Here’s an interesting question for the morning: which work of literature are you?

In the Fahrenheit 451 sense, that is. For those three or four individuals out there not aware of the book, it was set in a world where literature was banned and burned on sight, for reasons which were never adequately explained; and apparently the only way to keep books alive was to memorize them – probably because 99% of Golden Age SF/Fantasy writers were all about the flying cars, rather than convenient and ubiquitous data storage.

Not that I don’t love Ray Bradbury’s stuff anyway.

Anyway, I’m Gilbert Keith Chesterton’s Lepanto. I know that one so well that I can rap it Beastie Boys style (never listen to Licensed to Ill three times running while on a trip, is all I’m saying).

What are you?