It is the 141st birthday of a writer for whom I can never repay the debt which I owe him. The clarity of his writing, along with the breadth of his thinking is, quite simply, astonishing to experience (whether or not you agree with him), as is the sheer ridiculousness of his prolificacy. I refer to G.K. Chesterton, a man who, all pictures to the contrary, was a writer of a profoundly uproarious nature. The humor is sprinkled liberally, throughout his writing. No less than George Bernard Shaw and H.G. Wells were his almost constant sparring partners – and yet Chesterton’s criticisms were of such a warm nature, that he remained good friends with them; in spite of their disagreements.