January 12, 2003

"The Man Who Was Thursday" by G. K. Chesterton: This is a difficult book to review without letting slip important details that would surely take away from the enjoyment of the novel. I shall do my best.

Two poets sitting in a park discussing the nature of poetry. The first, Gregory, passionately argues that true poetry can only be found in anarchy. The second, a Mr. Gabriel Syme, counters that poetry in its purest form is only present in absolute order. Their brilliantly argued dialogue concludes with Syme getting the better of his rival. Incensed and insulted, Gregory sets forth to show Syme just how seriously he takes anarchy.

Gregory leads his fellow poet into the secret underground lair of the New Anarchists, a group whose goal is to not only topple governments but abolish God and the very ideas of right and wrong. Gregory is a proud member. In fact, he hopes to be elected to the powerful Central Anarchist Council that very night. Unfortunately for Gregory, Syme has a secret of his own that's no less shocking. Syme presses his advantage and soon wins over Gregory's fellow anarchists, being chosen in place of Gregory to represent their district upon the Council.

Syme is whisked away to meet the other members of the notorious lot. Each constituent of the feared Central Anarchist Council is named after a day of the week. Syme has been selected to replace the recently deceased Thursday. Monday is the Council's Secretary, a peculiar man with a crooked smile; Tuesday is the scruffy-bearded Gogol, the precise picture of the stereotypical anarchist; Wednesday is the refined gentleman Marquis de St. Eustache; the tragically old and crippled Professor de Worms serves as Friday; the dastardly, yet disturbingly youthful, Dr. Bull holds the position of Saturday; and Sunday... well, Sunday is the President of the Council and a man of such terrifying stature it almost defies nature.

It's up to Syme, a lone man thrust amongst this pit of vipers, to thwart their evil plans and bring the Council to justice.

"The Man Who Was Thursday" is a decidedly deceptive read. At first glance, it would seem to be little more than a fantastically funny farce marked with wicked wit and sensational situations. And if that's all it was it would still earn the highest of recommendations. Syme's many ludicrous adventures are paced to perfection. But Mr. Chesterton's intentions run deep. It's not mere comedy he's after, but truth. Philosophy overtakes the fun and games. The dual nature of reality is considered. Existence questioned. What is man's soul? Who, or what, is Sunday?

This is simply a tremendous literary accomplishment. The book works on so many levels, every reader should be able to find something he or she admires even if they're not looking to unravel the mysteries of life. It's a rare mind that can take universal themes and spin them into common stories of such mirth and mayhem as "The Man Who Was Thursday." Mr. Chesterton was not only capable of the feat, he triumphs as few writers could have hoped. Remarkable.

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"The Club of Queer Trades" by G. K. Chesterton: This collection of six stories features the singular sleuthing instincts of Basil Grant, a former judge that retired from the bench in what appeared to most a fit of madness. Basil, a friendly if somewhat reclusive intellect, spends his days cooped up in his garret while often sharing the company of his younger brother Rupert, who is trying his hand at being a private detective, and his good friend Charles Swinburne, who acts as narrator for all the tales. Whether through the appointments of his brother or at the beseeching of old friends, Basil can't help but get entangled in one mysterious circumstance after another.

The confounding capers contained herein all involve The Club of Queer Trades, an association whose membership is made up of only those individuals who have invented the means by which they earn their living. They actually earn a living? A queer club, indeed. I just yearn mine.

While Basil Grant is a fine character, and Mr. Chesterton displays his usual command of the language, there is really nothing of importance here. All the pretty words add up to a whole lot of nothing. It seemed as though Mr. Chesterton was trying to make each mystery nothing what it seemed, whereas the real trick would have been making them interesting. Despite a few of the stories boasting rather ingenious setups, there is never anything even resembling a worthy payoff to any of them. Once the first case is uncovered, the others follow an identical pattern doing little to cast doubt upon the inevitable eventuality. It would have been nice to see the lead characters in something more substantial, for it would appear that the very point of these stories has disappeared. Quick! Someone call Basil!

If you're a fan of Mr. Chesterton, or merely looking for another example of his eloquent prose, then, by all means, enjoy. Otherwise, spend your time elsewhere.

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