G.K. Chesterton, página 11 de 39

Gilbert ChestertonEste ensayo, dedicado a varios "herejes" célebres del momento, como Shaw, Wells y Kipling, es uno de los mejores que escribió. Es muy característico de Chesterton el hecho de que al final de su vida fuera amigo de los escritores, politicos y lideres intelectuales y religiosos britanicos a quienes habia tildado de herejes. Dominada por el espiritu jovial de su autor, esta obra muestra la altura de su vuelo intelectual y permite al lector hallar en sus paginas ideas y palabras que emocionan, conmueven y suponen un reto para las mentes inquietas. Lo que anima su espiritu es el amor al hombre con sus defectos y debilidades, y sobre todo por su capacidad para amar, pues Chesterton es un enamorado y un entusiasta de la vida: "No hay en el mundo un tema que no sea interesante; lo que si puede haber son personas que no se interesen por ellos".

One of the most idiosyncratic detectives in English fiction, Father Brown is the 'stumpy little curé of Essex' with an intuitive gift for solving even the most puzzling and paradoxical crimes. A small, disorganized, ordinary priest, Father Brown is an unlikely genius when it comes to piecing together strange and mysterious clues. Yet his ingenuity and intuition are unsurpassed, and his gift for deduction raises him to the top rank of investigators. The stories in this volume are brimming with original and witty ideas, some of which turn the classic mystery story on its head. Father Brown himself, inept, unworldly but extremely astute, also breaks with tradition in becoming one of the great men of detective fiction.

Here you will find the complete Father Brown stories in the chronological order of their original publication.- The Innocence of Father Brown- The Wisdom of Father Brown- The Donnington Affair- The Incredulity of Father Brown- The Secret of Father Brown- The Scandal of Father Brown- The Mask of Midas

Can you trust yourself when you don't know who you are? Syme uses his new acquaintance to go undercover in Europe's Central Anarchist Council and infiltrate their deadly mission, even managing to have himself voted to the position of 'Thursday'. In a park in London, secret policeman Gabriel Syme strikes up a conversation with an anarchist. Sworn to do his duty, when Syme discovers another undercover policeman on the Council, however, he starts to question his role in their operations. And as a desperate chase across Europe begins, his confusion grows, as well as his confidence in his ability to outwit his enemies. But he has still to face the greatest terror that the Council has - its leader: a man named Sunday, whose true nature is worse than Syme could ever have imagined. …

Las biografías de los grandes artistas siempre han sido mejores cuando son narradas desde la óptica de una inteligencia de igual o superior magnitud. En este caso, es todo un lujo que hoy podamos disfrutar de la mirada que un ingles decente como Chesterton dedico a un enigmatico y casi sobrenatural William Blake.

«Creer significa admitir algo como verdadero. Creemos cuando damos nuestro asentimiento definitiva e incuestionablemente. Una opinión no es una creencia. La fe implica certeza».Razones para la fe es

El color de España y otros ensayos, inédito hasta ahora entre nosotros, lleva por título en su primera edición inglesa The Glass walking-stick and other essays (1955) y es una buena muestra de esa universal curiosidad presente siempre en Chesterton y de su originalisima, peleona y buenhumorada vision del mundo.

Uns arbres exotics portats de l’Àfrica creixen dins les terres de la família Vane a Cornualla. El seu aspecte fantasmagoric atemoreix els habitants de la regió, alhora que uns misteriosos personatges

I have never managed to lose my old conviction that travel narrows the mind. At least a man must make a double effort of moral humility and imaginative energy to prevent it from narrowing his mind. Indeed there is something touching and even tragic about the thought of the thoughtless tourist, who might have stayed at home loving Laplanders, embracing Chinamen, and clasping Patagonians to his heart in Hampstead or Surbiton, but for his blind and suicidal impulse to go and see what they looked like. This is not meant for nonsense; still less is it meant for the silliest sort of nonsense, which is cynicism. The human bond that he feels at home is not an illusion. On the contrary, it is rather an inner reality. Man is inside all men. In a real sense any man may be inside any men.

De detrás de la roca que sobresalía surgió un ruido y un movimiento fugaz parecido al de un ferrocarril, y apareció un gran automóvil. Su negra silueta recortada contra el sol coronaba la cima de la montaña, como un carro lanzandose hacia la destruccion en una desenfrenada epopeya... En una fraccion de segundo, el vehiculo dejo atras el saliente del peñasco como una nave voladora; a continuacion el cielo empezo a girar como una rueda, y el vehiculo quedo destrozado en medio de los altos pastos de abajo... Un poco mas adelante, la figura de un hombre de pelo cano yacia en la empinada pendiente verde, con las extremidades descoyuntadas y el rostro vuelto... Sin duda estaba muerto. La hierba se empapaba con la sangre que brotaba de una fractura mortal en la parte posterior del craneo; pero el rostro, vuelto hacia el sol, estaba ileso y resultaba extrañamente fascinante. Era uno de esos rostros extraños y tan inconfundibles que resultan familiares.

THE consulting-rooms of Dr Orion Hood, the eminent criminologist and specialist in certain moral disorders, lay along the sea-front at Scarborough, in a series of very large and well-lighted french windows, which showed the North Sea like one endless outer wall of blue-green marble. In such a place the sea had something of the monotony of a blue-green dado: for the chambers themselves were ruled throughout by a terrible tidiness not unlike the terrible tidiness of the sea. It must not be supposed that Dr Hoods apartments excluded luxury, or even poetry. These things were there, in their place; but one felt that they were never allowed out of their place. Luxury was there: there stood upon a special table eight or ten boxes of the best cigars; but they were built upon a plan so that the strongest were always nearest the wall and the mildest nearest the window.

"Once, there was a man who went crazy from too much reading. He only read books about knighthood; that was the problem." So begins this charming retelling of Don Quixote de la Mancha, one of the most entertaining books ever written.Young people will delight in the hilarious adventures of the idealistic would-be knight and his "squire," Sancho Panza, as they set out to right the wrongs of the world. Ms. Palacios, a talented storyteller, captures all the flavor and irony of the original as the two heroes ride forth to conquer evil. Along the way the well-meaning but addled knight-errand mistakes a miserable inn and its keeper for a castle and its lord; imagines an ordinary peasant girl to be the noble lady Dulcinea, perceives windmills as giants to be overcome, and gets enmeshed in other cases of mistaken identity.

The flying ship of Professor Lucifer sang through the skies like a silver arrow; the bleak white steel of it, gleaming in the bleak blue emptiness of the evening. That it was far above the earth was no expression for it; to the two men in it, it seemed to be far above the stars. The professor had himself invented the flying machine, and had also invented nearly everything in it. Every sort of tool or apparatus had, in consequence, to the full, that fantastic and distorted look which belongs to the miracles of science. For the world of science and evolution is far more nameless and elusive and like a dream than the world of poetry and religion; since in the latter images and ideas remain themselves eternally, while it is the whole idea of evolution that identities melt into each other as they do in a nightmare.

HAROLD MARCH, the rising reviewer and social critic, was walking vigorously across a great tableland of moors and commons, the horizon of which was fringed with the far-off woods of the famous estate of Torwood Park. He was a good-looking young man in tweeds, with very pale curly hair and pale clear eyes. Walking in wind and sun in the very landscape of liberty, he was still young enough to remember his politics and not merely try to forget them. For his errand at Torwood Park was a political one; it was the place of appointment named by no less a person than the Chancellor of the Exchequer, Sir Howard Horne, then introducing his so-called Socialist budget, and prepared to expound it in an interview with so promising a penman. Harold March was the sort of man who knows everything about politics, and nothing about politicians. He also knew a great deal about art, letters, philosophy, and general culture; about almost everything, indeed, except the world he was living in.

Once upon a time there were two little boys who lived chiefly in the front garden, because their villa was a model one. The front garden was about the same size as the dinner table; it consisted of four strips of gravel, a square of turf with some mysterious pieces of cork standing up in the middle and one flower bed with a row of red daisies. One morning while they were at play in these romantic grounds, a passing individual, probably the milkman, leaned over the railing and engaged them in philosophical conversation. The boys, whom we will call Paul and Peter, were at least sharply interested in his remarks. For the milkman (who was, I need say, a fairy) did his duty in that state of life by offering them in the regulation manner anything that they chose to ask for. And Paul closed with the offer with a business-like abruptness, explaining that he had long wished to be a giant that he might stride across continents and oceans and visit Niagara or the Himalayas in an afternoon dinner stroll.

THE human race, to which so many of my readers belong, has been playing at childrens games from the beginning, and will probably do it till the end, which is a nuisance for the few people who grow up. And one of the games to which it is most attached is called, "Keep tomorrow dark," and which is also named (by the rustics in Shropshire, I have no doubt) "Cheat the Prophet." The players listen very carefully and respectfully to all that the clever men have to say about what is to happen in the next generation. The players then wait until all the clever men are dead, and bury them nicely. They then go and do something else. That is all. For a race of simple tastes, however, it is great fun.

A book of modern social inquiry has a shape that is somewhat sharply defined. It begins as a rule with an analysis, with statistics, tables of population, decrease of crime among Congregationalists, growth of hysteria among policemen, and similar ascertained facts; it ends with a chapter that is generally called "The Remedy." It is almost wholly due to this careful, solid, and scientific method that "The Remedy" is never found. For this scheme of medical question and answer is a blunder; the first great blunder of sociology. It is always called stating the disease before we find the cure. But it is the whole definition and dignity of man that in social matters we must actually find the cure before we find the disease.

I cannot understand the people who take literature seriously; but I can love them, and I do. Out of my love I warn them to keep clear of this book. It is a collection of crude and shapeless papers upon current or rather flying subjects; and they must be published pretty much as they stand. They were written, as a rule, at the last moment; they were handed in the moment before it was too late, and I do not think that our commonwealth would have been shaken to its foundations if they had been handed in the moment after. They must go out now, with all their imperfections on their head, or rather on mine; for their vices are too vital to be improved with a blue pencil, or with anything I can think of, except dynamite.

The end of the longest room at Seawood Abbey was full of light; for the walls were almost made of windows and it projected upon a terraced part of the garden above the park on an almost cloudless morning. Murrel, called Monkey for some reason that everybody had forgotten, and Olive Ashley were taking advantage of the light to occupy themselves with painting; though she was painting on a very small scale and he on a very large one. She was laying out peculiar pigments very carefully, in imitation of the flat jewellery of medieval illumination, for which she had a great enthusiasm, as part of a rather vague notion of a historic past. He, on, he other hand, was highly modern, and was occupied with several pails full of very crude colours and with brushes which reached the stature of brooms. With these he was laying about him on large sheets of lath and canvas, which were to act as scenery in some private theatricals then in preparation. They could not paint, either of them; nor did they imagine that they could. But she was in some sense trying to do so; and he was not.