Joseph Pearce

In “50 Books for Life: A Concise Guide to Catholic Literature,” Roy Peachey demonstrates that he is widely read and is catholic (small “c”) and cosmopolitan (in the best sense of the word) in his reading of literature from beyond the anglophone world. Seldom have I seen a list of books which encompasses so many linguistic traditions.

Along with G.K. Chesterton, Hilaire Belloc was hugely influential in the growth of the Catholic presence in the wider culture.

There is a surprising connection between decadence, conversion, and traditional Catholicism which some people might find a little shocking or, even, a cause for scandal.

The beauty of art comes in many forms, shapes and sizes. It is rendered in metal, stone, sound, movement, oils, watercolours and words. It ranges in scale from the majestic splendour of the great cathedrals to the diminutive glory of the finest crafted jewellery, from the grandeur of the greatest epic poems to the sonorous simplicity of the sonnet. It is also rendered in coloured glass, in what the poet Siegfried Sassoon described as “jewelled windows into which your mind might melt”. It is on one such jewelled window that I would like to focus, seeking to pay homage to its magnificence.

Hilaire Belloc was one of a rare breed. He was what was called a man of letters; a man who refused to be pigeonholed, who refused to be labeled, who refused to be restricted by any sphere of speciality. (essay by Joseph Pearce)

Shakespeare is certainly more alive, in the enduring life that he breathed into his work, than the dead and dying ideas of his critics. It is, therefore, a delightfully apt conceit on Dr. David A. James' part to bring him to life to sit in jocular judgment.

COMMENTARY: The stories of John Gerard, Robert Southwell, and other Jesuit missionaries reveal the courage of Catholics who endured England’s fiercest religious persecution.

It is a reassuring thought that Pope Leo XIV lives in a city that Catholics call home, which is protected by a wall built by a great pope and saint named Leo.

Of all living writers, Peter Kreeft is the one who reminds me most of C. S. Lewis. Like Lewis, Dr.

When we die, there will be dozens or even hundreds of books that we would have wanted to read had time permitted. It is in this sense that I feel that the neglect of the great Russian author, Fyodor Dostoevsky, constitutes a sin of omission on my part.