the Man Who Was Thursday

This book, a nightmarish novel by Gilbert Keith Chesterton, that sly old dog, is very rightly one of my new favourites. Without giving away any spoilers, the premise is the Supreme Anarchist Council, who furtively behind-the-scenes are really running the shop, and there are seven of them named after days of the week* - and the man who was Thursday, otherwise known as Gabriel Symes, an extravagant poet; after one of the Council's meetings is taken into a darkened room where he meets with a mysterious figure (supposedly not one of the Council, though it should be said that all of them are also pretty mysterious figures) who gives him a small blue card, accompanied by the instructive comment that they are now working with the Metropolitan Police, in an effort to infiltrate the Anarchists and foil their plans, many of which, because of course they do, involve dynamiting large public events and buildings and personnel.

   Anyway Mr Symes/Thursday is rightly terrified by all this, and cops it to the police in his heart - later divulging this to other members of the Council as he spins an ever-more desperate web of lies, half-truths and mental gymnastics in trying to perjure or gain advantages over the other Anarchists while seeking their comeuppance by the law... Of course, they soon catch on. And for want of spoiler bait I'm leaving it there and retreating into discussion of its abstract qualities.

   Chesterton has played an absolute blinder here. The resonant subtextual symbolism and lurid imagery and superlatively playful prose make for a riotous read, the pacing feels a little off kilter but it's gripping throughout anyway and you really feel your way through the fears, the machinations and frustrations of the characters, despite how opaque and duplicitous they all succeed in being throughout. The ending will have you howling for anything more, better or different, and yet at an absolute loss for how else it could have ended. Sunday is surely the most ominous, powerfully charismatic villains I've encountered in text** since Culzean, and that's saying something. A fantastically riddling read for mystery thriller lovers of all ages.

* Yes, I know that's similar to Reservoir Dogs, they copied it. This is from 1908.

** Yeah, and Satan probably counts as this too but he's long since given up reading over my shoulder when I read the Bible, probably, but I fear he's leveraging my own extra reading against me in unfathomable ways. God knows I'm the furthest thing from a heretic when it comes to the crunch decision point - at least that's what I'd hope and aspire of myself.