The most immediately striking thing about the English Roman Catholics—I don’t mean the real Catholics, I mean the converts: Ronald Knox, Arnold Lunn et hoc genus—is their intense self-consciousness. Apparently they never think, certainly they never write, about anything but the fact that they are Roman Catholics; this single fact and the self-praise resulting from it form the entire stock-in-trade of the Catholic literary man. But the really interesting thing about
There is a certain justice in that.
