G.K. Chesterton, página 10 de 37

Author Chesterton, G. K. (Gilbert Keith), 1874-1936Title William BlakeOriginal Publication United Kingdom :Duckworth & Co.,1910.

Cuatro personajes que han formado un extraño e incomparable Club. Los cuatro relatos siguen el mismo esquema: se ha cometido un crimen y la dificultad de la investigación no será tanto descubrir al culpable como averiguar cual ha sido su movil. Han cometido sus crimenes con el unico proposito de evitar un crimen aun peor. Legalmente son culpables, pero moralmente podrian ser inocentes.

THESE tales concern the doing of things recognized as impossible to do; impossible to believe; and, as the weary reader may well cry aloud, impossible to read about. Did the narrator merely say that they happened, without saying how they happened, they could easily be classified with the cow who jumped over the moon and the more introspective individual who jumped down his own throat. In short, they are all tall stories; and though tall stories may also be true stories, there is something in the very phrase appropriate to such a topsy-turvydom; for the logician will presumably class a tall story with a corpulent epigram or a long-legged essay. It is only proper that such impossible incidents should begin in the most prim and prosaic of all places, at the most prim and prosaic of all times, and apparently with the most prim and prosaic of all human beings.

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.

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.

Su característica dominante como escritor y como hombre ( ambos estaban mucho más identificados en él que en la mayoría de los escritores), fue que era nacional, una extrema precisión de pensamiento, cualidad que fue otrora tan propia de los ingleses, aunque dejada de lado hoy hasta el punto que no se recuerda cuan familiar fue a la mente inglesa en el pasado, una capacidad singular para el paralelismo. Iluminaba y explicaba de continuo realidades, mediante comparaciones. Esta fue realmente el arma peculiar del genio de Chesterton. Fue, entre las suyas, la unica particularidad a la que no llego a acercarse contemporaneo alguno, y pocos en el pasado, apenas a aproximarse. Es el elemento mas fuerte en su escribir y su pensar, despues del no mucho menos excepcional de su sinceridad. Como todos los modernos, la estructura sobre la que habia fundado su trabajo, era historica; pero historica tan solo en general, porque tenia un fondo mas profundo y ampliamente literario. Caridad. Encaraba la controversia -su deleite- dificilmente como conflicto, y casi siempre como apreciacion, incluyendo la de su contrario. Finalmente he aqui la sustancia de su vida y por lo tanto de su actividad literaria: su aceptacion de la fe.

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.

"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 suburb of Saffron Park lay on the sunset side of London, as red and ragged as a cloud of sunset. It was built of a bright brick throughout; its sky-line was fantastic, and even its ground plan was wild. It had been the outburst of a speculative builder, faintly tinged with art, who called its architecture sometimes Elizabethan and sometimes Queen Anne, apparently under the impression that the two sovereigns were identical. It was described with some justice as an artistic colony, though it never in any definable way produced any art. But although its pretensions to be an intellectual centre were a little vague, its pretensions to be a pleasant place were quite indisputable. The stranger who looked for the first time at the quaint red houses could only think how very oddly shaped the people must be who could fit in to them

EVERYONE agreed that the bazaar at Mallowood Abbey (by kind permission of Lady Mounteagle) was a great success; there were roundabouts and swings and side-shows, which the people greatly enjoyed; I would also mention the Charity, which was the excellent object of the proceedings, if any of them could tell me what it was. However, it is only with a few of them that we are here concerned; and especially with three of them, a lady and two gentlemen, who passed between two of the principal tents or pavilions, their voices high in argument. On their right was the tent of the Master of the Mountain, that world-famous fortune-teller by crystals and chiromancy; a rich purple tent, all over which were traced, in black and gold, the sprawling outlines of Asiatic gods waving any number of arms like octopods. Perhaps they symbolized the readiness of divine help to be had within; perhaps they merely implied that the ideal being of a pious palmist would have as many hands as possible.

Nothing more strangely indicates an enormous and silent evil of modern society than the extraordinary use which is made nowadays of the word "orthodox." In former days the heretic was proud of not being a heretic. It was the kingdoms of the world and the police and the judges who were heretics. He was orthodox. He had no pride in having rebelled against them; they had rebelled against him. The armies with their cruel security, the kings with their cold faces, the decorous processes of State, the reasonable processes of lawall these like sheep had gone astray. The man was proud of being orthodox, was proud of being right. If he stood alone in a howling wilderness he was more than a man; he was a church. He was the centre of the universe; it was round him that the stars swung. All the tortures torn out of forgotten hells could not make him admit that he was heretical. But a few modern phrases have made him boast of it. He says, with a conscious laugh, "I suppose I am very heretical," and looks round for applause. The word "heresy" not only means no longer being wrong; it practically means being clear-headed and courageous. The word "orthodoxy" not only no longer means being right; it practically means being wrong. All this can mean one thing, and one thing only. It means that people care less for whether they are philosophically right. For obviously a man ought to confess himself crazy before he confesses himself heretical. The Bohemian, with a red tie, ought to pique himself on his orthodoxy. The dynamiter, laying a bomb, ought to feel that, whatever else he is, at least he is orthodox.

It would not be fair to record the adventures of Father Brown, without admitting that he was once involved in a grave scandal. There still are persons, perhaps even of his own community, who would say that there was a sort of blot upon his name. It happened in a picturesque Mexican road-house of rather loose repute, as appeared later; and to some it seemed that for once the priest had allowed a romantic streak in him, and his sympathy for human weakness, to lead him into loose and unorthodox action. The story in itself was a simple one; and perhaps the whole surprise of it consisted in its simplicity.