It would be tempting to say that G.K. Chesterton (1874–1936) lived for Christmas, but, then, he seemed to live for everything he did: always a roaring enthusiasm in his writing for whatever caught his eye. Still, there’s something especially eye-catching about Christmas: red and green, with pictures of a star and shepherds and kings, and the Christ child in a manger. And there’s something especially roaring in the season: a raging fire, a towering blaza, to warm us in midwinter.
And so Chesterton embraced Christmas in a way surpassed only by Dickens in English literature.