"All these things, as I say, the professor had invented; he had invented everything in the flying ship, with the exception, perhaps, of himself. This he had been born too late actually to inaugurate, but he believed, at least, that he had considerably improved it."
And so begins the newest of my G. K. Chesterton books. Oh, the full, unapologetic use of language! Oh, the ironic British wit! Oh, the level of intelligence, wrapped in childlike fantasy!
(Oh, the lack of people with whom to share my delight!)
It is a thin volume, but I will savour every word of it. As I am home alone at the moment, I am reading it aloud, as if in a performance. I can't help it. It deserves to be performed, not skimmed. Millhouse stares balefully at me, as my voice rises and falls. He's not impressed (and neither am I, actually) with my terrible attempt at a British accent.
Nevertheless. I am becoming a bit of a lunatic for G. K. Chesterton. Mondays are for lunacy, and I am taking full advantage of the opportunity.
I leave you with the end of chapter 1:
"A fierce inspiration fell on the monk suddenly....and the first three words he spoke in a voice like a silver trumpet, held men as still as stones. Perhaps if he had spoken there for an hour in his illumination he might have founded a religion on Ludgate Hill. But the heavy hand of his guide fell suddenly on his shoulder.
'This poor fellow is dotty,' he said good-humouredly to the crowd. 'I found him wandering in the Cathedral. Says he came in a flying ship. Is there a constable to spare to take care of him?'
There was a constable to spare....And they took the happiest man in the world away to an asylum."
There was a constable to spare....And they took the happiest man in the world away to an asylum."
