KRAKER’S KORNER

G.K. CHESTERTON

              Since my college days, I have been a great fan of G.K Chesterton, British writer and apologist for the Catholic Church. In the first half of the 20th century England was blessed with many gifted Catholic writers, Chesterton was probably the most gifted of all.  His works include essays, novels, mystery stories, poems, literary criticism, and an autobiography in which he writes:

              “...I am firmly of the opinion that I was born on the 29th of May, 1874...and baptized according to the formularies of the Church of England in the little church of St. George opposite the large Waterworks Tower...I do not allege any significance in the relation of the two buildings; and I indignantly deny the church was chosen because it needed the whole water-power of West London to turn me into a Christian.”

              Often he is described as a master of paradox, and that he certainly was. His writings are sprinkled with mind twisters like this: “In a paradox that doesn’t disturb me now in the least, it may be that I shall never again have such complete assurance that [Catholicism] is true as I did when I made my last effort to deny it.”

              Like so many prodigious thinkers, Chesterton was apparently very absent minded. His maid standing outside the bathroom, waiting to get in and mop up after his bath, for he always let the tub overflow, suddenly she heard a loud splash, followed by Chesterton moaning: “I’ve been in here already.”

              In the past year a new and exhaustive biography was published, G.K. Chesterton: A Biography, by Ian Ker. I don’t know if I will ever get to read it, but I will continue to read Chesterton, since I was able to purchase several hundred of his works for just a few dollars on my Kindle.

              I chose to speak about Chesterton at my first appearance in the speaking contest at the seminary. I didn’t win the contest, but I still have the speech, and ended it with this quote.

                                                      High in the wreck I held the cup,

I clutched my rusty sword,

I cocked my tattered feather

To the glory of the Lord;

Not undone were the heaven and earth,

This hollow world thrown up,

Before one man had stood up straight

And drained it like a cup.