The Man Who Was Thursday: A Nightmare
by G. K. Chesterton (1908)
2024 reads, 25/22:
“An anarchist is an artist. The man who throws a bomb is an artist, because he prefers a great moment to everything. He sees how much more valuable is one burst of blazing light, one peal of perfect thunder, than the mere common bodies of a few shapeless policemen. An artist disregards all governments, abolishes all conventions. The poet delights in disorder only.”
For this year’s October “spooky” read, I went in a bit of a different direction. Maybe it was because the other horror books on my to-read list were already checked out on Libby, but I decided to tackle something I added to my to-read list years ago. The Man Who Was Thursday, by G. K. Chesterton, is a novel about man who infiltrates a seven-man anarchist group, all with codenames that represent the different days of the week. And honestly, what better story to finish around Halloween, than one of metaphorical masks and anarchistic misbehavior?
A foggy London town sets the backdrop of our two main characters, Lucian Gregory, the anarchist poet, and Gabriel Syme, his foil. You’ve probably immediately clocked the biblical imagery here: Lucian, a play on Lucifer, the fallen angel of light, and Gabriel, representing the archangel and heavenly messenger. But it doesn’t stop there – the Christian allegory is rampant in symbolism and motifs throughout this novel, and I’m sure there were many allusions that I missed.
Early on, Chesterton doesn’t hold back in hitting us with a few reveals and twists, and what starts as a philosophical musing on double identities, and the role of anarchy in society, quickly unfolds into a mysterious thriller. There’s still lots of exposition on these topics, especially when Syme starts to ponder about whatever current situation he’s in, but it is contrasted by witty (and even comical) dialogue. Seriously, I was surprised at how slapstick these characters could be.
“‘Secretary,’ said the President seriously, ‘if you'd take your head home and boil it for a turnip it might be useful. I can't say. But it might.’”
Although published in early twentieth century England, the writing is not terribly dated for a novel of that era (though I did have to look up a few archaic words at times). And there’s enough action to keep things interesting, to keep you wanting to know what happens next. I guess that’s all we can really ask for, right?
“This particular evening, if it is remembered for nothing else, will be remembered in that place for its strange sunset. It looked like the end of the world. All the heaven seemed covered with a quite vivid and palpable plumage; you could only say that the sky was full of feathers, and of feathers that almost brushed the face.”