The essays contained in A Handful of Authors were written for newspapers from 1901 to 1935. We expect, therefore, essays of inferior quality. But articles written for newspapers ought to benefit, not deceive and bore, the commuters who pass time reading them. These essays are time wasters to be thrown away after use. Truer yet, they are not worth browsing through before being thrown out. They remind me of New York Times book reviews, which are thin on subject and thick with envy. Chesterton is the father of book reviewers who preen more than review, and who come out looking all the worse for doing so, at least to readers who demand the subjects that they read about to be actually delved into. Unlike Chesterton, I have dealt with my subject in this essay. I have quoted; I have explained; I have judged. I have done something else than pose in the mirror, cover for bad conduct, and reinterpret the Bible to suit my infidelity.
It should go without saying that an author is not worth reading who is more concerned with trying to look fancy than opening the titles of his essays. Given his treatment of R. L. Stevenson, moreover, how can Chesterton ever be trusted? If he makes a saint out of an obstinate sinner such as Stevenson was, can he be safely read on anyone or anything? A Chesterton fan would no doubt say something like, “But you selected the wrong book. You should have picked one of his other ones, be it this one or that one.” No, sir, it looks like I picked the right one—the one that calls for this Chesterton project to be finished—the one that calls for Chesterton to be dismissed au complet, en bloc, in toto. Because of his vain show, his material is unattractive. Because his essays are empty vessels, they are useless to consume. Because of his deception, his body of work is now dismissed. I don’t care to find out one thing more about what G. K. Chesterton believed, said, or wrote. If he ever wrote anything insightful or prescient, there are more ethical authors to turn to for the same, both for the acquisition of wisdom and for the understanding of what must shortly come to pass. A reader is just as likely to be corrupted by reading A Handful of Authors as Stevenson was deceived by Herbert Spencer, the Darwinian. Thankfully, G. K. Chesterton is so transparently deceptive that it is not even true to say of him that latet anguis in herba (a snake lurks in the grass.) His deceit is as discernible as green hair on a Ugandan.
The man who recommended Chesterton so unqualifiedly, claimed to be a Reformed Christian. Maybe he read some book of Chesterton’s that has more merit than this one has. He came across as a man who has read a lot of Chesterton, though. If this man has read A Handful of Authors, and even after that recommends Chesterton without reservation, I have to wonder if his Reformed Christianity is more nominal and hereditary than actual and spiritual. Whether this man is a Reformed Christian or not, I discourage the reading of Chesterton as ardently as he promotes him. Based on the first twenty-eight pages of A Handful of Authors—pages that I have looked closely at—I shamelessly assert that no more of Chesterton needs to be read or should be read. His writings ought to be, if not burned, then at least shelved. These essays of his are not only travesties; they are treacherous. Their only good use is for quoting in order to show what should never be imitated. Therefore they will be kept on my heresy shelf in case they are needed for that purpose once again.
