He can flat-out write
Just began The Path to Rome by Belloc and in the preface alone there are riches!
* And was it not his loneliness that enabled him to see it?
* Let us suffer absurdities, for that is only to suffer one another.
* Rabelais! Master of all happy men! Are you sleeping there pressed into desecrated earth under the doss-house of the Rue St. Paul, or do you not rather drink cool wine in some elysian Chinon looking on the Vienne where it rises in Paradise? Are you sleeping or drinking that you will not lend us the staff of Friar John wherewith he slaughtered and bashed the invaders of the vineyards, who are but a parable for the mincing pendants and blood-less thin-faced rogues of the world?
Here is a link to the poems of Hilaire Belloc