All posts tagged: G.K. Chesterton

Etc., etc., etc…

I once posted something to the effect that I couldn’t possibly write something each and every day; there just isn’t enough things worth mentioning, much less reading about… Silly rabbit… The problem these days seems to be that there are entirely too many things that need to be said, discussed and challenged, and the problem, at least for me, is to keep from falling into the gaping abyss of pessimism and depression by the sheer magnitude of the tasks before us. Yes, US… I not doing this alone, people… Someone put the nit-twit down and help me… If anyone is even reading this, which I, for one, don’t really believe. But that’s not why one writes, or, at least, not why I write. In the academic world there’s a fairly well accepted maxim that runs “publish or perish.’ For me, it’s publish or scream. And the world is already a much too noisy place as it is… Yes, this blog could be construed as adding to the noise, but, since no one reads it, it …

The English Poetic Mind by Charles Williams – an appreciation, of sorts…

Charles Williams, a contemporary and friend of C.S. Lewis and J.R.R. Tolkien, wrote prolifically about many things, among them literary criticism, plays and poetry, as well as seven wholly remarkable novels, which to this day remain on my must read (and re-read) short list. I find myself agreeing with Lewis in the belief that if a book is worth reading at all, it is worth re-reading many times. A book which, upon a second reading, no matter how much it might have engaged us on the first pass, fails to rekindle the excitement, the wonder, that out-of-body sense of other-worldliness, is a book that probably didn’t elicit those reactions the first time through, but held us through sheer novelty, whether via technical innovation or obtrusiveness of subject matter…

Upon returning home from abroad…

G. K. Chesterton once wrote (actually he wrote it, in various forms, many times) that the only way to discover one’s home was to leave it; that once he had become habituated to the point of no longer being able to actually see it the only cure was to go away on an extended vacation (or holiday, as the Europeans like to refer to it), for the express purpose not of seeing new places but of rediscovering an old one. It was only after having immersed himself in a different environment that he was able to see his home with fresh vision, as it were… He even based a substantial portion of the book Manalive upon this theme…