Mademoiselle, I hate to be the one to break it to you, but it ain't all about you you you. I am currently reading a great deal of material from about 1914 to about 1939, for reasons that have nothing to do with you. This led me to the discovery that the BEST literary material produced during the Great War - way ahead of Siegfried Sassoon or Robert Owen - was the war propaganda material turned out by dozens of the finest minds in Europe and America, on which lies a damnatio memoriae as complete as it is grotesque. Chesterton may just be the greatest of them all, and every now and then a passage leaps out at me. And I blog it. As I have been doing since the year of the Lord 2004.

And what, pray tell, is wrong with rehabilitating Belloc?