Chesterton Goodies

I visited one of my favorite site tonight;

I found a great snippet about pornography, written in the 1920's or there about. And then a very long but very superb excerpt from one of his writings about why we value certain things. I saw so much of the childish wonder I still find myself lost in sometimes. I pray I never lose my amazement at clouds and trees and creativity.

I really wish everyone could get into reading this guy. If you think C.S. Lewis makes you think, you will love where Chesterton takes you.
God bless GK Chesterton and God Bless Joe at I for one love your blog!

Here's just a taste...

....Substances have, however, a real intrinsic spirituality. Materials are not likely to be despised except by materialists. Children, for example, are fully conscious of a certain mystical, and yet practical, quality in the things they handle; they love the essential quality of an object chivalrously, and for its own sake. A child has an ingrained fancy for coal, not for the gross materialistic reason that it builds up fires by which we cook and are warmed, but for the infinitely nobler and more abstract reason that it blacks his fingers....
...Another substance which presents in a somewhat different way the same contradiction is common wood. It is the most fascinating and the most symbolic of substances, since it has just enough essential toughness to resist the amateur, and just enough pliability to become like a musical instrument in the hands of the expert. Working in wood is the supreme example of creation; creation in a material which resists just enough and not an iota too much. It was surely no wonder that the greatest who ever wore the form of man was a carpenter....
...A diamond ring does not contribute in any way to the production of innumerable necklaces and bracelets. But the chalks in a box, or the paints in a paint-box, do actually embrace in themselves an infinity of new possibilities. A cake of Prussian Blue contains all the sea stories in the world, a cake of emerald green encloses a hundred meadows, a cake of crimson is compounded of forgotten sunsets.


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