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…mehr
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. Their chief vice is that so many of them are very serious; because I had no time to make them flippant. It is so easy to be solemn; it is so hard to be frivolous. Let any honest reader shut his eyes for a few moments, and approaching the secret tribunal of his soul, ask himself whether he would really rather be asked in the next two hours to write the front page of the Times, which is full of long leading articles, or the front page of Tit-Bits, which is full of short jokes. If the reader is the fine conscientious fellow I take him for, he will at once reply that he would rather on the spur of the moment write ten Times articles than one Tit-Bits joke.Hinweis: Dieser Artikel kann nur an eine deutsche Lieferadresse ausgeliefert werden.
G. K. Chesterton (1874-1936) was a prolific English writer, philosopher, lay theologian, and literary and art critic. He is best known in mystery circles as the creator of the fictional priest-detective Father Brown and for the metaphysical thriller The Man Who Was Thursday. Often referred to as "the prince of paradox," Chesterton frequently made his points by turning familiar sayings and proverbs inside out. Chesterton attended the Slade School of Art, a department of University College London, where he took classes in illustration and literature, though he did not complete a degree in either subject. In 1895, at the age of twenty-one, he began working for the London publisher George Redway. A year later he moved to another publisher, T. Fisher Unwin, where he undertook his first work in journalism, illustration, and literary criticism. In addition to writing fifty-three Father Brown stories, Chesterton authored articles and books of social criticism, philosophy, theology, economics, literary criticism, biography, and poetry.
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