Maisie Ward, Gilbert Keith Chesterton

I ain’t got a shred of hard proof, but I’d wager that G.K. Chesterton’s noggin was rigged with a hulking, boisterous right hemisphere that steamrolled the left like a runaway freight train. That jovial giant’s right hemisphere didn’t just outmuscle its analytical counterpart. It

America’s gone and lost its knack for wasting time, and we’re paying a butcher’s bill for it. Young folks, especially, ain’t lingering with each other, not in the aimless, sprawling way that used to stitch souls together. The fallout’s grim: depression’s up, suicide’s

Picture Thomas Sowell, that old warrior of the mind, sitting at his desk, sifting through the wreckage of human folly. His right hemisphere? Hell if I know how it hums. Does he commune with the Tao, feel the pulse of the cosmos in his bones? Not my place to say,