I keep thinking I need to read more Chesterton, and especially his fiction. And then I read a book like this and I think, “I’m not smart enough to read Chesterton.” The premise behind this book is one that seems normal, and maybe even dull, on the surface. Carried out through the novel, though, it was for me first confusing and then intriguing.

What if we didn’t live as though we were happy? What if we were really happy? What if every day was new and the joy in life was not in finding the new but in appreciating the mundane as though it were new and novel and wonderful?

The thing I loved most about this book was that it could be read just for entertainment, but the enjoyment didn’t stop there. It wasn’t easy reading, necessarily, but it wasn’t imposing, either. I liked it. A lot. And, however unsmart I may be, I will keep trundling through Chesterton here and there. It’s worth it for the delight factor.