G. K. Chesterton's surreal masterpiece is a psychological thriller that centers on seven anarchists in turn-of-the-century London who call themselves by the names of the days of the week. Chesterton explores the meanings of their disguised identities in what is a fascinating mystery and, ultimately, a spellbinding allegory.
MY THOUGHTS:
A couple of years ago I read The Napoleon of Notting Hill, which just edged over my threshold for weirdness. Nevertheless, I decided to give G. K Chesterton another try by tackling this even more famous title. Wow, it's every bit as bizarre as the other, yet this one I love. Chesterton reveals himself to be a forward thinking, prophetic genius through this wacky story and I've already recommended it to several people.
It begins with Gabriel Syme, who's a poet. He's also an undercover police detective who infiltrates the deep, secret headquarters of the Central Anarchist Council. Its president is an intimidating, mysterious individual who goes by the alias, 'Sunday.' The anarchists are about to hold an election to fill a vacancy left by the death of a prior agent, 'Thursday,' and Gabriel bluffs his way into the position, eager to fight anarchy as a double agent. However, he's anxious about whether he can pull off the slick masquerade necessary to fool the dark agents of anarchy, who are now his close companions.
The secretary, 'Monday', is a menacing figure with a lopsided smile. 'Tuesday' is Gogol, a bearded, ape-like man with a strong Polish accent, and 'Wednesday' is the Marquis de Eustache, a rich and sensual aristocrat. Professor de Worms, alias 'Friday' appears spookily ancient and decrepit. And 'Saturday' is Dr Bull, a hearty young GP who insists, for some reason, on keeping his eyes covered with dark spectacles. Syme, assuming his new role as 'Thursday', aims to foil an assassination attempt across the Channel in France but fears these fellow agents of anarchy will be more than a match for him.
That's a big enough teaser. Revealing any more will risk spoiling the story, except that a predictable pattern unfolds in a most unpredictable manner, which sounds contradictory but Chesterton is master of paradox. Being the great theologian and philosopher he was, Chesterton's themes are deeper than meets the eye. For his hero, Gabriel Syme aims to overcome not just individual anarchists themselves but a problematic, poisonous, Nihilist mindset which Chesterton wished to address. He believed too many people blurred the distinction between good and evil, going so far as to consider evil good. Keep in mind, this book's publication date was 1908! (The surreal tale of London features a great ferris wheel in Earl's Court that only existed between 1895 and 1907, after which it was dismantled. It also has a speeding elephant from the London zoo.)
There is plenty of fun irony, such as Syme remarking what a tight, orderly headquarters these advocates of chaos operate, and how his own stand for respectability is actually his personal form of total rebellion, since his parents were crooks and revolutionaries. Genius one-liners keep coming too. The book's subtitle is, 'a nightmare' which Syme likens to his own adventures. At one point, he eats a delicious lobster dinner and remarks, ' It's not often a nightmare leads me to lobster. More often the other way around.'
And how about this neat insult delivered by Sunday to Saturday. 'I daresay yours is the sort of face that grows on one. In fact, it grows on you, and who am I to quarrel with the wild fruits upon the Tree of Life.'
I'll be honest, parts of this story still baffle me, but in a fascinated way. I'm sure subsequent readings will reveal more of the onion layers of this story, when I return to it down the track.
For now, I'll finish off with this abbreviated confrontation between Wednesday and Gabriel (Thursday) who, at this stage, really needed to pick a fight with him. Do you think it has shades of our own extremely touchy era?
'This man has insulted me, said Syme. 'He insulted my aunt.'
'But how can the Marquis have insulted your aunt just now? He has been sitting here the whole time.'
'Ah, it was what he said.'
'I said nothing at all,' said the Marquis, 'except something about the band. I only said that I liked to hear Wagner played well.'
'It was an allusion to my family,' said Syme firmly. 'My aunt played Wagner badly. It was a painful subject. We are always being insulted about it. The whole of your conversation was simply packed with sinister allusions to my aunt's weaknesses.'
'This is nonsense. I for one have said nothing for half an hour except that I liked the singing of the girl with black hair.'
'Well, there you are again! My aunt's hair was red.'
'It seems to me, you are simply seeking a pretext to insult the Marquis,' said the other gentleman.
'By George. What a clever chap you are.'
Do read it, if you think your own tolerance for weird, potentially mind-blowing novels may be up to the challenge.
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