I haven’t read this for twenty years or more. One chapter in and I’m hooked all over again. It’s sub-titled ‘A Nightmare’ but it’s a nightmare via the Yellow Book of Wilde and Beardsley; an exercise in blasphemy or highly creative theology (Chesterton the catholic keeps pretty much out of the way of Chesterton the artist here).
“The suburb of Saffron Park lay on the sunset side of London, as red and ragged as a cloud of sunset.”
Has there ever been a more shamelessly poetic first sentence, crammed with tongue-twisting alliteration and repetition? Enough; I’ve reading to do!