The Man Who Was Thursday
July 2nd 2007 14:02
I have decided that the next three, maybe four, seven at the outside are all going to be about my favourite christian author, G.K. Chesterton. I am going to warn you now, that there will be some spoilers here and there but trying to spoil Chesterton is like trying to shout down a thunderstorm. I am starting with my absolute favourite, The Man Who Was Thursday, not only because it is my favourite and I have read it more times than anything else of his, but because it was the first fiction work of his that I ever read (thank you Eidos for your game Deus Ex).
Chesterton sets the scene like a painter sets an easel. He describes the world not only as beautiful, but as a beautiful work as art. His words:
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.
Are written by a man not only with a brilliant intellect for analysis, but also by a man with poetry at the core of his heart. He understood people and still loved them. He writes with the ability to charge the mind and to fire the heart. Interestingly enough, this was a common theme for him. The division between what was poetic and what was rational was for him, a long and constant battle. But funnily enough, it was never a battle to the death, it was a battle to the end, and at that end, both parts would end as comrades.
It is little surprise that he opens the dialogue with an arguement. For those that know him, he began most things with an arguement. In this case, he begins with an arguement between two poets. One is a poet of chaos, spitting fire and bile with every sentence, and the other is a poet of order, praising the reality of the trains and their ability to get to the stations (this is obviously before CityRail). After being doubted in his commitment to atheism, Gregory, the poet of Chaos, tells Syme, the poet of Order, that in exchange for his oath of silence, he promises him an entertaining evening.
The entertainment of that evening is that Syme, being part of a detective force to investigate anarchism finds himself being made a member of the Supreme Anarchist Council of Europe. No doubt, a secret council that meets out in the open, and with every member being a unique day, with a unique face is note worthy. Chesterton writes each member with a different flavour, and to the philosophical, the flavour is as different as dark to night, formless to form and void to life. A brief study of Genesis, to observe each day, is all the guidance I will give you there.
The details of that most amazing and indeed quite entertaining evening are best left between the covers of the book for yourselves to discover (now Dusk, how was THAT for a pun?). But without giving away the whole plot, if one man is Thursday, then other men must be Monday to Saturday. And it is not about six men asking one man what He means, but asking Him what they mean, and answering, to a degree, what it means to be alive.
"Gregory!" gasped Syme, half-rising from his seat. "Why, this is
the real anarchist!"
"Yes," said Gregory, with a great and dangerous restraint, "I am
the real anarchist."
"'Now there was a day,'" murmured Bull, who seemed really to have
fallen asleep, "'when the sons of God came to present themselves
before the Lord, and Satan came also among them.'"
"You are right," said Gregory, and gazed all round. "I am a
destroyer. I would destroy the world if I could."
A sense of a pathos far under the earth stirred up in Syme, and
he spoke brokenly and without sequence.
"Oh, most unhappy man," he cried, "try to be happy! You have red
hair like your sister."
"My red hair, like red flames, shall burn up the world," said
Gregory. "I thought I hated everything more than common men can
hate anything; but I find that I do not hate everything so much
as I hate you!"
"I never hated you," said Syme very sadly.
Then out of this unintelligible creature the last thunders broke.
"You!" he cried. "You never hated because you never lived. I know
what you are all of you, from first to last--you are the people
in power! You are the police--the great fat, smiling men in blue
and buttons! You are the Law, and you have never been broken. But
is there a free soul alive that does not long to break you, only
because you have never been broken? We in revolt talk all kind of
nonsense doubtless about this crime or that crime of the
Government. It is all folly! The only crime of the Government is
that it governs. The unpardonable sin of the supreme power is
that it is supreme. I do not curse you for being cruel. I do not
curse you (though I might) for being kind. I curse you for being
safe! You sit in your chairs of stone, and have never come down
from them. You are the seven angels of heaven, and you have had
no troubles. Oh, I could forgive you everything, you that rule
all mankind, if I could feel for once that you had suffered for
one hour a real agony such as I--"
Syme sprang to his feet, shaking from head to foot.
"I see everything," he cried, "everything that there is. Why does
each thing on the earth war against each other thing? Why does
each small thing in the world have to fight against the world
itself? Why does a fly have to fight the whole universe? Why does
a dandelion have to fight the whole universe? For the same reason
that I had to be alone in the dreadful Council of the Days. So
that each thing that obeys law may have the glory and isolation of
the anarchist. So that each man fighting for order may be as brave
and good a man as the dynamiter. So that the real lie of Satan may
be flung back in the face of this blasphemer, so that by tears and
torture we may earn the right to say to this man, 'You lie!' No
agonies can be too great to buy the right to say to this accuser,
'We also have suffered.'
"It is not true that we have never been broken. We have been broken
upon the wheel. It is not true that we have never descended from
these thrones. We have descended into hell. We were complaining of
unforgettable miseries even at the very moment when this man
entered insolently to accuse us of happiness. I repel the slander;
we have not been happy. I can answer for every one of the great
guards of Law whom he has accused. At least--"
He had turned his eyes so as to see suddenly the great face of
Sunday, which wore a strange smile.
"Have you," he cried in a dreadful voice, "have you ever suffered?"
As he gazed, the great face grew to an awful size, grew larger than
the colossal mask of Memnon, which had made him scream as a child.
It grew larger and larger, filling the whole sky; then everything
went black. Only in the blackness before it entirely destroyed his
brain he seemed to hear a distant voice saying a commonplace text
that he had heard somewhere, "Can ye drink of the cup that I drink
of?"
To the end, the book never allows the reader to become comfortable. It keeps them running, but running on poetry. It keeps them moving, but gives them a means to move.
JZ
All the stuff here that I did not write was written by G.K. Chesterton. I got it from the Gutenberg project. Please don't hurt me.
Chesterton sets the scene like a painter sets an easel. He describes the world not only as beautiful, but as a beautiful work as art. His words:
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.
Are written by a man not only with a brilliant intellect for analysis, but also by a man with poetry at the core of his heart. He understood people and still loved them. He writes with the ability to charge the mind and to fire the heart. Interestingly enough, this was a common theme for him. The division between what was poetic and what was rational was for him, a long and constant battle. But funnily enough, it was never a battle to the death, it was a battle to the end, and at that end, both parts would end as comrades.
It is little surprise that he opens the dialogue with an arguement. For those that know him, he began most things with an arguement. In this case, he begins with an arguement between two poets. One is a poet of chaos, spitting fire and bile with every sentence, and the other is a poet of order, praising the reality of the trains and their ability to get to the stations (this is obviously before CityRail). After being doubted in his commitment to atheism, Gregory, the poet of Chaos, tells Syme, the poet of Order, that in exchange for his oath of silence, he promises him an entertaining evening.
The entertainment of that evening is that Syme, being part of a detective force to investigate anarchism finds himself being made a member of the Supreme Anarchist Council of Europe. No doubt, a secret council that meets out in the open, and with every member being a unique day, with a unique face is note worthy. Chesterton writes each member with a different flavour, and to the philosophical, the flavour is as different as dark to night, formless to form and void to life. A brief study of Genesis, to observe each day, is all the guidance I will give you there.
The details of that most amazing and indeed quite entertaining evening are best left between the covers of the book for yourselves to discover (now Dusk, how was THAT for a pun?). But without giving away the whole plot, if one man is Thursday, then other men must be Monday to Saturday. And it is not about six men asking one man what He means, but asking Him what they mean, and answering, to a degree, what it means to be alive.
"Gregory!" gasped Syme, half-rising from his seat. "Why, this is
the real anarchist!"
"Yes," said Gregory, with a great and dangerous restraint, "I am
the real anarchist."
"'Now there was a day,'" murmured Bull, who seemed really to have
fallen asleep, "'when the sons of God came to present themselves
before the Lord, and Satan came also among them.'"
"You are right," said Gregory, and gazed all round. "I am a
destroyer. I would destroy the world if I could."
A sense of a pathos far under the earth stirred up in Syme, and
he spoke brokenly and without sequence.
"Oh, most unhappy man," he cried, "try to be happy! You have red
hair like your sister."
"My red hair, like red flames, shall burn up the world," said
Gregory. "I thought I hated everything more than common men can
hate anything; but I find that I do not hate everything so much
as I hate you!"
"I never hated you," said Syme very sadly.
Then out of this unintelligible creature the last thunders broke.
"You!" he cried. "You never hated because you never lived. I know
what you are all of you, from first to last--you are the people
in power! You are the police--the great fat, smiling men in blue
and buttons! You are the Law, and you have never been broken. But
is there a free soul alive that does not long to break you, only
because you have never been broken? We in revolt talk all kind of
nonsense doubtless about this crime or that crime of the
Government. It is all folly! The only crime of the Government is
that it governs. The unpardonable sin of the supreme power is
that it is supreme. I do not curse you for being cruel. I do not
curse you (though I might) for being kind. I curse you for being
safe! You sit in your chairs of stone, and have never come down
from them. You are the seven angels of heaven, and you have had
no troubles. Oh, I could forgive you everything, you that rule
all mankind, if I could feel for once that you had suffered for
one hour a real agony such as I--"
Syme sprang to his feet, shaking from head to foot.
"I see everything," he cried, "everything that there is. Why does
each thing on the earth war against each other thing? Why does
each small thing in the world have to fight against the world
itself? Why does a fly have to fight the whole universe? Why does
a dandelion have to fight the whole universe? For the same reason
that I had to be alone in the dreadful Council of the Days. So
that each thing that obeys law may have the glory and isolation of
the anarchist. So that each man fighting for order may be as brave
and good a man as the dynamiter. So that the real lie of Satan may
be flung back in the face of this blasphemer, so that by tears and
torture we may earn the right to say to this man, 'You lie!' No
agonies can be too great to buy the right to say to this accuser,
'We also have suffered.'
"It is not true that we have never been broken. We have been broken
upon the wheel. It is not true that we have never descended from
these thrones. We have descended into hell. We were complaining of
unforgettable miseries even at the very moment when this man
entered insolently to accuse us of happiness. I repel the slander;
we have not been happy. I can answer for every one of the great
guards of Law whom he has accused. At least--"
He had turned his eyes so as to see suddenly the great face of
Sunday, which wore a strange smile.
"Have you," he cried in a dreadful voice, "have you ever suffered?"
As he gazed, the great face grew to an awful size, grew larger than
the colossal mask of Memnon, which had made him scream as a child.
It grew larger and larger, filling the whole sky; then everything
went black. Only in the blackness before it entirely destroyed his
brain he seemed to hear a distant voice saying a commonplace text
that he had heard somewhere, "Can ye drink of the cup that I drink
of?"
To the end, the book never allows the reader to become comfortable. It keeps them running, but running on poetry. It keeps them moving, but gives them a means to move.
JZ
All the stuff here that I did not write was written by G.K. Chesterton. I got it from the Gutenberg project. Please don't hurt me.
| 56 |
| Vote |
Add To: 
