Not my cup of tea. Quite enjoyed the opening bits and the promise and the set-up, but somewhere mid-way in the book, as it dawned on me what is happening and where the book is eventually headed, the feeling turned to chagrin, bewilderment (not in a good way), disappointment, with me going 'really?', and eventually, wtf?
But then this is an allegorical novel. It is what you read in it.
I got nudged towards Chesterton from Borges poetry lectures. And although I like the paradoxical aphorisms or quotable quotes or the general idea of the paradoxical discussions, I do not get this specific book.
The book began like another of my recent reads, 'The Secret Agent' by Joseph Conrad. The same backdrop of London of broadly the same period (?) and the anarchists. But it is just the takeoff that is similar. After a bit, 'The Man...' falls off the cliff somewhere. The book borders at the edge of reality; call it surreal, or magic realism or absurd realism or what some people call it: a metaphysical detective story.
(Just an alert here, the following discussion might feel like spoiler to some people.)
This book's purpose is lost to me. Leaving me a bit miffed. At myself? On not being able to understand the point. Or not being able to see what perhaps others see in it. Instead of leaving it as such and not writing about it anymore, however, here I am wondering why am I unable to appreciate the work? What am I missing? The paradox?
May be it is because I am not able to get all his allusions or what he meant to say. A google search will bring across innumerable pages on Chesterton and Christianity. And as per the internet and people better read on Chesterton, this one is the more secular of his novels. My personal familiarity or understanding of Christian symbolism is very limited. Limited to what one has seen and read. Although all my schooling has been in a Catholic school (and the routine of daily morning prayer assembly, lunch prayers, carols through December, nativity scene, the story of Jesus Christ and of course, Christmas) , I understand some things, but I have not really studied Christianity or the Bible, for that matter.
Secondly, I really do not see things the same way. I understand and respect that every religion has its symbolism and belief system but then it is not an implicit general assumption for a book unless the book is presented as Gospel or religious fiction. There are secular works, there are indifferent works, there are even religious works which say as much, but this one was an implicit religious work (if there is such a genre). I feel there are ways and means of discussing faith without regarding it as given as the sky above us. And here, as I write this, I doubt myself again. What do I know? Most of my reading has been limited to what now I would call secular or indifferent books. But I have mostly stayed away from books that leave no debate. Since then I feel that the point of reading is lost. Who can write gospel truths in these times? Where there is no inherent doubt, questioning or at least an acceptance or acknowledgement or humility that really no-one knows what is and what is not, the writing loses the exploratory magic that most writing is, and becomes extremely narrow and didactic.
For me perhaps the most important reason of this eventual creeping disenchantment was the plot and the non-resolution. The massive set-up of all the different anarchist agents and their Supreme Council. Followed by a lot of mad chase and shuffle, and illogical sequences. And still, one doesn't end up any wiser and nothing really gets resolved. Why go through that sort of trouble, to do what? Aren't the energies of all the people involved (all the relevant characters in the book) spent somewhere else better. And where do all the real anarchists go? In the end, is it just a discussion on Sabbath and how the days of week came by? But then only so much of the world holds that notion. I respect faith and I believe that everyone is entitled to their beliefs. I feel this way, shortchanged or miffed, is because I feel I read a religious novel thinking it was some paradoxical mystery.
Enough said. May be, I need to reflect a little bit more and revisit the rushed through final pages of the book to understand what the author is getting at. Or maybe the best Chesterton is poems and quotes and reflections on life without getting into the religious domain which of course as a topic carries edge and root of an argument.
Not sure if I want to watch the movie. Mostly not.
**
As an irrelevant aside, whenever I looked at the title of the book 'Man who was Thursday', my mind, the random associations it keeps, kept reminding me of 'Man who sold the world'. So much so, throughout the book, and even while writing this post, the song has been playing in my head. And come to think of it, what you hear in the lyrics is not too far removed from the book.
No matter the nightmare was not enjoyable. We can still save the day, listen to Nirvana playing David Bowie's 'Man Who Sold the World' here. And I am copying-pasting the lyrics from the internet here:
The Man Who Sold the World (by David Bowie)
We passed upon the stair
We spoke of was and when
Although I wasn't there
He said I was his friend
Which came as a surprise
I spoke into his eyes
I thought you died alone
A long long time ago
Oh no, not me
We never lost control
You're face to face
With the man who sold the world
I laughed and shook his hand
And made my way back home
I searched for form and land
For years and years I roamed
I gazed a gazeless stare
We walked a million hills
I must have died alone
A long, long time ago
Who knows?
Not me
I never lost control
You're face to face
With the man who sold the world
Who knows?
Not me
We never lost control
You're face to face
With the man who sold the world