G. K. Chesterton’s The Man Who Was Thursday has baffled readers since its publishing. Even such great literary minds as C. S. Lewis and J. R. R. Tolkien could not deciphers its intentions. It is the sort of book which leads one to believe there are intentions behind the story, a message that motivates the story. I must urge the one who has not read the book for themselves to leave this blog, and go and read the book, and then return. I further urge the reader of this volume to leave any introduction alone till he/she has finished the story itself. The reasons for these requests will become clear in a moment. Seriously, though go and read it for yourself.
There is something intriguing about a mystery, and here is a mystery wrapped in a mystery. Chesterton’s masterful writing, and engaging style serve to draw a reader further in, and aid him in continuing on despite possible confusion. The confusion, especially about the ending, would ordinarily be off-putting, at least to me, but here it seems utterly appropriate for this is a book all about anarchists.
Our introduction is fairly brief and to the point, we have man who has apparently stumbled into an anarchist conspiracy as double agent. He is trying to figure out the plot, and if possible, stop it. The plot continues straight-ahead as the main cast is transported across international borders, and begin encountering stiff resistance. Then comes a series of twists and turns that one simply must read for themselves.
I will note that one of the great moments of the book comes when Thursday encounters an ally, and muses on significance of having just a single compatriot. This moment alone is worth the read, especially for those who have grappled with loneliness.
The work’s full title is, “The Man Who Was Thursday; a Nightmare.” And that last word is particularly descriptive. This is not story one would want to live out. It is best viewed, and not participated in: much like anarchy itself. Thursday as a character does a good job of standing in for us, as he rather average. Too often a story like this has a hero, someone extra-ordinary in some way that allows them to cope and overcome the situations they encounter. Thursday barely manages to hang on. There is never a moment where this man has a firm grip on events.
The events are held in another hand, and the man that hand is attached to is the main source of mystery in the whole work. Who is he, and what is he meant to represent? We know he must represent something for he tells us so at the end, but his words are cryptic enough to keep us guessing.
In his autobiography Chesterton reports that the books were apparently helpful in restoring the mentally ill. Elsewhere the authors give us a clue as to how such a book could be helpful, by drawing attention 9as we have done) to the subtitle. It is a nightmare, a very specific nightmare of a very particular sort of mind. An unsettled mind, a doubtful mind, a mind which sees the dark forces of chaus advancing everywhere and feels itself very much alone in a desperate stand for order.
It is not real; it is in both cases a nightmare from which we can wake-up. I can say this now with some confidence; but I cannot say the book in question gave me any help. I was led astray by a straying introduction to look for something like a commentary on reality, rather than a commentary on a distorted commentary on reality. Introductions can be helpful, or hurtful, and it is hard to say which they will be till we have left them well behind.
Adam Gopnik writing in the New Yorker in 2008, places this work of Chesterton at a pivotal moment in English literature between the happier fantasies that came before, and the darker works that followed, seeming to imply that Chesterton drove the change. I do not think so, rather I think he anticipated the change and tried to head it off.
In some the man at the center of the whole tale is Chesterton himself. Only the real man could never exercise the level of control his fictional mastermind could. The story seemed to evoke some unexpectedly positive effects, but also many negative effects. It is as if the story became too big, and had a life of its own away from its authors designs. A nightmare indeed; and one which any writer, even the humble writer of this blog, might face.
Well, I have hazarded my guess as to what the mystery is really all about. I don’t expect the nightmare will end anytime soon. If it does it will only be that we have entered into a fresh nightmare…
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