Chesterton is a vastly interesting, underrated writer, and it's a crime that you can't get his complete works for anything close to a reasonable rate (I've looked into this several times). Yet the way to fix all that is certainly not to print tiny little books with bits and pieces of him in there surrounded by uncivil nonsense like the following:
"Chesterton deserves to be placed among the immortals of literature for this poem alone. Like every masterpiece, it is a work of art that continues to get better and better with time and leaves the reader in awe. It should be memorized and studied and discussed and revisited by every student of English literature and world history. It should be in every anthology of English literature and part of the standard syllabus in every class of English 101-- but it isn't. Hardly anyone knows of the poem. It suffers in obscurity because of a combined prejudice against rhyme and meter, against Catholicism, and against G.K. Chesterton."
The poem, you may be interested to know, is less than six pages long (it's a kind of condensed version of the Ballad of the White Horse on a naval theme). Then follows a long, redundant commentary which does not even pretend to scholarly objectivity but preaches, hard, to the choir. Then follows a few essays by others, suffering from the same defects.
We read Chesterton, we fans of Chesterton, because we like the flavor and the exuberance of his absurd exaggerations or, as he is often pleased to say, his jokes. People who take his jokes too seriously are the people who make the rest of us want to leave him suffering in obscurity.
If this was the first book with Chesterton's name on it I ever read I'd never have read another one.