to c. f g. masterman, m. p.

my dear charles,

i originally called this book “what is wrong,” and it would

have satisfied your sardonic temper to note the number of social

misunderstandings that arose from the use of the title. many a mild lady

visitor opened her eyes when i remarked casually, “i have been doing

‘what is wrong’ all this morning.” and one minister of religion moved

quite sharply in his chair when i told him (as he understood it) that i

had to run upstairs and do what was wrong, but should be down again in

a minute. exactly of what occult vice they silently accused me i cannot

conjecture, but i know of what i accuse myself; and that is, of having

written a very shapeless and inadequate book, and one quite unworthy

to be dedicated to you. as far as literature goes, this book is what is

wrong and no mistake.

it may seem a refinement of insolence to present so wild a composition

to one who has recorded two or three of the really impressive visions of

the moving millions of england. you are the only man alive who can

make the map of england crawl with life; a most creepy and enviable

accomplishment. why then should i trouble you with a book which, even

if it achieves its object (which is monstrously unlikely) can only be a

thundering gallop of theory?

well, i do it partly because i think you politicians are none the worse

for a few inconvenient ideals; but more because you will recognise the

many arguments we have had, those arguments which the most wonderful

ladies in the world can never endure for very long. and, perhaps, you

will agree with me that the thread of comradeship and conversation must

be protected because it is so frivolous. it must be held sacred, it

must not be snapped, because it is not worth tying together again. it

is exactly because argument is idle that men (i mean males) must take it

seriously; for when (we feel), until the crack of doom, shall we have so

delightful a difference again? but most of all i offer it to you because

there exists not only comradeship, but a very different thing, called

friendship; an agreement under all the arguments and a thread which,

please god, will never break.

yours always,

g. k. chesterton.