ABSTRACT
In my late teens and early twenties I read with a devouring zeal the works of G.K. Chesterton. Then Sin entered my soul and I left that early love of mine and I was waylaid by that perverse spirit, known as fashion. To be respected in the modern world I had to don the cloak of Marx, of Freud, of Sartre. Then I would be an esteemed figure in the contemporary secular world.
