The Man Who Was Thursday: A Nightmare

By G. K. Chesterton

Chesterton’s finest achievement—at once a gripping thriller and a powerful allegory

In a colorful neighborhood of West London, two poets are at each other’s throats. Gregory is an anarchist who longs to upend civilization with the power of his words, while Syme is a man of reason, convinced his opponent’s beliefs are nothing but a fashionable pose. To prove his seriousness, Gregory introduces Syme to the central council of European radicals, where the newcomer is given the codename “Thursday.” Though none will admit it, every man in the council is a liar—and each is deadly in his own way.
 
Gregory has no inkling that his new comrade Syme is an undercover detective, sent by Scotland Yard to destroy the council from within. But as the other men reveal their secrets in turn, it becomes clear that Thursday is not the enemy; it is the mysterious figure named Sunday whom they all should fear.
 
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• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Media
• Release date: Jul 1, 2014
• ISBN: 9781453264904

G. K. Chesterton

G.K. Chesterton (1874–1936) was an English writer, philosopher and critic known for his creative wordplay. Born in London, Chesterton attended St. Paul’s School before enrolling in the Slade School of Fine Art at University College. His professional writing career began as a freelance critic where he focused on art and literature. He then ventured into fiction with his novels The Napoleon of Notting Hill and The Man Who Was Thursday as well as a series of stories featuring Father Brown.

Book preview

CHAPTER I. THE TWO POETS OF SAFFRON PARK

THE SUBURB OF SAFFRON park lay on the sunset side of London, as red and ragged as a cloud of sunset. It was built of a bright brick throughout; its sky-line was fantastic, and even its ground plan was wild. It had been the outburst of a speculative builder, faintly tinged with art, who called its architecture sometimes Elizabethan and sometimes Queen Anne, apparently under the impression that the two sovereigns were identical. It was described with some justice as an artistic colony, though it never in any definable way produced any art. But although its pretensions to be an intellectual centre were a little vague, its pretensions to be a pleasant place were quite indisputable. The stranger who looked for the first time at the quaint red houses could only think how very oddly shaped the people must be who could fit in to them. Nor when he met the people was he disappointed in this respect. The place was not only pleasant, but perfect, if once he could regard it not as a deception but rather as a dream. Even if the people were not artists, the whole was nevertheless artistic. That young man with the long, auburn hair and the impudent face—that young man was not really a poet; but surely he was a poem. That old gentleman with the wild, white beard and the wild, white hat—that venerable humbug was not really a philosopher; but at least he was the cause of philosophy in others. That scientific gentleman with the bald, egg-like head and the bare, bird-like neck had no real right to the airs of science that he assumed. He had not discovered anything new in biology; but what biological creature could he have discovered more singular than himself? Thus, and thus only, the whole place had properly to be regarded; it had to be considered not so much as a workshop for artists, but as a frail but finished work of art. A man who stepped into its social atmosphere felt as if he had stepped into a written comedy.

More especially this attractive unreality fell upon it about nightfall, when the extravagant roofs were dark against the afterglow and the whole insane village seemed as separate as a drifting cloud. This again was more strongly true of the many nights of local festivity, when the little gardens were often illuminated, and the big Chinese lanterns glowed in the dwarfish trees like some fierce and monstrous fruit. And this was strongest of all on one particular evening, still vaguely remembered in the locality, of which the auburn-haired poet was the hero. It was not by any means the only evening of which he was the hero. On many nights those passing by his little back garden might hear his high, didactic voice laying down the law to men and particularly to women. The attitude of women in such cases was indeed one of the paradoxes of the place. Most of the women were of the kind vaguely called emancipated, and professed some protest against male supremacy. Yet these new women would always pay to a man the extravagant compliment which no ordinary woman ever pays to him, that of listening while he is talking. And Mr. Lucian Gregory, the red-haired poet, was really (in some sense) a man worth listening to, even if one only laughed at the end of it. He put the old cant of the lawlessness of art and the art of lawlessness with a certain impudent freshness which gave at least a momentary pleasure. He was helped in some degree by the arresting oddity of his appearance, which he worked, as the phrase goes, for all it was worth. His dark red hair parted in the middle was literally like a woman’s, and curved into the slow curls of a virgin in a pre-Raphaelite picture. From within this almost saintly oval, however, his face projected suddenly broad and brutal, the chin carried forward with a look of cockney contempt. This combination at once tickled and terrified the nerves of a neurotic population. He seemed like a walking blasphemy, a blend of the angel and the ape.

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. Across the great part of the dome they were grey, with the strangest tints of violet and mauve and an unnatural pink or pale green; but towards the west the whole grew past description, transparent and passionate, and the last red-hot plumes of it covered up the sun like something too good to be seen. The whole was so close about the earth, as to express nothing but a violent secrecy. The very empyrean seemed to be a secret. It expressed that splendid smallness which is the soul of local patriotism. The very sky seemed small.

I say that there are some inhabitants who may remember the evening if only by that oppressive sky. There are others who may remember it because it marked the first appearance in the place of the second poet of Saffron Park. For a long time the red-haired revolutionary had reigned without a rival; it was upon the night of the sunset that his solitude suddenly ended. The new poet, who introduced himself by the name of Gabriel Syme was a very mild-looking mortal, with a fair, pointed beard and faint, yellow hair. But an impression grew that he was less meek than he looked. He signalised his entrance by differing with the established poet, Gregory, upon the whole nature of poetry. He said that he (Syme) was poet of law, a poet of order; nay, he said he was a poet of respectability. So all the Saffron Parkers looked at him as if he had that moment fallen out of that impossible sky.

In fact, Mr. Lucian Gregory, the anarchic poet, connected the two events.

It may well be, he said, in his sudden lyrical manner, it may well be on such a night of clouds and cruel colours that there is brought forth upon the earth such a portent as a respectable poet. You say you are a poet of law; I say you are a contradiction in terms. I only wonder there were not comets and earthquakes on the night you appeared in this garden.

The man with the meek blue eyes and the pale, pointed beard endured these thunders with a certain submissive solemnity. The third party of the group, Gregory’s sister Rosamond, who had her brother’s braids of red hair, but a kindlier face underneath them, laughed with such mixture of admiration and disapproval as she gave commonly to the family oracle.

Gregory resumed in high oratorical good humour.

An artist is identical with an anarchist, he cried. You might transpose the words anywhere. 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. If it were not so, the most poetical thing in the world would be the Underground Railway.

So it is, said Mr. Syme.

Nonsense! said Gregory, who was very rational when anyone else attempted paradox. Why do all the clerks and navvies in the railway trains look so sad and tired, so very sad and tired? I will tell you. It is because they know that the train is going right. It is because they know that whatever place they have taken a ticket for that place they will reach. It is because after they have passed Sloane Square they know that the next station must be Victoria, and nothing but Victoria. Oh, their wild rapture! oh, their eyes like stars and their souls again in Eden, if the next station were unaccountably Baker Street!

It is you who are unpoetical, replied the poet Syme. If what you say of clerks is true, they can only be as prosaic as your poetry. The rare, strange thing is to hit the mark; the gross, obvious thing is to miss it. We feel it is epical when man with one wild arrow strikes a distant bird. Is it not also epical when man with one wild engine strikes a distant station? Chaos is dull; because in chaos the train might indeed go anywhere, to Baker Street or to Bagdad. But man is a magician, and his whole magic is in this, that he does say Victoria, and lo! it is Victoria. No, take your books of mere poetry and prose; let me read a time table, with tears of pride. Take your Byron, who commemorates the defeats of man; give me Bradshaw, who commemorates his victories. Give me Bradshaw, I say!

Must you go? inquired Gregory sarcastically.

I tell you, went on Syme with passion, that every time a train comes in I feel that it has broken past batteries of besiegers, and that man has won a battle against chaos. You say contemptuously that when one has left Sloane Square one must come to Victoria. I say that one might do a thousand things instead, and that whenever I really come there I have the sense of hairbreadth escape. And when I hear the guard shout out the word ‘Victoria,’ it is not an unmeaning word. It is to me the cry of a herald announcing conquest. It is to me indeed ‘Victoria’; it is the victory of Adam.

Gregory wagged his heavy, red head with a slow and sad smile.

And even then, he said, we poets always ask the question, ‘And what is Victoria now that you have got there?’ You think Victoria is like the New Jerusalem. We know that the New Jerusalem will only be like Victoria. Yes, the poet will be discontented even in the streets of heaven. The poet is always in revolt.

There again, said Syme irritably, what is there poetical about being in revolt? You might as well say that it is poetical to be sea-sick. Being sick is a revolt. Both being sick and being rebellious may be the wholesome thing on certain desperate occasions; but I’m hanged if I can see why they are poetical. Revolt in the abstract is—revolting. It’s mere vomiting.

The girl winced for a flash at the unpleasant word, but Syme was too hot to heed her.

It is things going right, he cried, that is poetical! Our digestions, for instance, going sacredly and silently right, that is the foundation of all poetry. Yes, the most poetical thing, more poetical than the flowers, more poetical than the stars—the most poetical thing in the world is not being sick.

Really, said Gregory superciliously, the examples you choose—

I beg your pardon, said Syme grimly, I forgot we had abolished all conventions.

For the first time a red patch appeared on Gregory’s forehead.

You don’t expect me, he said, to revolutionise society on this lawn?

Syme looked straight into his eyes and smiled sweetly.

No, I don’t, he said; but I suppose that if you were serious about your anarchism, that is exactly what you would do.

Gregory’s big bull’s eyes blinked suddenly like those of an angry lion, and one could almost fancy that his red mane rose.

Don’t you think, then, he said in a dangerous voice, that I am serious about my anarchism?

I beg your pardon? said Syme.

Am I not serious about my anarchism? cried Gregory, with knotted fists.

My dear fellow! said Syme, and strolled away.

With surprise, but with a curious pleasure, he found Rosamond Gregory still in his company.

Mr. Syme, she said, do the people who talk like you and my brother often mean what they say? Do you mean what you say now?

Syme smiled.

Do you? he asked.

What do you mean? asked the girl, with grave eyes.

My dear Miss Gregory, said Syme gently, there are many kinds of sincerity and insincerity. When you say ‘thank you’ for the salt, do you mean what you say? No. When you say ‘the world is round,’ do you mean what you say? No. It is true, but you don’t mean it. Now, sometimes a man like your brother really finds a thing he does mean. It may be only a half-truth, quarter-truth, tenth-truth; but then he says more than he means—from sheer force of meaning it.

She was looking at him from under level brows; her face was grave and open, and there had fallen upon it the shadow of that unreasoning responsibility which is at the bottom of the most frivolous woman, the maternal watch which is as old as the world.

Is he really an anarchist, then? she asked.

Only in that sense I speak of, replied Syme; or if you prefer it, in that nonsense.

She drew her broad brows together and said abruptly—

He wouldn’t really use—bombs or that sort of thing?

Syme broke into a great laugh, that seemed too large for his slight and somewhat dandified figure.

Good Lord, no! he said, that has to be done anonymously.

And at that the corners of her own mouth broke into a smile, and she thought with a simultaneous pleasure of Gregory’s absurdity and of his safety.

Syme strolled with her to a seat in the corner of the garden, and continued to pour out his opinions. For he was a sincere man, and in spite of his superficial airs and graces, at root a humble one. And it is always the humble man who talks too much; the proud man watches himself too closely. He defended respectability with violence and exaggeration. He grew passionate in his praise of tidiness and propriety. All the time there was a smell of lilac all round him. Once he heard very faintly in some distant street a barrel-organ begin to play, and it seemed to him that his heroic words were moving to a tiny tune from under or beyond the world.

He stared and talked at the girl’s red hair and amused face for what seemed to be a few minutes; and then, feeling that the groups in such a place should mix, rose to his feet. To his astonishment, he discovered the whole garden empty. Everyone had gone long ago, and he went himself with a rather hurried apology. He left with a sense of champagne in his head, which he could not afterwards explain. In the wild events which were to follow this girl had no part at all; he never saw her again until all his tale was over. And yet, in some indescribable way, she kept recurring like a motive in music through all his mad adventures afterwards, and the glory of her strange hair ran like a red thread through those dark and ill-drawn tapestries of the night. For what followed was so improbable, that it might well have been a dream.

When Syme went out into the starlit street, he found it for the moment empty. Then he realised (in some odd way) that the silence was rather a living silence than a dead one. Directly outside the door stood a street lamp, whose gleam gilded the leaves of the tree that bent out over the fence behind him. About a foot from the lamp-post stood a figure almost as rigid and motionless as the lamp-post itself. The tall hat and long frock coat were black; the face, in an abrupt shadow, was almost as dark. Only a fringe of fiery hair against the light, and also something aggressive in the attitude, proclaimed that it was the poet Gregory. He had something of the look of a masked bravo waiting sword in hand for his foe.

He made a sort of doubtful salute, which Syme somewhat more formally returned.

I was waiting for you, said Gregory. Might I have a moment’s conversation?

Certainly. About what? asked Syme in a sort of weak wonder.

Gregory struck out with his stick at the lamp-post, and then at the tree. About this and this, he cried; about order and anarchy. There is your precious order, that lean, iron lamp, ugly and barren; and there is anarchy, rich, living, reproducing itself—there is anarchy, splendid in green and gold.

All the same, replied Syme patiently, just at present you only see the tree by the light of the lamp. I wonder when you would ever see the lamp by the light of the tree. Then after a pause he said, But may I ask if you have been standing out here in the dark only to resume our little argument?

No, cried out Gregory, in a voice that rang down the street, I did not stand here to resume our argument, but to end it for ever.

The silence fell again, and Syme, though he understood nothing, listened instinctively for something serious. Gregory began in a smooth voice and with a rather bewildering smile.

Mr. Syme, he said, "this evening you succeeded in doing something rather remarkable. You did something

Reviews for The Man Who Was Thursday

[ericcostello-1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

A strange and startling book. At one level, a spoof of anarchism. At another level, a spoof of police efforts to infiltrate gangs and expose them. At still a deeper level, a metaphysical dream novel. The last point comes to sneak up on you, and hits you hard in the last few chapters of the book. It does well to remember the subtitle of the book, as Chesterton himself pointed out very shortly before he died.

[jonfaith · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I suspect that this dream will linger within me for years to come. The philosophical and political currents pale compared to the intrinsic visions within, the idea that the six all saw their childhood in the penultimate geography is a telling terror.

[june6bug · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Expect the unexpected.

[lindoula-1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Once the story was established, it was quite predictable, but nonetheless enjoyable. The last chapter was perplexing to me, though. Not sure how I feel about it.

[herrrau-1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Unique. And very, very good. While some things are clearly forseeable, the book leaves you puzzling until the end, and after (if you count what Chesterton wrote about it 30 years later). The little notes that appear during the (paper?) chase are hilarious. ("What about Martin Tupper now?" What indeed.

[sasham-1 · Rating: 1 out of 5 stars]

I don't know why this book is listed as crime. There is no actual crime involved. Just a lot of hysterical policemen running around trying to arrest each other when they are all undercover. If you want to read this book start by expecting Alice in wonderland. It make about as much sense. It even references Alice a few times. It then devolves even further to some sort of religious allegory that even the author says he was pulling out if a hat. ( last couple of pages on the penguin edition I read ) In short, if you want a story that has no logic, reason or intelligent characters but is heavy on religious symbolism this is the one for you. Personally it just made my brain itch. And not in a good way.

[mykl8s · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Strange story, typically Chesterton, magic realism of his own kind, wonderful details. There is some point to this book, I think, but with GK the point is not the thing. The magic is more interesting than the realism, and there is more of it.

[tloeffler_3 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

I do love Chesterton's writing, but this one got away from me a little bit. I had difficulty following the characters (could have been a personal problem).Gabriel Syme, poet & undercover detective, meets a man on the street, and after challenging him about his supposed anarchism, follows him to a meeting of anarchists. Somehow, Gabriel ends up being voted to the "grand council" of anarchists, all of whom are named after the days of the week. Gabriel becomes Thursday, and finds himself caught between planning a bombing and, of course, the fact that he is a policeman. The story gets more and more bizarre and convoluted, often hilarious, until towards the end, when I found it a mess.But it wasn't long, and I'm glad I read it.

[cecrow · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

A long time ago I read several of the Father Brown mysteries. This is a less-conventional bird, but didn't live up to its billing as an unpredictable ride. This novel's genre is heralded as difficult to pin down, but it's easily categorized as Christian allegory. There's plenty of meant-to-be-fun nonsense about police versus anarchists that becomes a slog if you see the emerging pattern. Much of this tale rings less farcical in today's world. Anarchists are anything but comic when anyone with an extreme viewpoint seems abundantly prepared to inflict massive casualities to make their point. Modern perspective's wounding of this story comes to a head with the conclusion. Read as giving answer to terrorists, it's a terribly poor one. I'm not convinced it was a great answer by the allegory interpretation either, but at least more palatable.

[hadriantheblind · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Welp.

This started off as a charming and fast-paced mystery story, and went completely fantastical/nuts by the end. Reminded me a bit of the Temptation of Saint Anthony combined with Kafka. As if PKD was plopped down in Victorian England and told to write a story before his drugs kicked in.

I've always liked G. K. Chesteron - for distributism, for fighting eugenics, etc. As it turns out, he's also a very charming writer. I'm glad to become more acquainted with him.

[kathleen586 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

I really enjoyed this book until I got to the end. I was expecting a straightforward mystery/thriller, and then the ending was really strange. G.K. Chesterton is hard to understand sometimes.

[praj05_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

‘Humanity crushed once again’. ‘50 dead, 120 injured’. ‘Grave face of terror strikes again’. Familiar headlines scream through the pages of the newspapers each time a bomb goes off annihilating blameless lives. Through teeth gritting resilience, public outcry resonates through the deafened ears of failed intelligence and faith in the state’s law and order hangs by a thin string. As the weeks pass by rapid sketches of the alleged bombers, email links, forensic reports, collected evidence from the attacked ground and pictures of rehabilitating victims are splashed across the dailies. If by any chance the investigation comes through, anonymous visages covered with black rags are photographed outside the courtroom, readied for trial procedures, which may go on for months, maybe even years. As the days go by, life returns to normalcy (yes! It is a tricky word); everything is forgotten and the news fade until once again “humanity is crushed” by another dastardly attack. The analytical carnival starts once again. This is the time I dearly wish we had ‘philosophical policemen’ just like Chesterton describes in his book. Policemen- (officers of law), who would discover the book of sonnets and verses from where the crimes will be committed; those that recognize the intricate web of intellectual crimes. The derivation of dreadful thoughts- the human mind, so malicious and calculating camouflaged within an affluent, composed and erudite exterior. It is that very egocentric brainpower which churns out sadistic alterations from harmless verses and then picks vulnerable actors to craft that design into realism.

“Evil philosopher is not trying to alter things but to annihilate them”.

This book is more than a mere plot of undercover detectives and their clandestine exploration of the Secret anarchist Councilmen. Chesterton pens that a small time criminal is more of a good person. His aim is to eradicated only a certain obstacle and not annihilate the edifice. What caught my eye in one of the chapters was the elucidation of stereotyping poverty to rebellious festering.

“You’ve got that eternal idiotic ides that if anarchy came it would come from the poor. Why should it? The poor been rebels, but they have never been anarchists; they have more interest than anyone else in there being some decent government. The poor man really has a stake in the country. The rich man hasn’t; he can go away to New Guinea in a yacht. The poor have sometimes objected to being governed badly; the rich have always objected to being governed at all. Aristocrats are always anarchists; as you can see from the baron’s wars”.

When a bomber or an active terrorist is caught, he mostly turns out to be from an impoverished background, where his ravenous mind and mislaid faith is manipulated to find refuge in an illusionary godly abode. These are mere actors for crying out loud, chosen by the scheming selfish elements who are coward enough to remain behind the backstage curtains. The affluent as elucidated in this narration are the ones to be feared. They have an abundance of monetary resources, have sheltering capacity in far away lands, if need be and have a mind that concocts the unexpected. Where do you think the enormous funds come for fertilizing terror? I do not want elucidate detailed reports of various pathways of monetary funds wired to definite cults or “charitable” institutions that ultimately fund the immoral actions. But, the currency sure is not a bequest from the poor or some excise complements from our paychecks. The respective courtesy comes from those societal fundamentals that remain unscathed or unfazed by decree. Who do you suppose manages the advanced scientific technologies in various bombing devices? The knowledgeable elite, isn’t it? The erudite or should I say the crème de la crème of religious preachers who instead of spreading peace and equality manipulates vulnerable populace digging their raw wounds every time through words that revolt in their bleeding wounds? I could go on and on, as it angers me to see such naivety among the elements of law and order or purposefully turning a blind eye on the so-called modernists who may be responsible in concocting the ongoing mayhem of lawlessness. Why couldn’t there be some ‘philosophical policemen’ here in India or any place that incessantly plays the role of a powerless victim?

Chapter 4- The Tale of the Detective is the deciding chapter that outlines infinitesimal details of who Gabriel Syme really is. Syme sneaks his way into a clandestine council of seven men, each named after a day of the week. Syme becomes the inevitable Thursday though a pact he made with Lucian Gregory ,a poet and a true anarchist. Fear catches with Syme as his path deepens into the sinister world of the other six council men; the President being the most feared of all. Chesterton throws a light on various aspects of fear that thrives within and outside us. We rebel against the only side that corrupts us. What makes a mutineer and destroy the very notion of survival? We try and run from fear and pain, until one eventually catches up and makes us susceptible to uncouth rudiments that shelter our mental nakedness. It is the most treacherous survival, if every time we need proof of familiarity to feel safe. When fear caught up with Syme suffocating his senses, he would feel protected only if a blue card ( a source of identification given to every policemen in England) was shown to him. How vulnerable was Syme to live in a world of treachery and deceit? Makes me think of all the trepidation we feel every time we walk outside our homes or travel; the security checks, the sense of familiarity that we seek in bloodcurdling situations, the proof of safety that we search or reveal; spins a web of utter vulnerability that looms within the safest corners of our thoughts. The Man Who Was Thursday is a treasure that needs to be dug up by reading between the lines of a puzzling narrative to know what Chesterton is really saying.

“Revolt in its abstract can be revolting. It is like vomiting.”

Lastly, if everything leads to God and when nature if dissected reveals the face of God, then should I assume that evil is illusionary? Is malevolence the creation of couple menacing minds? If God means endurance then why is such mutinous extermination carried in God’s name after all?

[leslie398 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Bizarre but interesting story. At first, this seems to be a straightforward suspense thriller of police versus anarchists, but as the story progresses, it gets stranger and stranger.

[stacy_chambers-1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Allegories aren't my favorite kind of stories, but this one really stands out.

[femme_letale · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

The first half of this book is amazing, wonderful and very tightly conceived but I think it loses itself a little in the second half, when they go after Sunday. It is still memorable, though, and scenes have stayed with me. The ending is odd, as I was warned, but not uncharacteristic and I think it leaves a lovely taste in the mouth.

[mrslee_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

How does one review this? Let's see, it is the story of a dream, and as with all dreams I suppose, is open to interpretation. I'm not sure what to make of the meaning of it, the meaning floats in and out of my mind and I can't pin it down. However, the story itself was fun, quick to read and full of lovely word images. Now I must go and read more about it, then possibly read it again. Reading it again would be a pleasure.

[soylentgreen23 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

A detective inflitrates a gang of anarchists in London, cunningly gaining entry to the super-secretive 'Council of Days', led by the godly Sunday. His mission: to prevent a plot to blow up the Czar on his visit to Paris.The first half of the book is an exciting tale of wit and invention, but soon the tale becomes grossly absurd; the climax is surely allegorical but for me it was greatly unsatisfying, especially considering all the drama that had led to it.

[neurodrew · Rating: 1 out of 5 stars]

I found a recommendation of this book in an article in the Atlantic, sought it out online and acquired an unusual printed on demand hardcover - it has Harry Lyme from the Thin Man movie on the cover. I was disappointed. The plot is the gradual revelation of a group of anarchists as all being in an intellectual police force, all recruited by the same man who is also the head of the anarchists association. They are named for the days of the week, with “Sunday” as the chief anarchist. There is a great deal of philosophical speculation and discussion, and an improbable chase across London, ending in the revelation that Sunday is somehow God Almighty. Antique language, unbelievable plot and characters, ending in religious blather.

[ludiegrace · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I really enjoyed reading this startling, at times riotously funny, often gorgeously written book. The ending perplexed me, however, and that's why I ultimately dropped my rating to 4 stars. I wouldn't recommend this as anyone's first foray into Chesterton, but if you've enjoyed Orthodoxy, this is likely a good place to start with his fiction. He's a marvelous writer.

[ohernaes · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Both policemen and anarchists go undercover as anarchists. If there were a central message, it escaped me, but the novel contains many entaining parts.

[jcamilo_720582 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Few books managed to give us the sensation that the world may be dream. This is one of those books. Chesterton's allegory give us a feeling of unreal world, where we are no more awaken than the protagonist. He created a world that Robert Louis Stevenson and Lewis Caroll before him and Borges and Kafka after managed to create. A nightmare that we follow with hardship.

[musicmom41 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

A fantastical story with more twists and turns than a labyrinth; this was a great read. I was able to anticipate some of the “surprises” but that in no way diminished my pleasure and the ending was magnificent—although many reviewers disliked it because it did not neatly tie up all the loose ends. However, this book was not about answers but questions.

[extrajoker · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

first line: "The suburb of Saffron Park lay on the sunset side of London, as red and ragged as a cloud of sunset."I love Chesterton's language: from brilliantly witty dialogue to perfect visual descriptions. While social philosophy is not something about which I'd generally read, I love how this book presents it. Chesteron sublimates the silly, and treats the cosmos like a carnival. In his world, things may not always make sense...but I think that for Chesterton, more important than complete understanding is complete experience.

[isabelx_21 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

'You spoke of a second question,' snapped Gregory. 
'With pleasure,' resumed Syme. 'In all your present acts and surroundings there is a scientific attempt at secrecy. I have an aunt who lived over a shop, but this is the first time I have found people living for preference under a public-house. You have a heavy iron door. You cannot pass it without submitting to the humiliation of calling yourself Mr Chamberlain. You surround yourself with steel instruments which make the place, if I may say so, more impressive than homelike. May I ask why, after taking all this trouble to barricade yourselves in the bowels of the earth, you then parade your whole secret by talking about anarchism to every silly woman in Saffron Park?'Gregory smiled.'The answer is simple,' he said. 'I told you I was a serious anarchist, and you did not believe me. Nor do they believe me. Unless I took them into this infernal room they would not believe me.'First published in 1908, "The Man Who Was Thursday" is the story of secret policeman Gabriel Syme's infiltration of an anarchist gang and election to its ruling council whose code names are taken from the days of the week. The subtitle says it all really, as the events become more and more dreamlike as the story progresses, and less and less like a real world spy story.

[dreamingtereza_1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Oakes is right about this one. Of course, Oakes is usually right.

[crowyhead · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

It's a classic spy novel of sorts. It's also absolutely hilarious, beautifully written, and happens to be a Christian allegory. I didn't quite catch all the allegorical elements, but I enjoyed it immensely just the same.

[pflynn_62 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Not having read Chesterton before, but knowing of him generally, I was expecting something along the lines of Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment, at least as regards the struggle between fiction and religion. In that novel, I have always found Raskolnikov’s conversion to Christianity to be unconvincing. What makes that novel amazing is its ability to conjure up Raskolnikov’s psychological character in full, and his jailhouse conversion seems to run contrary to what the novel has spent the bulk of its effort establishing, namely the interior of Raskolnikov’s mind. Christianity emerges not from within the novel, not from within Raskolnikov’s nature, but from without, imposed by the author.As he was a devout Christian, I expected Chesterton to fall into a similar trap in The Man Who Was Thursday, and to allow his convictions to delimit his imagination. In that regard, I was pleasantly surprised. The ending is wholly consistent with the rest of the novel, but in transitioning the novel fully into the realms of allegory, it leads to a different set of problems. The novel is not a form especially conducive to allegory, and if you don’t believe me, try to read Pilgrim’s Progress. As a set of ideas, it makes perfect sense, but to modern readers, it will seem like the barest skeleton of a narrative. Syme, Bull and the Marquis de St. Eustache are not fully imagined human beings in the way that Raskolnikov is, but Chesterton avoids Dostoevsky’s problem because he does not intend his characters to be anything other than what they are.As such, if Thursday is to be judged, it must be judged as an allegory. Allegories can take an abstract, intellectual argument and make it come to life. Two exemplars that suggest where Thursday falls short are Kafka’s “On Parables” and the story of the Prodigal Son from the New Testament. In a quarter page, Kafka produces a phenomenal riddle that seems to contain one of the mysteries of life. In the tale of the Prodigal Son, the whole essence of Christ’s message is condensed into the story of one man.It is no accident that both of these examples are parables. Part of the genius of allegory is its ability to condense whole lines of argument and give them a tactile reality, a genius that is best displayed in parables. The novel is a far more expansive form that the parable, and it is unclear what Chesterton accomplishes in a 200-page allegory that could not be performed more concisely in a parable. Those two hundred pages are not at all painful to read, but they add little to the allegory revealed in the final chapter. Furthermore, allegory cannot achieve its own end. In the story of Sunday, the text hopes to present a convincing theodicy, a mark it falls far short of.I also find it striking that when Chesterton and so many other turn of the century authors (Conrad, Dostoevsky) cast about for a danger that would imperil society, they fingered anarchism, not knowing that World War I lay just around the corner.

[overtheseatoskye_1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I wish there were an entire genre of books in which surreal turn-of-the-century anarchist conventions become nightmarish costume parties presided over by sinister, size-variable criminal masterminds, but I only know of this one. And, er, I guess there's some allegory or something to it as well.

[misirlou_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

The strength of the allegory lies in its ability to entertain while teaching. A good allegory shouldn't let the message overpower the story; too many times an allegory has been derailed by flat characters or a loosely connected plot with more McGuffins than a detective novel. Christian allegories tend to suffer from the writers' need to distill their character's humanity down until they're nothing more than a caricature of their most prominent traits. Chesterton avoids this writing pitfall and delivers a story where the characters are both symbols and individuals, evolving as they fulfill their role in the story. The dialogue is witty, well written, and surprisingly fair. As a Chrisitan apologist, Chesterton seems to understand the appeal of nihilism but instead of simply defaming it, he works to understand the causes which drive a man to feel that any action is meaningless.One of the most impressive aspects of The Man Who Was Thursday is the whimsical quality of it. Throughout the telling his story, Chesterton embraces a sense of surreality that allows him to deliver an insightful message about the motivations of man without going into the melodrama of everyday situations. In order to deliver a fantastice message, you need a fantastic story and this novel provides both. Whatever you're looking for-- an adventure story, beautiful imagery, a sensible allegory, a philisophical text, or simply a good quote you'll find it in The Man Who Was Thursday.

[rhincero · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

It's a good book, and you should read it this very instant. The plot invloves an anarchist conspiracy and various goings-on, but that's not really the point. Chesterton is so facile with language, and his descriptions of various intellectual positions are so interesting that really they become the point of the book.