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Autobiografía
G. K. Chesterton, celebradísimo escritor de ficción, fue también un renombrado autor de ensayos y un acerado polemista que dejó, tras su muerte, en 1936, la Autobiografía que hoy presentamos. Más allá de trazarnos el recorrido vital de su memoria, Chesterton nos abre una ventana al mundo que le tuvo ocupado como periodista y escritor de panfletos—así es como él quería ser recordado—y con el que raramente mantuvo una convivencia pacífica. Chesterton es el hombre visceral, polémico y apasionado, que no dudaba en proclamar de viva voz su denuncia ante un sistema político corrupto y una moral propagandística cuyo telón de fondo era la guerra de los Bóers (la incursión británica en Sudáfrica que tan popular fue entre la sociedad inglesa) y la Primera Guerra Mundial. Su conversión al catolicismo acabó de situarlo en el papel de personaje excéntrico y contestatario. Hoy, por su extraordinaria agudeza intelectual y su brillante habilidad para esgrimir la paradoja como arma de argumentación, Chesterton sigue siendo el estimulante pensador que consiguió mantener, en vilo y al acecho, a miles de lectores.
313 pages, Hardcover
First published January 1, 1936
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About the author
G.K. Chesterton
4,286 books5,649 followersGilbert Keith Chesterton was an English writer, philosopher, lay theologian, and literary and art critic.
He was educated at St. Paul’s, and went to art school at University College London. In 1900, he was asked to contribute a few magazine articles on art criticism, and went on to become one of the most prolific writers of all time. He wrote a hundred books, contributions to 200 more, hundreds of poems, including the epic Ballad of the White Horse, five plays, five novels, and some two hundred short stories, including a popular series featuring the priest-detective, Father Brown. In spite of his literary accomplishments, he considered himself primarily a journalist. He wrote over 4000 newspaper essays, including 30 years worth of weekly columns for the Illustrated London News, and 13 years of weekly columns for the Daily News. He also edited his own newspaper, G.K.’s Weekly.
Chesterton was equally at ease with literary and social criticism, history, politics, economics, philosophy, and theology.
He was educated at St. Paul’s, and went to art school at University College London. In 1900, he was asked to contribute a few magazine articles on art criticism, and went on to become one of the most prolific writers of all time. He wrote a hundred books, contributions to 200 more, hundreds of poems, including the epic Ballad of the White Horse, five plays, five novels, and some two hundred short stories, including a popular series featuring the priest-detective, Father Brown. In spite of his literary accomplishments, he considered himself primarily a journalist. He wrote over 4000 newspaper essays, including 30 years worth of weekly columns for the Illustrated London News, and 13 years of weekly columns for the Daily News. He also edited his own newspaper, G.K.’s Weekly.
Chesterton was equally at ease with literary and social criticism, history, politics, economics, philosophy, and theology.
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February 20, 2021
G.K. Chesterton does in his Collected Works of G.K. Chesterton: The Autobiography what few autobiographers do. He actually takes a stab at conveying to us the meaning of life: "The aim of life is appreciation; there is no sense in not appreciatingthings; and there is no sense in having more of them if you have less appreciation of them."
As simple and direct as the man himself!
At a time when I am very uncertain and disturbed about the route my country is taking, I need the optimistic strength of a Chesterton to help keep me on an even keel. Chesterton can make one laugh, can make one think deeply, even, with his paradoxes. But most of all, he can make one understand that appreciating it is what it's all about:
The edition I read is Volume XVI in Ignatius Press's excellent The Collected Works of G.K. Chesterton. Included are numerous photographs which, as far as I know, have not been published elsewhere.
As simple and direct as the man himself!
At a time when I am very uncertain and disturbed about the route my country is taking, I need the optimistic strength of a Chesterton to help keep me on an even keel. Chesterton can make one laugh, can make one think deeply, even, with his paradoxes. But most of all, he can make one understand that appreciating it is what it's all about:
To keep the capacity of really liking what he likes; that is the practical problem which the philosopher has to solve. And it seemed to me at the beginning, as it seems to me now in the end, that the pessimists and optimists of the modern world have alike missed and muddled this matter; through leaving out the ancient conception of humility and the thanks of the unworthy. This is a matter much more important and interesting than my opinions; but, in point of fact, it was by following this thin thread of a fancy about thankfulness, as slight as any of those dandelion clocks that are blown upon the breeze like thistledown, that I did arrive eventually at an opinion which is more than an opinion. Perhaps the one and only opinion that is really more than an opinion.At this stage of my life, I would have to say that Chesterton is the one author whom I read that makes me feel thankful for the experience.
The edition I read is Volume XVI in Ignatius Press's excellent The Collected Works of G.K. Chesterton. Included are numerous photographs which, as far as I know, have not been published elsewhere.
June 28, 2010
I can't believe it took me so long to read this book (I began it in 1993!) and how much I enjoyed it when I finally finished it. I've learned tons more about GKC since 1993, which all added to my enjoyment of finishing this book. (Subscribing to Gilbert! Magazine helped as well!) The first sentence remains my favorite, where Chesterton pokes fun at those who dismissed him as a non-thinker because of his love for Roman Catholicism:
Bowing down in blind credulity, as is my custom, before mere authority and the tradition of the elders, superstitiously swallowing a story I could not test at the time by experiment or private judgment, I am firmly of opinion that I was born on the 29th of May, 1874, on Campden Hill, Kensington.
The rest of the book is punctuated with similar droll observations, and remains one of the most complete autobios ever written, as Chesterton finished it mere weeks before his untimely death at the age of 62 in 1936. While not heavy on personal details (if you want to get the full picture of GKC's life, read the excellent Wisdom and Innocence by Joseph Pearce), it is the remarkable commentary of a very humble man trying to assess his own life.
Bowing down in blind credulity, as is my custom, before mere authority and the tradition of the elders, superstitiously swallowing a story I could not test at the time by experiment or private judgment, I am firmly of opinion that I was born on the 29th of May, 1874, on Campden Hill, Kensington.
The rest of the book is punctuated with similar droll observations, and remains one of the most complete autobios ever written, as Chesterton finished it mere weeks before his untimely death at the age of 62 in 1936. While not heavy on personal details (if you want to get the full picture of GKC's life, read the excellent Wisdom and Innocence by Joseph Pearce), it is the remarkable commentary of a very humble man trying to assess his own life.
November 19, 2012
My father loved Chesterton, and introduced me to the Fr. Brown stories when I was in high school. I've been on something of a Chesterton binge in the last couple of years, thanks to some local Chesterterrorists. I laughed out loud several times while reading this memoir, especially when GKC confesses that he intends to ignore the ordinary responsibilities of a biographer in his own case just as much as he did when writing about other authors: "I will not say that I wrote a book on Browning; but I wrote a book on love, liberty, poetry, my own views on God and religion (highly undeveloped), and various theories of my own about optimism and pessimism and the hope of the world; a book in which the name of Browning was introduced from time to time, I might almost say with considerable art, or at any rate with some decent appearance of regularity. There were very few biographical facts in the book, and those were nearly all wrong. But there is something buried somewhere in the book; though I think it is rather my boyhood than Browning's biography."
September 5, 2020
As a traditional, orthodox, conservative, and practicing Catholic myself, I should be the natural audience for Chesterton’s autobiography. It was, in fact, only the second book of his that I ever read (the first was The Ballad of the White Horse, which I liked). I wanted to like him, figuring that the best place to start would be his autobiography.
Gilbert Keith Chesterton was a prominent English literary figure whose career spanned the waning years of the Victorian Era until his death in 1936. Born in 1874 into a Unitarian Protestant middle-class family in Kensington, England (near London), he converted to Roman Catholicism in 1922. A prolific writer and polemicist, he is usually presented as a champion of “orthodox” Catholicism, having written many books on apologetics, history, theology, and many other disciplines. Today, Chesterton is popular among a relatively small number of traditionalist and orthodox Catholics (mostly in the United States, but also in his native UK and around the world). Go to any of his books on Amazon or Good Reads and you will find hundreds and hundreds of rave reviews.
But there were two major issues that seriously turned me off to Chesterton and that make it unlikely I will ever read another work of his again.
My first issue is Chesterton’s writing style. An autobiography is essentially a story, and to tell the story of one’s life it one has to be clear, coherent, logical, and connected to the Big Picture (the wars, other great men, the great ideas, and debates of the time, etc.). Witness by Whitaker Chambers or The Second World War by Winston Churchill are great examples.
Chesterton has the gift of writing many, many words without actually telling the reader anything serious or substantial. He will make witticism after witticism, twisting words inside out and outside in, while doing mental backflips and more backflips, word games and more word games, then occasionally tell a vignette from his life disconnected from what came before. In short, he rambles.
Take pages 54-55.
Next paragraph:
Then the next paragraph:
Got that? On the same page he says three times what the point is without making any coherent point. Most of the 336 pages in his autobiography is like that. He jumps from subject to subject, almost randomly. In between, he will throw in a story that has little or nothing to do with what he wrote before or after. Almost the entire time, I had to re-read and re-read what he wrote and ask myself, “What does he mean by this? What does he mean by THAT? Did I understand that right?” Contradiction after paradox after contradiction. It is enough to make someone go crazy.
On page 281, he writes: “I think The Napoleon of Notting Hill was a book very well worth writing; but I am not sure that it was ever written.” He does not explain what he means by that, because the next sentence he moves on to another topic. What? Again, on page 310: “I have nothing to say because I have nothing to unsay.” Come again?
Even the chapter names are…just…unserious. “Hearsay evidence,” “How to be a Dunce,” “How to be Lunatic,” “The Crime of Orthodoxy,” “Friendship and Foolery,” etc.
The second problem I have with Chesterton is that, although he does denounce socialism, he praises atheists, socialists and even communists and boasts of his friendships with them. He often portrays socialists not as adherents to the most evil and bloody movement in history, but as good people.
Page 114, he creates a false dilemma between “Imperialism” and socialism:
On page 126, he writes: “I have known a great many Labour members, and liked most of them.” Throughout the book, he names several. For example, he was a good friend of Conrad Noel, an Anglican minister and Christian socialist known as the “Red Vicar,” who later became a radical supporter of Leon Trotsky. “The world would be wiser,” Chesterton wrote,
Thanks to the influence of Noel and others, Chesterton began “my own divergence from the merely Communist to what is called the Distributist ideal.” (p. 160) It is clear that Distributism, which many Catholics today hail as an ideal social system, is at least influenced by some of the ideas of socialism, as Chesterton himself was.
The wife of G.K. Chesterton’s brother Cecil, Ada Elizabeth Chesterton, was also a radical socialist. Chesterton praised her for her activism but admitted that
Another friend was Cunningham Graham, a Scot who eventually became the first socialist member of the British Parliament and the founder of the Scottish Labour Party. Chesterton calls Graham a “great gentlemen” whom “I knew more slightly but always respected profoundly.” He writes:
Henry Scott Holland, an Anglican minister and professor at Oxford, was a Christian socialist and the founder of the Christian Social Union in the UK (which Chesterton himself joined), and one of the most important figures of the Social Gospel movement and the religious Left in the UK. He called Holland “a most fascinating and memorable man,” “misunderstood,” and “a man of great clearness and great fairness of mind.” (p. 167).
Chesterton praises the “Doukhobors” who he describes as “a sect of Russian pacifists and practical Communists…they invariably behaved themselves like a band of saints and according to the highest pattern of primitive Christians.” (p. 159)
Another friend was Robert Blatchford, a leading socialist campaigner, journalist, author, and founder of the socialist newspaper The Clarion. He was a militant atheist and had a running debate with Chesterton about this. Here again, he debates with some socialists and enemies of Christianity like Blatchford, but at the same time praises them, maintains warm friendships with them, and portrays them as motivated by virtuous and upright sentiments. On page 175, Chesterton admits that he attended a dinner party of the staff of The Clarion, and calls Blatchford “a veteran whom I pause to salute across the ages.” In “the grossly unjust social system we suffer,” Chesterton wrote, “Blatchford…felt neither more nor less than a pity for the weak and the unfortunate; which was, at the worst, a slightly lopsided exaggeration of Christian charity.” (p. 178)
But Chesterton’s most prominent socialist friend was the playwright George Bernard Shaw. They had many high-profile debates, but Chesterton always warmly regarded Shaw as a person.
I have no doubt that Socialists and Communists are sincere in their beliefs. I am also sure that Mussolini was quite sincere about his faith in the Fascist program. Marx, Trotsky, and Stalin were no doubt sincere in their love for Communism. They were also evil, and no decent man, much less a Christian or Catholic, should seek the friendship of evil men. “He that walketh with the wise, shall be wise: a friend of fools shall become like to them.” (Proverbs 13:20)
Socialists are mortal enemies of the Catholic Faith. They want nothing less than its total annihilation. Pope Saint Pius X, for example, never praised Modernists and Socialists as good, sincere people even as he condemned their ideas. How can someone who professes to be a Catholic have such warm friendships with enemies of Our Lord Jesus Christ?
Chesterton feels the same way about atheists. “The atheist told me so pompously that he did not believe there was any God; and there were moments when I did not even believe there was any atheist.” (p. 97) Atheists, socialists, and theosophists as actually good people that we, Christians, should work with. “There were, indeed, fine fighting atheists. But they were mostly fighting something else besides theism…I realised that his atheism was not really revolutionary in the matter of morals. It was just the other way around. It was not any “new morality,” but very decidedly the “old morality” that he was defending against Imperialism, merely on the ground that it was murder and theft.” (p. 145)
Chesterton praises another atheist friend, Thomas Hardy, for having “the sincerity and simplicity of the village atheist; that is, that he valued atheism as a truth and not a triumph.”
When he is not praising socialists or atheists, he repeats their talking points. One recurring theme is his contempt of moneyed interests, bankers, and the political and economic establishment of England. Now, most people would agree that the institutions of the UK (like the USA) have major flaws. But at the beginning of the twentieth century, and especially after World War I, International Socialism was waging a war to impose a socialist dictatorship on the whole Western World. Their propaganda was nothing but a relentless demonization of banks, the rich, and the non-socialist political parties. To attack the same targets as the Socialists without making any distinction with them is to help their cause.
Chesterton repeats something of this talking point when he asks himself who was responsible for World War I.
He attacks the “plutocracy,” which could have come out of some socialist pamphlet:
Chesterton wrote many good and beautiful things and defended certain Catholic truths in public against many modern errors. But his writing style and above all his Third Way politics (essentially socialism mixed with free enterprise) I find off-putting.
Maybe the best way to look at Chesterton is how he looked at himself: “I have never taken my books seriously; but I take my opinions quite seriously.” (p. 113) I agree, Mr. Chesterton.
Gilbert Keith Chesterton was a prominent English literary figure whose career spanned the waning years of the Victorian Era until his death in 1936. Born in 1874 into a Unitarian Protestant middle-class family in Kensington, England (near London), he converted to Roman Catholicism in 1922. A prolific writer and polemicist, he is usually presented as a champion of “orthodox” Catholicism, having written many books on apologetics, history, theology, and many other disciplines. Today, Chesterton is popular among a relatively small number of traditionalist and orthodox Catholics (mostly in the United States, but also in his native UK and around the world). Go to any of his books on Amazon or Good Reads and you will find hundreds and hundreds of rave reviews.
But there were two major issues that seriously turned me off to Chesterton and that make it unlikely I will ever read another work of his again.
My first issue is Chesterton’s writing style. An autobiography is essentially a story, and to tell the story of one’s life it one has to be clear, coherent, logical, and connected to the Big Picture (the wars, other great men, the great ideas, and debates of the time, etc.). Witness by Whitaker Chambers or The Second World War by Winston Churchill are great examples.
Chesterton has the gift of writing many, many words without actually telling the reader anything serious or substantial. He will make witticism after witticism, twisting words inside out and outside in, while doing mental backflips and more backflips, word games and more word games, then occasionally tell a vignette from his life disconnected from what came before. In short, he rambles.
Take pages 54-55.
My main purpose here, however, is to say this. To me my whole childhood has a certain quality, which may be indescribable but is not in the least vague. It is rather more definite than the difference between pitch dark and daylight, or between having a toothache and not having a toothache. For the sequel of the story, it is necessary to attempt this first and hardest chapter of the story: and I must try to state somehow what I mean by saying that my own childhood was of quite a different kind, or quality, from the rest of my very undeservedly pleasant and cheerful existence. [emphasis mine]
Next paragraph:
The point is that the white light had a sort of wonder in it, as if the world were as new as myself; but not that the world was anything but a real world. [emphasis mine]
Then the next paragraph:
The whole point is that I did like the toy theatre even when I knew it was a toy theatre. [emphasis mine]
Got that? On the same page he says three times what the point is without making any coherent point. Most of the 336 pages in his autobiography is like that. He jumps from subject to subject, almost randomly. In between, he will throw in a story that has little or nothing to do with what he wrote before or after. Almost the entire time, I had to re-read and re-read what he wrote and ask myself, “What does he mean by this? What does he mean by THAT? Did I understand that right?” Contradiction after paradox after contradiction. It is enough to make someone go crazy.
On page 281, he writes: “I think The Napoleon of Notting Hill was a book very well worth writing; but I am not sure that it was ever written.” He does not explain what he means by that, because the next sentence he moves on to another topic. What? Again, on page 310: “I have nothing to say because I have nothing to unsay.” Come again?
Even the chapter names are…just…unserious. “Hearsay evidence,” “How to be a Dunce,” “How to be Lunatic,” “The Crime of Orthodoxy,” “Friendship and Foolery,” etc.
The second problem I have with Chesterton is that, although he does denounce socialism, he praises atheists, socialists and even communists and boasts of his friendships with them. He often portrays socialists not as adherents to the most evil and bloody movement in history, but as good people.
Page 114, he creates a false dilemma between “Imperialism” and socialism:
“The two great movements during my youth were Imperialism and Socialism. They were supposed to be fighting each other…but…the two things were in union. Both believed in unification and centralization on a large scale…I called myself a Socialist; because the only alternative to being a Socialist was not being a Socialist. And not being a Socialist was a perfectly ghastly thing. It meant being a small-headed and sneering snob who grumbled at the rates and the working-classes; or some hoary horrible old Darwinian who said the weakest must go to the wall. But in my heart I was a reluctant Socialist. I accepted the larger thing as the lesser evil—or even the lesser good…I was willing to accept colonial adventure if it was the only way of protecting my country; just as I was willing to accept collectivist organization if it was the only way of protecting my poorer fellow-citizens.[emphasis mine]
On page 126, he writes: “I have known a great many Labour members, and liked most of them.” Throughout the book, he names several. For example, he was a good friend of Conrad Noel, an Anglican minister and Christian socialist known as the “Red Vicar,” who later became a radical supporter of Leon Trotsky. “The world would be wiser,” Chesterton wrote,
“if it realized that…he [Noel] was and is a very unworldly sort of clergyman; and much too unworldly to be judged rightly by the world. I did not always agree with his attitude, and I do not now altogether agree with his politics; but I have always known that he glowed with conviction and the simplicity of the fighting spirit…I was considerably influenced by Conrad Noel; and my brother, I think, even more so.” (p. 161)
Thanks to the influence of Noel and others, Chesterton began “my own divergence from the merely Communist to what is called the Distributist ideal.” (p. 160) It is clear that Distributism, which many Catholics today hail as an ideal social system, is at least influenced by some of the ideas of socialism, as Chesterton himself was.
The wife of G.K. Chesterton’s brother Cecil, Ada Elizabeth Chesterton, was also a radical socialist. Chesterton praised her for her activism but admitted that
“…not everybody understands that flame of angry charity…She has sympathy with Communists, as I have, and perhaps points of agreement I have not. But I know that she stands, first, for the privacy of the poor who are allowed no privacy. She fights after all, as I do, for the private property of those who have none.” (p. 184) [emphasis mine]
Another friend was Cunningham Graham, a Scot who eventually became the first socialist member of the British Parliament and the founder of the Scottish Labour Party. Chesterton calls Graham a “great gentlemen” whom “I knew more slightly but always respected profoundly.” He writes:
I felt much more kinship with the sort of Scot who, even when he was interested in politics, would never really be allowed in practical politics. A splendid specimen of this type of man was Cunninghame Graham. (p. 259)
…I, for one, have always got on much better with revolutionists than with reformers; even when I entirely disagreed with the revolutions or entirely agreed with the reforms…In England, during most of my life, the revolutionists were always Socialists…But I always felt, and I still feel, more personal sympathy with a Communist like Conrad Noel than with a Liberal like John Simon; while recognizing that both are in their own way sincere. (p. 260) [emphasis mine]
Henry Scott Holland, an Anglican minister and professor at Oxford, was a Christian socialist and the founder of the Christian Social Union in the UK (which Chesterton himself joined), and one of the most important figures of the Social Gospel movement and the religious Left in the UK. He called Holland “a most fascinating and memorable man,” “misunderstood,” and “a man of great clearness and great fairness of mind.” (p. 167).
Chesterton praises the “Doukhobors” who he describes as “a sect of Russian pacifists and practical Communists…they invariably behaved themselves like a band of saints and according to the highest pattern of primitive Christians.” (p. 159)
Another friend was Robert Blatchford, a leading socialist campaigner, journalist, author, and founder of the socialist newspaper The Clarion. He was a militant atheist and had a running debate with Chesterton about this. Here again, he debates with some socialists and enemies of Christianity like Blatchford, but at the same time praises them, maintains warm friendships with them, and portrays them as motivated by virtuous and upright sentiments. On page 175, Chesterton admits that he attended a dinner party of the staff of The Clarion, and calls Blatchford “a veteran whom I pause to salute across the ages.” In “the grossly unjust social system we suffer,” Chesterton wrote, “Blatchford…felt neither more nor less than a pity for the weak and the unfortunate; which was, at the worst, a slightly lopsided exaggeration of Christian charity.” (p. 178)
But Chesterton’s most prominent socialist friend was the playwright George Bernard Shaw. They had many high-profile debates, but Chesterton always warmly regarded Shaw as a person.
And I can testify that I have never read a reply by Bernard Shaw that did not leave me in a better and not a worse temper or frame of mind…it is necessary to disagree with him as much as I do, in order to admire him as much as I do; and I am proud of him as a foe even more than as a friend. (p. 220)
I have no doubt that Socialists and Communists are sincere in their beliefs. I am also sure that Mussolini was quite sincere about his faith in the Fascist program. Marx, Trotsky, and Stalin were no doubt sincere in their love for Communism. They were also evil, and no decent man, much less a Christian or Catholic, should seek the friendship of evil men. “He that walketh with the wise, shall be wise: a friend of fools shall become like to them.” (Proverbs 13:20)
Socialists are mortal enemies of the Catholic Faith. They want nothing less than its total annihilation. Pope Saint Pius X, for example, never praised Modernists and Socialists as good, sincere people even as he condemned their ideas. How can someone who professes to be a Catholic have such warm friendships with enemies of Our Lord Jesus Christ?
Chesterton feels the same way about atheists. “The atheist told me so pompously that he did not believe there was any God; and there were moments when I did not even believe there was any atheist.” (p. 97) Atheists, socialists, and theosophists as actually good people that we, Christians, should work with. “There were, indeed, fine fighting atheists. But they were mostly fighting something else besides theism…I realised that his atheism was not really revolutionary in the matter of morals. It was just the other way around. It was not any “new morality,” but very decidedly the “old morality” that he was defending against Imperialism, merely on the ground that it was murder and theft.” (p. 145)
Chesterton praises another atheist friend, Thomas Hardy, for having “the sincerity and simplicity of the village atheist; that is, that he valued atheism as a truth and not a triumph.”
When he is not praising socialists or atheists, he repeats their talking points. One recurring theme is his contempt of moneyed interests, bankers, and the political and economic establishment of England. Now, most people would agree that the institutions of the UK (like the USA) have major flaws. But at the beginning of the twentieth century, and especially after World War I, International Socialism was waging a war to impose a socialist dictatorship on the whole Western World. Their propaganda was nothing but a relentless demonization of banks, the rich, and the non-socialist political parties. To attack the same targets as the Socialists without making any distinction with them is to help their cause.
Chesterton repeats something of this talking point when he asks himself who was responsible for World War I.
“I should not say the Kaiser…still less should I say the Czar of Russia or some Slavonic fanatic who committed a crime at Sarajevo…It arose out of the Party System…” (p. 203)
He attacks the “plutocracy,” which could have come out of some socialist pamphlet:
That increasing number of intellectuals, who are content to say that Democracy has been a failure, miss the point of the far more disastrous calamity that Plutocracy has been a success…We may say, with some truth, that Democracy has failed; but we shall only mean that Democracy has failed to exist…
But there is no stronger proof of the fact that it emphatically is plutocracy, and most emphatically is not democracy, that has caused popular institutions to become unpopular…the worst sort of traitors could and did trade with the enemy throughout the War, that the worst sort of profiteers could and did blackmail their own country for bloodsucking profits in the worst hour of her peril, that the worst sort of politicians could play any game they liked with the honour of England and the happiness of Europe, if they were backed and boomed by some vulgar monopolist millionaire; and these insolent interests nearly brought us to a crash in the supreme crisis of our history; because Parliament had come to mean only a secret government by the rich. (p. 205) [emphasis mine]
Chesterton wrote many good and beautiful things and defended certain Catholic truths in public against many modern errors. But his writing style and above all his Third Way politics (essentially socialism mixed with free enterprise) I find off-putting.
Maybe the best way to look at Chesterton is how he looked at himself: “I have never taken my books seriously; but I take my opinions quite seriously.” (p. 113) I agree, Mr. Chesterton.
December 21, 2020
"Bowing down in blind credulity, as is my custom, before mere authority and the tradition of the elders, superstitutiously swallowing a story I could not test at the time by experiement or private judgement, I am firmly of opinion that I was born on the 29th of May..." (Autobiography, page 1)
The opening line of Chesterton's Autobiography was not a shot across the bow, but one aimed directly at the waterline of his intellectual opponents. But in classic good humour, Chesterton goes on for another 350 pages to show how he naturally came to his opinions through his childhood which he outgrew, but never escaped.
His 'Autobiography' was first published in 1936, the year he died, so one assumes that the ideas he puts forth are the summation of his intellectual life. In this book we have Chesterton at his best, his ideas are more complete than in Orthodoxy and his wit has no tempered with age but is more selective in the battles it chooses. No other book of his, neither 'Heretics', 'Orthodoxy', 'The Thing' nor 'What's Wrong With the World' can claim to be his autobiography other than the Autobiography. It was lively, active, fun, light, serious intelligent, thoughtful and kind. Much how I imagine Chesterton to have been himself.
Chesterton's personality and the personality of the book (if books are allowed to have personality) shine for when discussing his long-time enemy/friends/sparring partner G.B. Shaw "And it is worth remarking that I have learned to have a warmer admiration and affection out of all that argument than most people get out of agreement." (p. 229)
And "my last American tour consisted of inflicting no less than ninety-nine lectures on people who never did me any harm" (p. 321)
The opening line of Chesterton's Autobiography was not a shot across the bow, but one aimed directly at the waterline of his intellectual opponents. But in classic good humour, Chesterton goes on for another 350 pages to show how he naturally came to his opinions through his childhood which he outgrew, but never escaped.
His 'Autobiography' was first published in 1936, the year he died, so one assumes that the ideas he puts forth are the summation of his intellectual life. In this book we have Chesterton at his best, his ideas are more complete than in Orthodoxy and his wit has no tempered with age but is more selective in the battles it chooses. No other book of his, neither 'Heretics', 'Orthodoxy', 'The Thing' nor 'What's Wrong With the World' can claim to be his autobiography other than the Autobiography. It was lively, active, fun, light, serious intelligent, thoughtful and kind. Much how I imagine Chesterton to have been himself.
Chesterton's personality and the personality of the book (if books are allowed to have personality) shine for when discussing his long-time enemy/friends/sparring partner G.B. Shaw "And it is worth remarking that I have learned to have a warmer admiration and affection out of all that argument than most people get out of agreement." (p. 229)
And "my last American tour consisted of inflicting no less than ninety-nine lectures on people who never did me any harm" (p. 321)
May 6, 2016
AMAZING! The only reason I don't give it 5 stars is because I had a little trouble following... probably my fault though.
What's great about this is that it is a story, the only time he makes a chronological remark he apologizes for it. It is his view on things and on different people, so much so that you end up knowing more about other people like his brother or his friend Belloc than him. This book is full of insight and, once more, common sense.
I recommend it to all Chesterton fans.
P.S. I also loved is insights on children. He really understands their nature.
What's great about this is that it is a story, the only time he makes a chronological remark he apologizes for it. It is his view on things and on different people, so much so that you end up knowing more about other people like his brother or his friend Belloc than him. This book is full of insight and, once more, common sense.
I recommend it to all Chesterton fans.
P.S. I also loved is insights on children. He really understands their nature.
March 7, 2024
Excellent, of course. Some of the accounts of GKC’s contemporaries and the details of British political views of his day are harder to follow all thee years later, but the heart of this book is Chesterton’s tale of his journey to Belief, and the Man with the Golden Key who is the One to cross the bridge and unlock all the doors on our behalf.
Currently reading
February 15, 2024Only a chapter in, but I can already tell this is going to be delightful.
October 2, 2023
I love Chesterton, but this is more of a rambling series of thoughts about different aspects of life as he experienced it than an autobiography. However, as with Chesterton, there is always gold to be found in his writings, and the last chapter has some treasure, such as the following: "it is not familiarity but comparison that breeds contempt." This took place within a conversation about gratitude and how we all experience small daily goodness, like (in my case) the scent of fresh mint or the ability to throw a golf disc of which we are totally unworthy and yet we have it. Therefore, when thinking rightly we are grateful, and, of course, the question arises, "To whom?" The answer is God. Such thinking by Chesterton I find refreshing simple and profound. So, my advice for fellow casual Chesterton enthusiasts is to skim or read the last chapter and don't bother with the whole book.
September 9, 2017
I'm a big fan of GKC. But I'm struggling with this. The writing is as only he can do. The stories are personal to him and don't mean as much to me as they should.
He is a genius.
He is a genius.
April 8, 2008
The photo on the front of this book says it all: G.K. Chesterton is a curmudgeon, and I have a weak spot for curmudgeons. Especially when they make me laugh out loud, while making extremely insightful observations. We read this out loud.
Currently reading
May 2, 2009This guy has great wit--from the very first page!
August 31, 2017
G.K. Chesterton is one of my favorite authors, and I chose this book for a reading group at work. Without the group, I'm not sure I would have made it through this book. Chesterton seems determined not to talk about himself very much in a book that is purportedly his autobiography, and much of what he writes about are controversies limited to his time and place.
I think one of the reasons Chesterton hasn't achieved the popularity of C.S. Lewis is because he is seen as being more mired in the controversies of his time (a consequence of his journalistic profession); the Autobiography does nothing to disabuse people of this opinion. Still, there are glimpses of the wit we know and love here, but this won't join my list of his best books.
I think one of the reasons Chesterton hasn't achieved the popularity of C.S. Lewis is because he is seen as being more mired in the controversies of his time (a consequence of his journalistic profession); the Autobiography does nothing to disabuse people of this opinion. Still, there are glimpses of the wit we know and love here, but this won't join my list of his best books.
January 3, 2020
This book is like a last long walk with an old friend under an evening sky.
Chesterton doesn't talk about himself so much as he does about the friends he has loved and the England he has known and the Truth he has come to know; and he doesn't use dates, which can make the timeline a tad vague; and it isn't at all an autobiography in the conventional sense of the word. But once you've gotten to know and love Chesterton, it's a must-read, beautiful and tender and amiable.
(Do get to know and love Chesterton first, though. Start with Father Brown or Orthodoxy or something.)
Chesterton doesn't talk about himself so much as he does about the friends he has loved and the England he has known and the Truth he has come to know; and he doesn't use dates, which can make the timeline a tad vague; and it isn't at all an autobiography in the conventional sense of the word. But once you've gotten to know and love Chesterton, it's a must-read, beautiful and tender and amiable.
(Do get to know and love Chesterton first, though. Start with Father Brown or Orthodoxy or something.)
October 5, 2022
If you're looking for a neat chronology of the events of Chesterton's life, look elsewhere. If you want a peek behind the curtain into the mind of a literary and philosophical genius, read this book. It's basically a number of anecdotes from Chesterton's life, along with his philosophizing about them. The last chapter pulled the book together for me and helped make sense of the rest. Another plus: he does vaguely attempt to explain what he meant by The Man Who Was Thursday.
April 14, 2019
Chesterton's, typically scatterbrained, look back at his own life is a joy to read. You may not learn much about the Chesterton the historical figure, but you will get to know Chesterton the man better.
May 9, 2021
I know this may be heresy for a lot of people but this was a slog. I could not get into it at all. I tried I really tried.
June 22, 2021
"The aim of life is appreciation; there is no sense in not appreciating things; and there is no sense in having more of them if you have less appreciation of them"
Fantastic utterly fantastic. This man is pure genius. Style unmatched.
Fantastic utterly fantastic. This man is pure genius. Style unmatched.
June 29, 2024
I so enjoyed reading the autobiography of GKC. As he did with his whole literary life, he used this book to tell very little about the details of his life, and very much about the ideas and philosophy of his life. Wonderful!
July 27, 2011
In his own initimable way, Chesterton jokes that earlier biographies he wrote on other lives never accomplished the task of telling the story of a person's life. In the same fashion, Chesterton concedes that the story of his own life is not comprehensively told in his autobiography. The outcome of this autobiographical sketch is an introduction into the places, people, and times which shaped G.K. Chesterton. Influential as these fixtures are in the understanding of Chesterton's life, it is the life and beauty of the Invisible God which directs the dramatic events that Chesterton experiences.
Chesterton enthusiasts probably never tire of his digressions into personalities, political events, and arguments that shaped late 19th and early 20th century Britain. But the Chesterton reader who doesn't consider himself an enthusiast will experience segments of the book that plod along. There is purpose in these encounters and stories for the narrative of Chesterton's life, but the impact is not directly theological. Chesterton the journalist is on center stage in the latter half of the book, before the concluding chapters which unite the opening stories of his childhood.
As I was reading these latter chapters on Chesterton's journalistic career, I sensed I would give this life story a 3-star rating, but the final two chapters brought the narrative into a cohesive whole that transformed its parts. I have a bad habit of leaving books unfinished when I plod through successive chapters that do not interest me. Had I not been reading this work with a reading group, I may have left this book unfinished. The discipline of a reading group proves the lesson and reward for finishing a work that isn't a "page-turner." The reward awaits at the end; not so much for a cliche twist, but for the sake of uniting the final components of a story into a cohesive whole. And the whole of the book is a worthwhile read, not simply for engaging Chesterton's story, but encountering Chesterton's God and the community that made Chesterton the man he was.
Chesterton enthusiasts probably never tire of his digressions into personalities, political events, and arguments that shaped late 19th and early 20th century Britain. But the Chesterton reader who doesn't consider himself an enthusiast will experience segments of the book that plod along. There is purpose in these encounters and stories for the narrative of Chesterton's life, but the impact is not directly theological. Chesterton the journalist is on center stage in the latter half of the book, before the concluding chapters which unite the opening stories of his childhood.
As I was reading these latter chapters on Chesterton's journalistic career, I sensed I would give this life story a 3-star rating, but the final two chapters brought the narrative into a cohesive whole that transformed its parts. I have a bad habit of leaving books unfinished when I plod through successive chapters that do not interest me. Had I not been reading this work with a reading group, I may have left this book unfinished. The discipline of a reading group proves the lesson and reward for finishing a work that isn't a "page-turner." The reward awaits at the end; not so much for a cliche twist, but for the sake of uniting the final components of a story into a cohesive whole. And the whole of the book is a worthwhile read, not simply for engaging Chesterton's story, but encountering Chesterton's God and the community that made Chesterton the man he was.
August 8, 2012
This is more a series of sketches than an autobiography. But many of them are quite good sketches. And there are some wonderful anecdotes as well. Just imagine Chesterton visiting the infinitely refined Henry James for the first time, and then Hillaire Belloc storming in dressed like a beggar looking for "Gilbert! Gilbert!" If this stuff were made up it wouldn't be realistic.
December 2, 2009
Wit and excellent storytelling abound in this book, although the false modesty irritated me sometimes. Chesterton's writing style resembles little eddies in a stream, always swirling around while moving along. The prose flows and is very readable.
Read
March 14, 2014Strategically and artistically placed beginning and ending chapters were beautiful and inspiring; middle chapters lagged, but provided many details about associations, influences, and contexts for his thinking and writing.
November 28, 2016
Rimarrebbe deluso chi pensasse di trovare in queste pagine un racconto puntuale intessuto di luoghi, fatti, incontri. Non manca - beninteso - nessuno di questi ingredienti, ma l'autobiografia di Chesterton, uscita postuma nel 1936, è soprattutto la storia di un'intelligenza e di un'anima che cercano, non senza incertezze e contraddizioni, la propria strada.
Sullo sfondo, evocato con tocchi magistrali, sta il difficile periodo di transizione tra XIX e XX secolo, con il crollo degli Imperi coloniali e il dramma della prima guerra mondiale. E dallo sfondo si affacciano le personalità del panorama politico e letterario con cui lo scrittore entra in contatto e su cui esercita la propria attitudine all'analisi per paradossi dell'uomo e della società, senza mai rinunciare alla sua impareggiabile vis polemica.
La nota segreta del testo - quella che risuona inconfondibile dietro le vicende e le battaglie quotidiane - è però la ricerca di una verità più grande di quella proposta dalle filosofie e dalle dottrine che occupavano (e occupano ancora) la scena contemporanea, una verità capace di cogliere l'umano nella sua complessità e integralità. L'approdo sarà, come è noto, la Chiesa cattolica, "dove tutte le verità si danno appuntamento".
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Non può esservi miglior prova dell'efficienza fisica di un uomo del suo discorrere allegramente di un viaggio alla fine del mondo. E non può esservi miglior prova dell'efficienza pratica di una nazione del suo discorrere continuamente di un viaggio alla fine del mondo, un viaggio verso il Giorno del Giudizio e la Nuova Gerusalemme. Non può esservi sintomo più evidente di una vigorosa salute fisica della tendenza a inseguire nobili e folli ideali; è nella prima esuberanza dell'infanzia che vogliamo la luna.
Nulla è più fallimentare del successo.
La razza umana, secondo la religione, cadde una volta, e cadendo acquisì la conoscenza del bene e del male. Oggi siamo caduti una seconda volta, e tutto ciò che ci resta è la conoscenza del male.
Forse mai dall'inizio del mondo vi è stata un'epoca che avesse meno diritto di usare la parola "progresso" dell'epoca attuale.
"Progresso" è una parola sacra, che può essere usata propriamente solo da fervidi credenti in epoche di fede.
Il noioso, con il suo brillante entusiasmo e la sua solenne felicità può, in un certo senso, essersi rivelato poetico.
Sono gli dèi a non stancarsi dell'iterazione delle cose; per loro, il crepuscolo è sempre nuovo e l'ultima rosa è rossa come la prima.
Imbucare una lettera e sposarsi sono tra le poche cose ancora assolutamente romantiche, perché per essere assolutamente romantica una cosa deve essere irrevocabile.
Nell'istante in cui abbiamo una visione dell'universo, lo possediamo.
Tutte le epoche e tutte le epopee hanno celebrato le armi e l'uomo; ma noi abbiamo prodotto contemporaneamente il deterioramento dell'uomo e lo straordinario perfezionamento delle armi.
Un uomo può aver imparato molto sulle donne amoreggiando eppure non aver mai conosciuto il primo amore; un uomo può aver attraversato più terre di Ulisse eppure non aver mai conosciuto il patriottismo.
Come può conoscere l'Inghilterra colui che conosce solo il mondo?
Il giramondo vive in un mondo più piccolo rispetto al contadino, respirando sempre un'aria locale. Londra è un luogo, paragonata a Chicago; Chicago è un luogo, paragonata a Timbuctù. Ma Timbuctù non è un luogo, perché almeno laggiù vivono uomini che la considerano l'universo e che respirano non un'aria locale, ma i venti del mondo.
L'uomo sulla nave da crociera ha visto tutte le razze umane e pensa alle cose che dividono gli uomini: alimentazione, abbigliamento, decoro, anelli al naso come in Africa o alle orecchie come in Europa, vernice blu tra gli antichi e vernice rossa tra i britannici moderni. L'uomo nel campo di cavoli non ha visto nulla, ma pensa alle cose che uniscono gli uomini: la fame, i figli, la bellezza delle donne, la promessa o la minaccia del cielo.
È sicuramente inebriante sfrecciare per il mondo in automobile vedendo l'Arabia come un vortice di sabbia o la Cina come un lampo di risaie. Ma l'Arabia non è un vortice di sabbia e la Cina non è un lampo di risaie. Sono antiche civiltà con strane virtù sepolte come tesori.
Il detto "la regola d'oro è che non esistono regole d'oro" può in realtà essere confutato semplicemente rovesciandolo. Il fatto che non esistano regole d'oro è già di per sé una regola d'oro. È anzi molto peggio di una regola d'oro: è una regola ferrea, un ostacolo al primo movimento dell'uomo.
Quando vediamo davvero gli uomini per come sono, non li critichiamo ma li veneriamo; e a buon diritto. Poiché un mostro con occhi misteriosi e pollici miracolosi, con strani sogni in testa e un curioso affetto per un certo luogo o una certa creatura, è un tema splendido e spaventoso.
L'uomo che disse: "Beato colui che non si aspetta nulla, perché non verrà deluso", fa una lode alquanto inadeguata e addirittura fasulla. La verità è: "Beato colui che non si aspetta nulla, perché verrà piacevolmente sorpreso". L'uomo che non si aspetta nulla vede le rose più rosse rispetto agli uomini comuni, l'erba più verde e il sole più abbagliante. Beato colui che non si aspetta nulla, perché possiederà le città e le montagne; beato il mite, perché erediterà la terra.
La cosa preziosa e adorabile ai nostri occhi è l'uomo, il vecchio uomo combattivo, debole, dissoluto e rispettabile che beve birra e inventa credi. E le cose fondate su questa creatura rimangono in eterno; le cose fondate sulla fantasia del Superuomo sono morte con le civiltà morenti che da sole le hanno create. Quando Cristo in un momento simbolico fondò la Sua grande società, scelse come pietra angolare non il brillante Paolo né il mistico Giovanni, ma un arruffone, uno snob, un codardo, in una parola: un uomo.
Dovremmo interessarci al lato più oscuro e reale di un uomo, in cui risiedono non i vizi che mostra, ma le virtù che non può mostrare.
La verità è che non vi è nulla per cui gli uomini siano disposti a compiere forzi erculei più delle cose di cui sanno di non essere degni.
È l'uomo umile che fa le grandi cose, è l'uomo umile che fa le cose audaci.
Il forte non può essere coraggioso. Solo il debole può esserlo.
Nel corso del nostro anno triste e razionale, sopravvive una sola festività tra le antiche e allegre ricorrenze un tempo diffuse in tutto il mondo. Il Natale continua a ricordarci le epoche, pagane o cristiane, in cui invece di poche persone che scrivevano poesie, ve ne erano molte che le recitavano.
Bevi perché sei felice, ma mai perché sei triste. Non bere mai quando non farlo ti rende infelice, o sarai come il bevitore di gin dal volto tetro dei bassifondi; ma se bevi quando saresti felice anche senza bere sarai come l'allegro contadino italiano. Non bere mai perché ne hai bisogno, poiché questo è un atto razionale che ti porta dritto alla morte e all'inferno. Ma bevi perché non ne hai bisogno, poiché questo è un atto irrazionale e l'antica salute del mondo.
Sullo sfondo, evocato con tocchi magistrali, sta il difficile periodo di transizione tra XIX e XX secolo, con il crollo degli Imperi coloniali e il dramma della prima guerra mondiale. E dallo sfondo si affacciano le personalità del panorama politico e letterario con cui lo scrittore entra in contatto e su cui esercita la propria attitudine all'analisi per paradossi dell'uomo e della società, senza mai rinunciare alla sua impareggiabile vis polemica.
La nota segreta del testo - quella che risuona inconfondibile dietro le vicende e le battaglie quotidiane - è però la ricerca di una verità più grande di quella proposta dalle filosofie e dalle dottrine che occupavano (e occupano ancora) la scena contemporanea, una verità capace di cogliere l'umano nella sua complessità e integralità. L'approdo sarà, come è noto, la Chiesa cattolica, "dove tutte le verità si danno appuntamento".
----
Non può esservi miglior prova dell'efficienza fisica di un uomo del suo discorrere allegramente di un viaggio alla fine del mondo. E non può esservi miglior prova dell'efficienza pratica di una nazione del suo discorrere continuamente di un viaggio alla fine del mondo, un viaggio verso il Giorno del Giudizio e la Nuova Gerusalemme. Non può esservi sintomo più evidente di una vigorosa salute fisica della tendenza a inseguire nobili e folli ideali; è nella prima esuberanza dell'infanzia che vogliamo la luna.
Nulla è più fallimentare del successo.
La razza umana, secondo la religione, cadde una volta, e cadendo acquisì la conoscenza del bene e del male. Oggi siamo caduti una seconda volta, e tutto ciò che ci resta è la conoscenza del male.
Forse mai dall'inizio del mondo vi è stata un'epoca che avesse meno diritto di usare la parola "progresso" dell'epoca attuale.
"Progresso" è una parola sacra, che può essere usata propriamente solo da fervidi credenti in epoche di fede.
Il noioso, con il suo brillante entusiasmo e la sua solenne felicità può, in un certo senso, essersi rivelato poetico.
Sono gli dèi a non stancarsi dell'iterazione delle cose; per loro, il crepuscolo è sempre nuovo e l'ultima rosa è rossa come la prima.
Imbucare una lettera e sposarsi sono tra le poche cose ancora assolutamente romantiche, perché per essere assolutamente romantica una cosa deve essere irrevocabile.
Nell'istante in cui abbiamo una visione dell'universo, lo possediamo.
Tutte le epoche e tutte le epopee hanno celebrato le armi e l'uomo; ma noi abbiamo prodotto contemporaneamente il deterioramento dell'uomo e lo straordinario perfezionamento delle armi.
Un uomo può aver imparato molto sulle donne amoreggiando eppure non aver mai conosciuto il primo amore; un uomo può aver attraversato più terre di Ulisse eppure non aver mai conosciuto il patriottismo.
Come può conoscere l'Inghilterra colui che conosce solo il mondo?
Il giramondo vive in un mondo più piccolo rispetto al contadino, respirando sempre un'aria locale. Londra è un luogo, paragonata a Chicago; Chicago è un luogo, paragonata a Timbuctù. Ma Timbuctù non è un luogo, perché almeno laggiù vivono uomini che la considerano l'universo e che respirano non un'aria locale, ma i venti del mondo.
L'uomo sulla nave da crociera ha visto tutte le razze umane e pensa alle cose che dividono gli uomini: alimentazione, abbigliamento, decoro, anelli al naso come in Africa o alle orecchie come in Europa, vernice blu tra gli antichi e vernice rossa tra i britannici moderni. L'uomo nel campo di cavoli non ha visto nulla, ma pensa alle cose che uniscono gli uomini: la fame, i figli, la bellezza delle donne, la promessa o la minaccia del cielo.
È sicuramente inebriante sfrecciare per il mondo in automobile vedendo l'Arabia come un vortice di sabbia o la Cina come un lampo di risaie. Ma l'Arabia non è un vortice di sabbia e la Cina non è un lampo di risaie. Sono antiche civiltà con strane virtù sepolte come tesori.
Il detto "la regola d'oro è che non esistono regole d'oro" può in realtà essere confutato semplicemente rovesciandolo. Il fatto che non esistano regole d'oro è già di per sé una regola d'oro. È anzi molto peggio di una regola d'oro: è una regola ferrea, un ostacolo al primo movimento dell'uomo.
Quando vediamo davvero gli uomini per come sono, non li critichiamo ma li veneriamo; e a buon diritto. Poiché un mostro con occhi misteriosi e pollici miracolosi, con strani sogni in testa e un curioso affetto per un certo luogo o una certa creatura, è un tema splendido e spaventoso.
L'uomo che disse: "Beato colui che non si aspetta nulla, perché non verrà deluso", fa una lode alquanto inadeguata e addirittura fasulla. La verità è: "Beato colui che non si aspetta nulla, perché verrà piacevolmente sorpreso". L'uomo che non si aspetta nulla vede le rose più rosse rispetto agli uomini comuni, l'erba più verde e il sole più abbagliante. Beato colui che non si aspetta nulla, perché possiederà le città e le montagne; beato il mite, perché erediterà la terra.
La cosa preziosa e adorabile ai nostri occhi è l'uomo, il vecchio uomo combattivo, debole, dissoluto e rispettabile che beve birra e inventa credi. E le cose fondate su questa creatura rimangono in eterno; le cose fondate sulla fantasia del Superuomo sono morte con le civiltà morenti che da sole le hanno create. Quando Cristo in un momento simbolico fondò la Sua grande società, scelse come pietra angolare non il brillante Paolo né il mistico Giovanni, ma un arruffone, uno snob, un codardo, in una parola: un uomo.
Dovremmo interessarci al lato più oscuro e reale di un uomo, in cui risiedono non i vizi che mostra, ma le virtù che non può mostrare.
La verità è che non vi è nulla per cui gli uomini siano disposti a compiere forzi erculei più delle cose di cui sanno di non essere degni.
È l'uomo umile che fa le grandi cose, è l'uomo umile che fa le cose audaci.
Il forte non può essere coraggioso. Solo il debole può esserlo.
Nel corso del nostro anno triste e razionale, sopravvive una sola festività tra le antiche e allegre ricorrenze un tempo diffuse in tutto il mondo. Il Natale continua a ricordarci le epoche, pagane o cristiane, in cui invece di poche persone che scrivevano poesie, ve ne erano molte che le recitavano.
Bevi perché sei felice, ma mai perché sei triste. Non bere mai quando non farlo ti rende infelice, o sarai come il bevitore di gin dal volto tetro dei bassifondi; ma se bevi quando saresti felice anche senza bere sarai come l'allegro contadino italiano. Non bere mai perché ne hai bisogno, poiché questo è un atto razionale che ti porta dritto alla morte e all'inferno. Ma bevi perché non ne hai bisogno, poiché questo è un atto irrazionale e l'antica salute del mondo.
March 9, 2025
It's official: I just like Chesterton. I'd like him as a friend. I'd like him as a mentor. He makes me laugh out loud. His ability to poke fun at the paradoxes we hold within ourselves is at times ironic and delightful and meaningful.
You might disagree with his opinions, and say what you might: he doesn't hold one unless he's able to fully and thoroughly articulate why he holds it. He never stops halfway. And like a good philosopher, he also never refuses to listen. How many can say the same?
His glimpse into the media and political landscapes of 1900-1930 is illuminating with similarities to today. It makes one realize with a groan or a reassurance how little has changed.
If you were wondering about his opinions as to the ultimate cause of WWI, his answer is whole-hearted: plutocracy. He will argue it to the ground. Interesting that his comment about America from his trips and lectures here is that "The Americans have seen more plutocracy than anybody".
If you were wondering about his feeling of how a person should lead his life, as he writes within three weeks of his death, his answer is whole-hearted: with appreciation. "The aim of life is appreciation; there is no sense in not appreciating things; and there is no sense in having more of them if you have less appreciation of them."
And, finally, in his talking of appreciation, his belief is that it ultimately comes from both humility and wonder. To look inside oneself to see the truth of who you are with all foibles and weaknesses and yet to still understand that there, both within and without, can be found wonder.
You might disagree with his opinions, and say what you might: he doesn't hold one unless he's able to fully and thoroughly articulate why he holds it. He never stops halfway. And like a good philosopher, he also never refuses to listen. How many can say the same?
His glimpse into the media and political landscapes of 1900-1930 is illuminating with similarities to today. It makes one realize with a groan or a reassurance how little has changed.
If you were wondering about his opinions as to the ultimate cause of WWI, his answer is whole-hearted: plutocracy. He will argue it to the ground. Interesting that his comment about America from his trips and lectures here is that "The Americans have seen more plutocracy than anybody".
If you were wondering about his feeling of how a person should lead his life, as he writes within three weeks of his death, his answer is whole-hearted: with appreciation. "The aim of life is appreciation; there is no sense in not appreciating things; and there is no sense in having more of them if you have less appreciation of them."
And, finally, in his talking of appreciation, his belief is that it ultimately comes from both humility and wonder. To look inside oneself to see the truth of who you are with all foibles and weaknesses and yet to still understand that there, both within and without, can be found wonder.
March 24, 2022
It has many good parts - the inspiration behind the Father Brown stories, his musings on what caused WW1, Belloc's 60th birthday party - but I can't say I enjoyed this one. GKC's oblique approach to everything got on my nerves. You are no wiser about the details of his life after reading this book. It is filled with sentences like these:
"I first met George Wyndham at Taplow, at the house of Lord and Lady Desborough, who had long been very good friends to me as to many literary people of all colours and opinions;"
I reckon you would need to be pretty well acquainted with the major and minor public characters in England from 1900 to 1930 to appreciate the book.
Some fun quotes:
For the Protestant world in England today is a very curious and subtle thing, which it would not become me to criticise; but this may be said of it without offence, that while it is naturally a little disturbed by a Protestant accepting Catholicism, it is far more terribly disturbed by any Protestant who still preserves Protestantism.
I remember when he was asked whether the Church was not corrupt and crying out for the Reformation, he answered with disconcerting warmth, “Who can doubt it? How horrible must have been the corruption which could have tolerated for so long three Catholic priests like John Knox and John Calvin and Martin Luther.”
"I first met George Wyndham at Taplow, at the house of Lord and Lady Desborough, who had long been very good friends to me as to many literary people of all colours and opinions;"
I reckon you would need to be pretty well acquainted with the major and minor public characters in England from 1900 to 1930 to appreciate the book.
Some fun quotes:
For the Protestant world in England today is a very curious and subtle thing, which it would not become me to criticise; but this may be said of it without offence, that while it is naturally a little disturbed by a Protestant accepting Catholicism, it is far more terribly disturbed by any Protestant who still preserves Protestantism.
I remember when he was asked whether the Church was not corrupt and crying out for the Reformation, he answered with disconcerting warmth, “Who can doubt it? How horrible must have been the corruption which could have tolerated for so long three Catholic priests like John Knox and John Calvin and Martin Luther.”
February 7, 2022
I can’t see giving an autobiography anything less than five stars. The subject writes the book, offers the details, and tells the story. Whether the reader accepts, appreciates or understands them, well, that’s for the reader decide. With Chesterton, that to me stands true.
The most difficult chapters of Chesterton’s autobiography are chapters one and two. He writes of people and a time, the late-Victorian period, which I know little or none of, but as an engaged grandchild might, I listened to the old voice talking of a past I know nothing of. Chesterton does that well. His voice, his writing voice, stays true whether he was penning novels, essays, criticism or short stories.
He offers up, as he deems so, the relevant events, people and thoughts of his life. He reveals his thoughts on his work, his father and other family, his brother Cecil who died in the Great War, and friends. Many of those friends were well known and quite successful in their time as well.
If the devil is in the details, warmth and joy are in the details of Chesterton’s life. His toy theater was not just a toy but an important entertainment—hobby which he enjoyed all his life. He saw lessons in the tales that he created there and read in the words of others such as George MacDonald. Also, Hilary Belloc, a close friend and writer who Chesterton collaborated and cavorted with.
Chesterton wrote of his time and the way he saw it, and he wrote of how those critics, when he was in his sixties and they were younger than he, couldn’t put him and that past into context. This is something which is true now. Those who would criticism him are unable to put Chesterton’s life in context with the world he lived in. But that inability to do so seems almost universal in what is now call the post-modern world.
To enjoy G. K. Chesterton’s autobiography, I suggest that one should sit on his knee, as if he were your favorite grandfather and ‘listen.’
The most difficult chapters of Chesterton’s autobiography are chapters one and two. He writes of people and a time, the late-Victorian period, which I know little or none of, but as an engaged grandchild might, I listened to the old voice talking of a past I know nothing of. Chesterton does that well. His voice, his writing voice, stays true whether he was penning novels, essays, criticism or short stories.
He offers up, as he deems so, the relevant events, people and thoughts of his life. He reveals his thoughts on his work, his father and other family, his brother Cecil who died in the Great War, and friends. Many of those friends were well known and quite successful in their time as well.
If the devil is in the details, warmth and joy are in the details of Chesterton’s life. His toy theater was not just a toy but an important entertainment—hobby which he enjoyed all his life. He saw lessons in the tales that he created there and read in the words of others such as George MacDonald. Also, Hilary Belloc, a close friend and writer who Chesterton collaborated and cavorted with.
Chesterton wrote of his time and the way he saw it, and he wrote of how those critics, when he was in his sixties and they were younger than he, couldn’t put him and that past into context. This is something which is true now. Those who would criticism him are unable to put Chesterton’s life in context with the world he lived in. But that inability to do so seems almost universal in what is now call the post-modern world.
To enjoy G. K. Chesterton’s autobiography, I suggest that one should sit on his knee, as if he were your favorite grandfather and ‘listen.’
February 8, 2022
I think I had more fun reading this than I have with any other book I’ve read in (at least) the past 3 or 4 months. Probably more.
Funny enough, I loved it for some of the same reasons that lots of people disdain Chesterton’s work: sentences are meandering and pithy and paradoxical and anecdotal, full of witticism and wordplay and probably too many semicolons. But the author is frank enough about this, and he’s got a kind-of self effacing charm that really tends to disarm. I already liked Chesterton; now, I think I love him.
I would recommend this book almost unequivocally. ‘Almost’ because you’ll probably be frustrated if you’re looking for a linear, straightforward narrative of Chesterton’s life or a didactic treatment of his philosophies of religion, politics, journalism, etc. But if you’re content to read Chesterton on Chesterton’s terms, you’ll love it.
A rollicking journey through early-20th century England’s high-literary and journalistic circles, told by a dissident, an artist, a Catholic. Fantastic.
Funny enough, I loved it for some of the same reasons that lots of people disdain Chesterton’s work: sentences are meandering and pithy and paradoxical and anecdotal, full of witticism and wordplay and probably too many semicolons. But the author is frank enough about this, and he’s got a kind-of self effacing charm that really tends to disarm. I already liked Chesterton; now, I think I love him.
I would recommend this book almost unequivocally. ‘Almost’ because you’ll probably be frustrated if you’re looking for a linear, straightforward narrative of Chesterton’s life or a didactic treatment of his philosophies of religion, politics, journalism, etc. But if you’re content to read Chesterton on Chesterton’s terms, you’ll love it.
A rollicking journey through early-20th century England’s high-literary and journalistic circles, told by a dissident, an artist, a Catholic. Fantastic.
January 29, 2018
I approach reading like one of those birds that goes about collecting shiny trinkets for its nest from wherever it can find them. What I keep in my nest is my own sense of Northernness (see C.S. Lewis, Surprised by Joy ). Ever since I was a child my mission has been to preserve and build on the Northernness. So I approached this book thinking that it would be a treasure trove of Chestertonian baubles and twigs, of which I already have an impressive collection hidden away. I was wrong. The gems are here, but they are few and far between, spread across deserts of talk about the politics and societies and journalistic industries of Chesterton’s time. If I was interested in Chesterton himself and in getting a complete picture of his thought and context, this might have been a good read; but since I am not I found it exhausting. Readers less selfish than I may find this a better read. The final chapter was wonderful and it alone is merits the third star.
March 16, 2021
My least favorite of Chesterton's works thus far. He has moments of brilliance and delightful humor, but for an autobiography, he spends a whole lot of time not talking about himself. It gets bogged down (especially in the second half) with a whole lot of politics. As the book goes on, it becomes less about Chesterton than about the people he spent time with--I wasn't reading it for them, I was reading it for him. (And to be honest, the people I *did* want to know more about--his wife, Frances! George Bernard Shaw!--didn't feature heavily.)
I'm glad that I read it after Defiant Joy (a Chesterton biography), so I had a decent idea of the general trajectory of his life. And I am glad that I finished it--it's certainly worth reading for any fan of Chesterton's--it just won't be a highlight of my Year of Chesterton.
I'm glad that I read it after Defiant Joy (a Chesterton biography), so I had a decent idea of the general trajectory of his life. And I am glad that I finished it--it's certainly worth reading for any fan of Chesterton's--it just won't be a highlight of my Year of Chesterton.
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