would vary; if the sun were alive it would dance. This is a fallacy even in relation to known fact.
It was the Argentinian writer Jorge Luis Borges who pointed the way to Chesterton. Originally, I read his fiction, then his essays; and now I am reading his religious works.
When I first started reading Chesterton, I was dismayed to find that so few of his works were in print. Now, most of his work is available; and more is becoming available every year. The Ignatius Press in San Francisco has slowly been putting out a set of The Collected Works, of which I currently have all the volumes. It is a mammoth task, because Chesterton was a wildly prolific writer and journalist who appeared in dozens of publications throughout the English-speaking world. ...more