Billed by the publishers as `Chesterton's commentary on Christianity', actually Christianity is the one subject he doesn't directly tackle. What he does tackle, in a series of miscellaneous short articles, includes science, nationalism, neo-paganism, art, alcohol, and authors including Kipling, Wells and Shaw. The overall theme, so far as there is one, is that you cannot produce worthwhile art without having definite beliefs, whether religious, social or political: `when we want any art tolerably brisk and bold we go to the doctrinaires'. Looking at the poverty of today's very un-doctrinaire art, you have to feel he is on to something.
Of course, it would be true to say that the shadows cast by Chesterton's thoughts on these topics, put together, do make up a picture of his Christianity - a picture in negative.
For my part, in spite of the many clever and interesting ideas, a little of his prose style goes a long way. Though too facetious to be called sententious, there is no real lightness of touch. His is the deadly `humour' of the bachelor uncle trying to win over his nephews; not insincere, perhaps, but misapplied because he is unsure of his audience. His work is so larded with epigrams and paradoxes - like a rabbit in the headlights you feel them coming on, one after another - that it was described by TS Eliot as `exasperating to the last point of endurance'. Strangely, considering he claims to be extolling orthodoxy, Chesterton seems determined to find the unlikeliest-sounding opinion on every topic - in the same sort of way as the murderer in an Agatha Christie is always whichever character you would never (otherwise) have thought of.
Actually, though, he is not really extolling orthodoxy; not in the sense we usually understand it. In fact he scores a number of telling hits against the liberal-materialist orthodoxy of his day - which, by the sounds of it, was surprisingly similar to the orthodoxy now. And his opinions aren't really that unlikely; it's just that, aware that good sense can seem a bit boring, he wants them to seem that way. In his anxiety to make them palatable, he is in danger of putting the reader off altogether.
One to be dipped into, rather than read right through.