A good character can really captivate you. I remember as a child comparing all experiences to what I read in books. The mundane becomes epic if taken in the right mindset. I was thinking about this today because I was re-reading The Man Who Was Thursday and I really want to be like Gabriel Symes, the main character. He's a poet, wandering through life with the mindset that makes the mundane epic, continually. He can take an ecclesiastical lantern, and angrily confront the horrors of anarchy, using the cross-marked flaming symbol to bolster his rhetorical outburst of righteous indignation. Check this out, read it with the anger it needs. Outloud! Trust me, it's worth it.

"Judas before Herod!" he said, and struck the Colonel down upon the stones. Then he turned to the Secretary, whose frightful mouth was almost foaming now, and held the lamp high with so rigid and arresting a gesture that the man was, as it were, frozen for a moment, and forced to hear.
"Do you see this lantern?" cried Syme in a terrible voice. "Do you see the cross carved on it, and the flame inside? You did not make it. You did not light it. Better men than you, men who could believe and obey, twisted the entrails of iron and preserved the legend of fire. There is not a street you walk on, there is not a thread you wear, that was not made as this lantern was, by denying your philosophy of dirt and rats. You can make nothing. You can only destroy. You will destroy mankind; you will destroy the world. Let that suffice you. Yet this one old Christian lantern you shall not destroy. It shall go where your empire of apes will never have the wit to find it."
He struck the Secretary once with the lantern so that he staggered; and then, whirling it twice round his head, sent it flying far out to sea, where it flared like a roaring rocket and fell.

The passion of the scene is arresting as the gesture that Chesterton describes. Boy, this man can write.

And he writes good things. Chesteron inspires me to submit to the Church wholly in the intellect, as I wash tired and achy back to shore from my constant struggle for knowledge of the inexhaustible Divine. "Mystery, tradition, love," she whispers motherly, gathering me in her arms.

But I'm a protestant, so I feel like I'm fighting on against the unbreachable tide, riding terrible breakers extending high over my head, constantly at risk of being plunged beneath the dangerous deep that is Revelation.