"Chestertonian Incense" Take Two

Many people have drifted onto my site through searches about "Chestertonian Incense," probably having come accross the quotation in the Philly Inquirer to which I made reference, and searching for an explanation of who Chesterton is, and why he's connected with cigars.

For an answer to the former question, the best place to turn is the American Chesterton Society.

And about Chesterton and smoking, Dr. Thursday has the scoop over at the Society's blog.

"Chestertonian Incense"

A tangential mention of our man GKC in the Philly Inquirer in an article on Summorum Pontificum - actually, the reference is to cigars. As for the article: I've seen better, but I've also seen many much worse.

Picture from Conference

Got a good picture from the weekend in the mail today. Check it out down below.

The Long Journey Home - Part Three

[Conclusion - from Parts One and Two.]

I had begun the weekend praying about family and communion. By Saturday I was sure that God was answering my prayers in an unexpected way. Like Gabriel Syme amidst the Council of the Days, I began to feel a solidarity with my fellow Chestertonians that might be described as sacramental. Love of truth and goodness had brought us together; the same love with which Gilbert Chesterton lived and wrote. In that common love we were united to Chesterton; we were united to each other; and we were united to the source of love and goodness Himself.

I had known Aidan Mackey's name from various Chesterton research over the past couple of years. I knew a little bit about him. I was already excited just to have seen him briefly on Thursday evening, when he approached our dinner table to speak with Peter Floriani. After he walked away, Peter nodded towards Aidan and said, "That was Aidan Mackey. He's the original Chestertonian." I would learn that Aidan had known many of Chesterton's friends and acquaintances personally, including his daughter-like secretary Dorothy Collins. For years after Chesterton's death, when fads were against Chesterton's writings and some rare materials might have fallen into obscurity , Aidan labored to collect and preserve anything and everything Chesterton. He might be credited with making possible the Chesterton revival now underway throughout England and America.

At the banquet on Saturday night, I told Mike and Steve to find us a place to sit, saying it would be good to mingle. So they found us a completely empty table of six chairs. Luckily, immediately after sitting down, two other young men came over to sit with us: Chris and Matthew from Columbus, Ohio. A little more pleased now that we had company, I got up to find us a couple bottles of wine. Imagine my surprise when I returned to find Aidan Mackey sitting in the seat next to mine!

(Photo courtesy of Peter Floriani)

Having Aidan at our banquet table was the highlight of the weekend. His humility and gracefulness impressed me very much, as he insisted that he considered his work a privilege. He continues to receive students and Chesterton fans at his house in England, and to share his resources with others. The greatest of these resources, though, is of course his memory.

We were honored by the opportunity to ask Mr. Mackey questions during the meal about all sorts of subjects, from Chesterton's canonization cause to what kind of cigars he liked to smoke. Most of the time, however, we just listened as Aidan shared memories - and not just about Chesterton, but about his own inspiring life and his own notable accomplishments.

At the end of the evening, Aidan received a well-deserved standing ovation from the Society; standing next to him, I could see that he was visibly moved. To my surprise, I found that I was a little choked up as well. It struck me that I should feel so much love and gratitude toward the man after only having spoken with him for an hour or two. My emotion only became more intense when Geir Hasnes, the Norwegian Chestertonian who had earlier admitted to being a "cryer," came over after Aidan's ovation and embraced him.

I have felt this way before. Occasionally, I've been invited as a seminarian to some sort of youth rally or other gathering of the faithful. I am always struck in such circumstances by the paradoxical largeness and smallness of the Church. The Church is everywhere: from the rising of the sun to its setting. And yet, wherever the Church is, it is One. It is the living Body of Christ, united under the same Head. And there is some share in that mystery as well even for those who are not in full communion yet bear the name Christian. Two millenia ago, Christ commissioned men to go out and be fishers of men. And in each generation, Christians have heeded the same call and shared in that mission to some degree. This was the mission of G.K. Chesterton.

The conference stands as a testimony to Chesterton's success. He continues to call people together from all walks of life and all faiths and to change them in a deep way. And part of the way he changes people is through a sharing of the mission; those newly called are energized and edified by the ones already in the fold. Spring and harvest go on unceasingly, and even though Chesterton's earthly toiling has ended, I am sure that he and Frances continue to watch over their wide-spread garden from Heaven.

I am thankful for people like G.K. Chesterton - and for organizations like the American Chesterton Society - who continue to bring the Church together, making it at once larger and smaller. I was filled with this gratitude when I arrived at the airport at 430 on Sunday morning and checked my bag.

"We'll need to open this," said the clerk at the desk, jingling the small lock on the front of my suitcase.

"Oh, sure," I said, reaching into my pocket for my keys. My keys - were back at the seminary.

I rushed out of the building and hailed a cab who hurried me back to my room. Security let me into the building and I was able to get my keys and get back to the airport and through security just on time for my flight. Steve and Mike were waiting for me at the gate to bid me farewell as we parted ways for the summer again.

As I sat down on the plane I chuckled to myself about my latest mishap and thanked God that it had ended well. It seemed a fitting conclusion to such an adventure. As the plane got airborne, I thought back on my flight out to the conference and how keenly I'd felt that I was going away from home to a strange place. Oddly, I didn't feel so terribly different now.

The Long Journey Home - Part Two

[Continued from Part One]

I cannot recall exactly when we first met Peter Floriani. It may have been in the line at the refectory, or it may have been only when he asked if we would mind him sitting at our table. All I know for certain is that he was the first Chestertonian we met - and what a first impression! I remember thinking that if all the conference guests were comparably enthusiastic, we would be in for quite a weekend. His excitement and joy were contagious, and his charisma could best be described as effervescent. I knew instantly that we were lucky to have him sitting at our table, but I could not have guessed how lucky. My mind tried to come up with the connection through which his name was so familiar. Only after a little conversation did the truth come out.

We found out that Dr. Floriani was giving a talk at the conference in place of Nancy Brown. I told him that I was a reader of the Society's blog (which Mrs. Brown facilitates), and that I probably recognized the name from there. I was pleasantly surprised to hear that I was not a complete stranger to him, either.

"Oh, Veritatis Visio, yeah, I've seen that," he said. Then, thoughtfully: "I can't remember whether I've written anything there, though."

"I don't know..." I said.

"Well, if I had it would have been under my other name anyway, 'Dr. Thursday'," he said with a grin.

My eyes widened with sudden recognition. I had long been a fan of Dr. Thursday's contributions to the blogosphere on his own site and many others across the web. Recalling the erudition of these postings, I felt a sudden urge to feel newly intimidated, but Peter's personality simply wouldn't allow it. He's one of the most personable Ph.D.s in computer science that I've ever met. Soon, our jovial conversation revealed more pleasant information, as we found out that Peter lives not far from the Seminary we attend. Suddenly the prospects of increasing Chesterton awareness at school looked much brighter in light of this new acquaintance. Steve, Mike, and I left the dining hall feeling invigorated by our first Chestertonian encounter and eager for more.

We stopped a brief while at the book tables in the conference hall before heading in to hear Dale Alquist's welcome address. Our initial sparks of excitement soon kindled into a roaring enthusiasm as Dale intelligently and hilariously kicked off the weekend. His sense of humor was one of the highlights of the conference for me, and I admired the dynamism of his "live" presentation. It was a pleasant contrast to the lower-key style I knew from his EWTN show.

After Dale, and a lengthy break for refreshments of the home-brewed sort, Chuck Chalberg took the stage as our man himself. (I can't resist the temptation: "Our man Thursday?") As Chesterton, Dr. Chalberg lectured on Islam, drawing significantly from Chesterton's The New Jerusalem. Several times, the prophetic import of Chesterton's musings sent chills down my spine.

With these two talks, the conference was off to a great start. I would love to describe each moment in greater detail, but I'm afraid even just the highlights would occupy far too long a time. I particularly enjoyed a panel discussion of The Man Who Was Thursday featuring Christopher Chan, Kerry MacArthur, and Aidan Mackey. Of this latter gentleman, more will be said later. I was impressed by Dr. Carl Hassler's presentation of "Just War" in Augustine, Aquinas, and Chesterton. I was moved by Geir Hasnes sincerity and faith, and moved also by his insight into Sigrid Undset. I was intrigued by Robert Moore-Jumonville's religious sentiments, both in presentation and in person. I loved Joseph Pearce's talk and his accent, and got his autograph twice to boot! And all throughout the weekend, Peter Floriani continued to astonish me. His presentations were absolutely wonderful, but even more striking was his personal kindness. He made us three strangers feel like old friends of his; and whatever we were before, I know we shall be friends hereafter. For his generosity and his hospitality, I am most grateful.

On our way into lunch on Saturday, a woman greeted us with the boisterous exclamation: "Hey! The three amigos!" You see, for the most part, Steven, Mike, and I had flown under the radar throughout the weekend. We'd introduced ourselves to people and made a few acquaintances when it was most convenient, but perhaps a lingering bit of inhibition held us back from being too sociable or outgoing. If we did keep to ourselves somewhat, I don't think any of us minded. Personally, I was awed by the people around me and just overwhelmed with drinking it all in. And whatever our shyness or closeness, it didn't feel a bit lonely. Somehow, I felt a strong sympathy with the other folks at this conference. Although we weren't all like-minded on all issues and came from so many different backgrounds, something common had brought us all together - somehow, we were all related. Peter Floriani had talked about feeling very much "at home" when he came to these events, describing it partly like a family reunion and partly like a sacramental community. As the weekend wound down to a close, I began to feel how right he was. Just how right, I would learn on Saturday night.

(Continued in Part Three...)

The Long Journey Home - Part One

All the six friends compared notes afterwards and quarrelled; but they all agreed that in some unaccountable way the place reminded them of their boyhood.

G.K. Chesterton, The Man Who Was Thursday

This past weekend, I traveled with two friends to St. Paul, Minnesota, on the campus of the University of St. Thomas, where the American Chesterton Society's annual conference was being held. I wrote about my anticipation of this trip earlier, but admittedly I had no idea what to expect and was a little apprehensive about whether I would fit in or what sort of people I would meet. Only after the conference was held did I find this post by a regular attendee noting the "minority of whackos who show up" to the event each year, but I thought it reasonable to expect as much. I was not worried about these sorts, though, who can be expected at nearly every conference (although some organizations pride themselves on having such folks in the majority instead). Rather, I was concerned about whether the majority of the people in attendance would be too far out of my league in their knowledge and understanding of Chesterton; that I would be found unqualified, without any proper credentials to rub elbows with such an intelligent crowd of devotees, and left somewhat awkwardly on the periphery. I entered the terminal Thursday morning walking on a cloud of euphoric excitement and anxiety. My anxiety soon gave way to genuine worry, however.

My flight was cancelled. I stared for a moment in disbelief at the screen as it flashed the prohibiting red letters. I walked slowly back to the cafe where I'd been sitting with my friend and said matter-of-factly, "They just cancelled our flight." (I felt sure that "they" were to blame; I could not say merely, "our flight's been cancelled" and leave any doubt about whether there must be some villian behind such misfortune.) Steven's characteristic response was to shrug solemnly and furrow his brow perplexed. He rose in silence and we walked dazed toward the gate whence our journey had been set to begin. Amidst the chaotic negotiations and confusions which followed, Chesterton's words consoled me and bid me be patient: "An inconvenience is merely an adventure wrongly considered." Before the afternoon was over, I was having a very worthy adventure indeed: a mischievous airline sprite had scheduled us on a flight which had no seats; a usurping plane had then muscled into our arrival gate at Chicago and ours was left forlornly to search for other harbor; and, when finally we had arrived in Minneapolis, I learned the savage wights of the Philadelphia baggage underworld had hidden my suitcase away in some dungeon, in the untold darkness of which no barcode could be read, thus dooming to eternal anonymity its voiceless nylon victims.

Steven, Mike, and I finally arrived at Saint Paul's Seminary exhausted and worn out from waiting in lines and politely arguing with service representatives all day. Our schedule had been altered significantly and the afternoon was much more hectic than we had planned. But things began to look brighter. Our host, Monsignor Callighan, greeted us most graciously and said he would celebrate a private Mass with us in the small dormitory chapel. While we waited for the appointed time, we rushed over to the hall in which the Conference was being held in order to register and collect our meal tickets. Upon entering the building, the butterflies flew immediately back into my stomach. I first saw the many tables filled with books and wondered how I would hold myself from financial ruin. I was sure that I would have to own every printed page in the room before the weekend was through. This anxiety was overpowered, though, as I looked around the room and remembered earlier fears. The noise in the place was deafening as everyone buzzed with excited and boisterous conversation. The Chestertonians there all seemed to be old friends and from the loudness of their laughter they seemed already well caught up with one another after many months or years apart. I again wondered whether we would find our place amongst them and whether we would be able to make such friends ourselves.

We rushed back to the dormitories and attended Mass, which Monsignor offered for us and for our families. The excitement of the day finally drifted away and I found myself breathing with a calm peace as I prayed. My worries and frustrations seemed miles away, and I felt a sudden keen awareness of what a comfort it is to be a member of the Body of Christ. I knew that no matter what strange place I might find myself in, I was always close to family through the wonder of the Church. I was greatly consoled as I prayed along with Monsignor for blessings upon my family and friends, and I asked God that He use the weekend to draw us into an ever greater unity.

After Mass, we prayed Vespers, picked up our meal tickets and walked over towards the Conference center for dinner, where our adventures would begin in earnest. Little did I realize how God was already working on an answer to my prayers, and how He planned to teach me that, through Christ, family and friends are always close at hand...

(Continued in Part Two...)

Vita Sine Termino Nobis Donet in Patria...

My readers (if I still have any) may or may not be aware that I will be traveling this Thursday to Minneapolis/Saint Paul for the annual conference of the American Chesterton Society. The date of this much-anticipated trip is June 14.

As I prepared for the journey, it more and more began to take on the feeling almost of a religious pilgrimage. There is something Providential about me going to this particular conference, in this particular year. Down to the very date, something has seemed important about the whole matter, yet I have until today been unable to put my finger on it. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew there were important connections to be drawn - but what were they?

Now, bear with me here if I sound like a conspiracy theorist. But, to my mind, the whole crazy story begins about a year ago. It was on June 8, 2006, when I launched on my blog (and my still out-of-date sidebar bears testimony) a book club reading of Chesterton's The Man Who Was Thursday. Fittingly, June 8 was itself a Thursday. It was also around that time that I first heard about the Chesterton Society's Annual Conference and vowed that I would attend sometime. That year, the conference kicked off one week after my blog discussion, on June 15th: the Thursday of Corpus Christi.

The conference was a success that year, and I followed its news via magazine and blogs, green with envy. In the meantime, my own reading of Thursday with my friends occupied the whole of that summer and really brought me to a greater appreciation of Chesterton.

Fast forward to this year. I began planning to attend this year's conference a while back. I learned that I had an unexpected connection at the Seminary where it was being held, which connection carried with it an increased affordability for my trip. It was only after this that I learned of this year's conference theme: The Man Who Was Thursday. The choice of theme was appropriate, after all - this year being the hundredth anniversary of the work's publication, as I noted below. Nevertheless, I remember that I had an eerie sense when I heard the theme announced that it was almost too fitting. I thought then, and have thought many times since, that there was something Providential in it all. As I moved through this past sememster, growing ever more familiar with and devoted to Chesterton, I began to feel almost giddily excited about the prospect of attending an entire conference on the great writer. I gave a talk at my Seminary to try to spread appreciation to others; I even found two individuals crazy enough to make the trip to Minnesota along with me.

As June 14th approached, I felt that I really needed to get down to business. I just knew there was something significant in all of this, and it was like one of Chesterton's puzzles trying to figure it out. I read the exploits of Father Brown to try to sharpen my wit and finally decided to dive into Thursday for another go, and to refresh my memory of the novel before the conference.

This past week, I spent a few days in New Jersey, and returned on Thursday late in the evening. Wide awake from the coffee during my drive, I decided to finish off the remaining chapters of The Man Who Was Thursday before turning in. I reached the novel's end with a renewed sense of awe at God's mysterious love for us: and my thoughts came around to the fact that it was, that very day, the traditional celebration of Corpus Christi (although we celebrate the feast today - Sunday - in America). And suddenly, like lightning, everything came together in my mind.

Corpus Christi has always been one of my favorite feasts - and it was one of Chesterton's, too. In his last days, he would repeat to himself over and over lines from Aquinas's Corpus Christi hymn: O Salutaris Hostia. Part of the last stanza is the epitaph on his gravestone. Chesterton said that the final two words, "in patria," sum everything up. Heaven is our patria - our homeland - and we are sojourners, exiles waiting to return. We have hung up our harps and wait for Sion where we will sing again our song to the Lord.

This theme of exile and sense of strangeness is the very theme of anarchy in Chesterton's novel, The Man Who Was Thursday. It is the import of Syme's great speech at the end:

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?... 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.'

This is the paradox of Corpus Christi: had Israel never been captive in a strange land, they never would have experienced the triumph of freed men (so much better than the comfort of merely free men); had Israel never hungered in the desert, they never would have experienced the fulfillment of the heaven-sent manna. Likewise, had we never been captives to death, we would have no share in the fullest glory of the One who conquers death; had we not suffered hunger and pain, we would have no share in Christ's glorious Body and Blood and the fulness of life.

Chesterton died on June 14th, 1936: Sunday after the Thursday of Corpus Christi. I will make my pilgrimage this June 14th, 2007: Thursday after the Sunday of Corpus Christi. On pigrimage (for that is what I know my trip will be), from Thursday to Sunday, my prayer, study, and fellowship will center on a novel all about what happens between a man named Thursday and a person named Sunday. And quite a lot can happen, as we know, between a Thursday and Sunday... quite a lot, indeed.

A True Chestertonian Paradox

In Masie Ward's biography, Gilbert Keith Chesterton, she quotes from an interview where G.K.C. shared the following:

A rather amusing thing was said by Father Knox on this point. He said that he should have regarded the book as entirely pantheist and as preaching that there was good in everything if it had not been for the introduction of the one real anarchist and pessimist. But he was prepared to wager that if [The Man Who Was Thursday] survives for a hundred years - which it won't - they will say that the real anarchist was put in afterwards by the priests. [Emphasis added.]

What I find ironic is that I came across this quotation is my research as I prepare to attend the American Chesterton Society's Conference on The Man Who Was Thursday on the occasion of its hundredth anniversary of publication. Chesterton is famous for his self-deprecating humility... I wonder what he thinks of this Conference now?

The Man Who Was Thursday - Round-up

General Comments on the Book

J.R.R. Tolkien had a distaste for allegory because, among other reasons, it is difficult to maintain consistancy due to the limits of metaphor. Yet, despite himself, he has not prevented many literary scholars interpreting his opus Lord of the Rings as being largely allegorical. But has not been to the detriment of the work's overall appreciation. If anything it has enhanced it.

We love allegories. From the earliest literature, through Aesop's fables and the tales of the Brother's Grimm, we see the basic human desire to learn without knowing it. In reading Thursday, I'll admit that I was worried the allegory might reach critical mass and just unravel at some points. Somehow, though, Chesterton has achieved a brilliant allegorical tale without losing any of the entertainment and intrigue of a spy novel. Of course, a lighthearted approach was necessary - the book didn't take itself too seriously, and that what enabled it to get accross such a serious message. Some of the plot twists seemed almost childish - yet, this too, was all part of the allegory, when we found out the complex identity of Sunday.

A final note on that. Lest some poor unsuspecting bloke wander onto my blog years down the line, and I'm dead and unable to account for myself, I should make it clear here that I don't believe Sunday represents God, per se. Rather, Sunday represents an aspect of God in the Universe. He really represents, in a way, the Sabbath - and also the eighth day of creation. He personifies, if you will, God's actions, but not the mysterious being Himself. This, I think, is an important subtlety which allows the metaphor room to stretch its legs.

My final assessment of the work is that it is a fun read, masterfully written, and an easy way to get unsuspecting people thinking about God. I also found it to be rather moving, and very insightful into the human condition - something for which Chesterton is always dependable.

Book Club Roundup

We've had some fairly decent discussion.

I think the best threads have centered around the problem of evil and the question of theodicy. How do we justify God's ways to man? The Book of Job was referenced by one of the interlocuters, and I think it a good book to keep in mind when analyzing Thursday. It is certainly one archetypal pattern upon which many of the discussions are based.

Another rather striking theme that came up is this notion of God's seeming "mischieviousness." The mirth of God, which Chesterton says is the one trait that seems too terrible for Him to show us, really is a heavy subject to contemplate. We read in the psalms about God "laughing His enemies to scorn" in His high heavens. We know somewhere in His eternal being there is a sense of joy. And to contemplate it through the lens of time is to understand all the more poignantly the sacrifice of the cross. God humbled himself, yes; He "did not disdain" to become one of us, certainly. But, I think there's more than that. "God so loved the world" that He redeemed us out of that same eternal joy which seems impertinent to us in the face of evil and the challenges of human life. God justifies His laughing His enemies to scorn (like Sunday's playing games with the six cops when they give chase) by sending His Son to us in the same eternal joy. I think sometimes we shortchange God's gift of love, like seeing it as a "last resort" or something like that. We look at the crucifixion separate from the resurrection, or we see it too much through human eyes and we forget that God wrought our great redemption willingly - but more than willingly, with joy in His heart. Anyone who has sacrificed something for the sake of love knows the bitterness of the sacrifice belies something sweet at the center of it all. The strange, warm smile on Sunday's face at the end of the book which seems to eclipse everything else is, I think, the embodiment of this profound mystery - God's joyful love of man, joyful even in giving His only Son for our sake.

Something we have not touched on much throughout the novel, but a definite theme that comes through, is Chesterton's dealing with other philosophical or theological systems. He touches on things like nihilism, absurdism, ethicism, existentialism, and especially materialism. If anybody wants to take up this thread, please feel free. But I do think it worthy to point out as a major theme in the book, because one can easily look to it for some good one-liners of apologetics.

My final thought on the novel goes back to that very first discussion. We teased this out a little bit, but I don't know that we've ever drawn out the full implications of the original question of "anarchy vs. order." My thought here, again, centers on the person of Sunday and on that idea of there being an "eigth day" of creation. Sunday, in the Genesis counting, is the final day - the seventh day. Christianity looks to the same day and puts it at the beginning of the week, because it is the day on which the new creation takes life. Sunday, then, is the beginning and the end in a sense. Somehow, these realities coexist in a harmony. And I think that this is the answer Chesterton proposes to the riddle about order and anarchy. I had thought all along that Chesterton's use of the tree as a symbol of anarchy versus a lightpole as a symbol of order was a bit weak. And I think he meant it to be. The tree is anarchic in a way, but also teliologically ordered. It has a purpose of "treeing." The universe paradoxically embodies order and disorder in some strange sort of harmony as creation groans in labor pains. Chesterton seems fascinated with this in many of his works. He seems fascinating with the work of the Son in the Father's creation. And I think the two sides of Sunday - the dark, incomprehensible back and the strange, terribly warm and goodnatured face - are Chestertons attempt to illustrate a bit of this mystery to us.

The End... almost

Well, these are my final thoughts on the novel. Discussion will continue (hopefully) below in the combox. The SCS crew of the book club are all invited to participate in a group discussion of the work coinciding with a presentation of Orson Welles' radio version of Thursday. Details to follow.

To all who participated, thank you. To all who at least read along, thank you. I hope that the discussion that has taken place here has been of some use to people who have stumbled onto the blog through search engines and the like. The body of criticism on this novel seems small enough that I think our humble contributions here might at least count as a drop in the bucket. If we encouraged one person to pick up the book (or any book for that matter, particularly a Chesterton one), I consider it to have been a worthwhile endeavor. I know I've learned something. Thanks, again.

The Man Who Was Thursday - Chap. 15

Introductory Remarks

Well, we've finished. It's been a worthwhile endeavor, I should hope. I've certainly found the reading of this novel to be an enriching experience. Please limit the discussion in this post (as much as possible) to thoughts of a more specific nature. I will post one final discussion, a sort of "round-up" where we can maybe make some more general observations about the novel. Of course, I realize that to discuss the final chapter, we must discuss it in light of the previous fourteen. However, if you wish to make some sort of inference about how we might apply the message of Thursday in our modern world, or something like that, that would be better saved for the round-up. Thanks.

Discussion

It would be too obvious to discuss the costumes of each man, although plenty of discussion might take place on that topic alone. Reading these final three chapters has made me hunger to see Thursday made into a film, with all of the modern technology that could really bring such a thing to life on the big screen. These costumes would be something else to see in color.

This chapter smacks of both Job and Revelation. The various creatures represented by the costumed guests before the dias could very easily be the Wedding Feast of the Lamb. And later, when Gregory comes back as an "accuser," who could help but think of how Job begins: with the "sons of God" all gathered around, and Satan coming among them to present his "accusation" against the good soul Job.

The allegory is pretty explicitly revealed in this scene. Chesterton doesn't beat about the bush. Sunday tells us, point blank, that he is the Sabbath - the peace of God. And each of the six days of creation reveal their paradoxical variance with this peace. Finally, Gregory steps forward and sums up the whole matter of theodicy from the perspective of a disillusioned man: "The unpardonable sin of the supreme power is that it is supreme. 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 -"

And then Chesterton springs his answer. And what a brilliant concept!

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.'

One might continue Syme's monologue if he wished: So thus every lamppost may be as rebelliously orderly as the tree. So thus every railway may be as vagrantly destined as the river. It all comes back to that central concept of Chestertonian wonder. Creation is so wonderful not because it must be what it is - but that it might be anything other than what it actually ends up being. The grass might have tragically ended up purple or red or whatever else, because disorder has been introduced into the way of things. But it is green, and we should sing a Te Deum every morning that it continues to be so.

And then Syme turns to Sunday, and asks that marvelous question, and Chesterton, without waste of words, gives us that brilliant answer. I must admit, my heart swelled at the poetic way in which Chesterton handled the final loose end of the "theodicy" debate. The whole book might be seen as a Job, yes, except that one small paragraph, in which Chesterton catches the New Testament aspect of the issue.

Chesterton ends the novel, amusingly, with a bit of a "romantic" twist. And I think this is fitting. Because the allegorical answers that he has provided in Gabriel Syme's answer find application in an everyday question, as well. We might overlook this application. But GK's reference to "the great unconscious gravity of a girl" brings to mind a mystery that is almost as troubling to us men as is the question of theodicy. And the answer is linked, I think. Love is "passion" - it is, in a sense, "suffered." Chesterton has pointed out the Godliness of this "suffering love" and used it to answer the mysteries of our relationship with God. He hints that it might be as helpful a key to understanding our relationships with those other mysterious beings...


One final note, before I close my observations on this chapter (and I do look forward to the final "wrap-up" where we can really wax philosophical). I find, in the end, the name of Gabriel to have been very appropriate. I have not often venerated the Saint, Gabriel the Archangel. But it occured to me, reading this book, how awesome it must have been to be the first created being to carry the Good News. Before Mary's fiat, before even John the Baptist, Gabriel was informed of God's wonderfully mysterious plan to finally, ultimately "justify" His ways to man and reconcile man to Himself. Since Gabriel's had the longest time to contemplate it, maybe he can help me when I get confused about some of the finer details.

The Man Who Was Thursday - Chap. 14

Introductory Remarks

What does it all mean? Chapter 14 finally begins to peal back the veil. I've read to the end of the novel now, and find that Chapter 14 presents the "problem" of the novel in a condensed sort of way. Chapter 15 then makes the "argument" in true Chesterton form. My discussion of this section will be a bit more systematic, rather than in bullet points as with past chapters. I will keep my comments isolated to Chapter 14 here.

Discussion

The allegory is heavy from the get-go in this chapter. What do you make of the men ploughing through ploughed fields and trudging through dark thickets in pursuit of Sunday "till each was turned into a figure too outrageous to be mistaken for a tramp?"

Reading on, something important occured to me during the conversation between Dr. Bull and the others about how Bull never disliked Sunday because he fancied him as some sort of over-grown baby. This something important was the notion of "mischievousness" - so importantly distinct from "wickedness." And I thought back, as all our six crusaders must be thinking in the novel, on "what it all means." And it occured to me that if Sunday was the man in the dark room, and also the President of the anarchic council - if he really was playing both sides of the chess board - well, then, there was never any real danger. Frustrating as it might be, we have to call "no harm, no foul." For the "bombing" that Sunday had commanded them was a farse: He knew it would never happen, because he knew his six councilmen were disguised cops, for he had chosen them. He knew the cops were in no danger when he sent them in, because he knew there was no serious anarchic council. The whole thing was a bit of mischief. And I must admit, I wondered if Abraham thought the same thing coming down off the mountain with Isaac...

The next section that put me on to the real "problem" of the novel was the Secretary's comments about Sunday's laughter. Sunday represents to Monday something "gross and sad in the Nature of Things." My footnote made much of this and quoted the section from Orthodoxy I have reproduced below.

Joy, which was the small publicity of the pagan, is the gigantic secret of the Christian. And as I close this chaotic volume I open again the strange small book from which all Christianity came; and I am again haunted by a kind of confirmation. The tremendous figure which fills the Gospels towers in this respect, as in every other, above all the thinkers who ever thought themselves tall. His pathos was natural, almost casual. The Stoics, ancient and modern, were proud of concealing their tears. He never concealed His tears; He showed them plainly on His open face at any daily sight, such as the far sight of His native city. Yet He concealed something. Solemn supermen and imperial diplomatists are proud of restraining their anger. He never restrained His anger. He flung furniture down the front steps of the Temple, and asked men how they expected to escape the damnation of Hell. Yet He restrained something. I say it with reverence; there was in that shattering personality a thread that must be called shyness. There was something that He hid from all men when He went up a mountain to pray. There was something that He covered constantly by abrupt silence or impetuous isolation. There was some one thing that was too great for God to show us when He walked upon our earth; and I have sometimes fancied that it was His mirth.

Orthodoxy, IX

A beautiful paragraph. But why would God hide his laughter from us? Why does Sunday's laughter so infuriate Monday? The answer is because we - because Monday - cannot understand the "game." It's easy enough for us to conceive of God laughing in our good times. There's that painting of Jesus laughing which I despise because He looks like a Rastafarian. But I hate it for more than that. I had it because it unsettles me. God is, after all, eternal, and all moments are present to Him at once. He's not just laughing through your baby's first steps - he's also laughing through your baby's lukemia, if He's laughing at all. Forgive me the bit of seeming irreverence that it might take to say this. But this is what Chesterton was on about. This is, I think, what the book is all about.

The book is talking about the question of theodicy. How can the universe be "justified?" The old argument from the beginning about order versus anarchy - why was it that the tree, the natural thing was all in chaos in the illustration, and man's doings try to "restore" some sort of order by way of railway timetables? Shouldn't it be the other way around? Why this disorder in the world, in the universe? Yes, the fall, but why did we fall? Why did God make us so that such could happen? I think back to all our discussion of this is Dr. Lowry's class at the Seminary...

Of course, I have something of an answer, and so does Chesterton - but he's fleshing out the problem first. He's trying to look more deeply into it before he springs his "solution" on us. And the disillusionment of the Professor, the stubborness of Gogol, the scorned anger of the Secretary, and the baffled affection of Bull are all symbolic of mankind's experience of this problem. The days of Creation have received crazy messages and been led on a wild chase. Sunday is laughing at Monday. "God is in his heaven..." and mankind always has some place in the pit of the stomach that objects. But is God just in His heaven...?

The end of the chapter alludes to where Chesterton is going. His choice of "Sunday" is also a bit of a hint. I go back to my first observation in this post: the man have journeyed through the dark forests and muddy fields in pursuit of Sunday, and have now arrived, tattered and worn, at a large estate. And what does each find prepared for him? New clothes... Hrmm...

The Man Who Was Thursday - Chap. 13

Discussion Points

1) A brief thought about Gogol - also known as "Tuesday." Being the "second day" of the Genesis account, Tuesday would be the day upon which the waters were divided into those "above" and those "below." In a certain sense, it might be seen as the day upon which the realm of the temporal (here, below) was distinguised from that of the eternal and transcendant. I think there may be a Christian symbolism here. Gogol leaves after the first encounter with Sunday - he return right before the second encounter. If the first meeting of the Council be seen as the Genesis story of the six days, maybe the second time that the six confront Sunday could be seen as the eighth day of creation, when the rhealm of the eternal pierces into the temporal in a way that had never happened since the very beginning of things. Thoughts?

2) Any sense to be made of the messages thrown by Sunday to the other six? Chesterton might rephrase this question to say, what is the sense behind their lack of sense?

3) Notice the means of transportation used by Sunday throughout this scene. Any comments on a possible reason? I think I might have a hunch...


HAPP

The Man Who Was Thursday - Chap. 11 & 12

Introductory Remarks

The novel's action gallups forward. I can hardly restrain myself from moving forward. In fact, I haven't, already. I'm done the book. Still, we'll take this slow. Having read the last three chapters, it is my opinion that each should be taken individually. So, we'll say that Friday, July 28th will be Chapter 13; Wednesday, August 2nd will be Chapter 14; and, appropriately, we will begin the final discussion on Sunday, August 6th. Happy reading!

Discussion Points

1) My footnote informs me that Lancy, France is the first place-name which Chesterton improvises in the novel. Do you think it bears some significance? Being that they are in France, the name "Lancelot," jumped into my mind. I wonder if the reader is meant to think of that man's story in some conjunction with the present one? Certainly, there could be a comparison with the "anarchy" that consumed Arthur's idealistic state and the anarchy which, in Chapter 12, seems to cover the world. It is also noteworthy that the anarchy in Arthur's case comes from confused good-intentions and love. Your thoughts?

2) Permit me to reproduce a long passage from Chapter 11:

The ex‑Marquis had pulled the old straw hat over his eyes, and the black shade of the brim cut his face so squarely in two that it seemed to be wearing one of the black half-masks of their pursuers. The fancy tinted Syme's overwhelming sense of wonder. Was he wearing a mask? Was anyone wearing a mask? Was anyone anything? This wood of witchery, in which men's faces turned black and white by turns, in which their figures first swelled into sunlight and then faded into formless night, this mere chaos of chiaroscuro (after the clear daylight outside), seemed to Syme a perfect symbol of the world in which he had been moving for three days, this world where men took off their beards and their spectacles and their noses, and turned into other people. That tragic self‑confidence which he had felt when he believed that the Marquis was a devil had strangely disappeared now that he knew that the Marquis was a friend. He felt almost inclined to ask after all these bewilderments what was a friend and what an enemy. Was there anything that was apart from what it seemed? The Marquis had taken off his nose and turned out to be a detective. Might he not just as well take off his head and turn out to be a hobgoblin? Was not everything, after all, like this bewildering woodland, this dance of dark and light? Everything only a glimpse, the glimpse always unforeseen, and always forgotten. For Gabriel Syme had found in the heart of that sun-splashed wood what many modern painters had found there. He had found the thing which the modern people call Impressionism, which is another name for that final scepticism which can find no floor to the universe.

I love this for innumerable reasons. First of all, the great education of our author is evident by his effortless application of the word chiaroscuro right before he slams impressionism. I also think that this single paragraph perfectly wrestles the reader into the proper, bewildered state for the thicker allegory which is about to follow. This wood is like Dante's, and really sets up the final leg of the journey. Any other comments on this or another exceptional passage?

3) I recognize more overtones of the French Revolution in the stories of how the two peasants turn inexplicably, and also in the presentation of the confusing mob-mentality. Thoughts?

4) It is important from Chapter 12 forward to keep particularly in mind exactly who is who amongst the former anarchists. That is, who represents what day of the week?

It plucked the Secretary clean out of his saddle, as a knife is whipped out of its sheath, trailed him kicking terribly for twenty yards, and left him flung flat upon the road far in front of his frightened horse. As the car took the corner of the street with a splendid curve, they could just see the other anarchists filling the street and raising their fallen leader.

"I can't understand why it has grown so dark," said the Professor at last in a low voice.

My footnote reminds me that the Secretary is Monday - the day corresponding with the first day of creation, when God spoke and then there was light. When he falls, it becomes inexplicably dark.

Note, also, how Dr. Bull, who is Saturday, has become quite the philanthrope in this section: appropriate, since on his day God created man.

My favorite part of these two chapters is this other light/darkness conflict at the chapter's end (a great passage):

"Do you see this lantern?" cried Syme in a terrible voice. "Do you see the cross carved on it, and the flame inside? You did not make it. You did not light it, Better men than you, men who could believe and obey, twisted the entrails of iron and preserved the legend of fire. There is not a street you walk on, there is not a thread you wear, that was not made as this lantern was, by denying your philosophy of dirt and rats. You can make nothing. You can only destroy. You will destroy mankind; you will destroy the world. Let that suffice you. Yet this one old Christian lantern you shall not destroy. It shall go where your empire of apes will never have the wit to find it."

He struck the Secretary once with the lantern so that he staggered; and then, whirling it twice round his head, sent it flying far out to sea, where it flared like a roaring rocket and fell.

Recall the discussion at the book's beginning between the order of a streetlamp and the freedom of a tree. I think Chesterton is coming full-circle from that first philosophical discussion. Something that struck me then, and which Joe H. has recently brought to mind, is this: Isn't, ultimately, a tree the better example for order then even the stationary lamp? I thought Syme's poetic idealism a little misplaced in his confidence in man's constructed order. The amazing teleology that leads a tree to grow from a seed into a trunk with leaved branches (instead of a fax-machine) seemed the more poetic ideal for me - and for Chesterton, who once wrote that he was amazed to wake each morning and find the grass green again. I knew there was some sort of lesson coming for Syme. And here, as he champions Christendom's light against Monday (the aboriginal light spoken by God) it is obvious that Chesterton is preparing to unravel his meaning. Why are the days of Creation on the "Anarchist's" council? Why are none of them as they seem? Is anything as it seems? At this point of the novel, the question that dominates the reader's mind is the question that the characters keep asking: "What does it all mean? The answer awaits!

The Man Who Was Thursday - Chap. 9 & 10

Introductory Remarks

[CORRECTION] The post has been edited to reflect that it does in fact discuss Chapters 9 and 10. Thanks for the heads-up, Chris. [/CORRECTION]

The conversation, although not what I'd hoped it would be, is still going on, and there's still a chance to get aboard. Kudos to Joe, who has done just that. Check out his worthy comments, better late than never, down below.

At this point, there are only five chapters left in the book. We'll have the next two chapters due a week from today, and take the last three as a group. Looking ahead, that seems to be the best breakdown. Happy reading!

Discussion Points

1) In terms of plot and philosophy, I didn't regard too much in Chapters 9 or 10 to be particularly worthy of note. So the discussion is open.

2) I would like to comment on the artfulness of one section from Chapter 9, which struck a chord with me:

Syme was increasingly conscious that his new adventure had somehow a quality of cold sanity worse than the wild adventures of the past. Last night, for instance, the tall tenements had seemed to him like a tower in a dream. As he now went up the weary and perpetual steps, he was daunted and bewildered by their almost infinite series. But it was not the hot horror of a dream or of anything that might be exaggeration or delusion. Their infinity was more like the empty infinity of arithmetic, something unthinkable, yet necessary to thought. Or it was like the stunning statements of astronomy about the distance of the fixed stars. He was ascending the house of reason, a thing more hideous than unreason itself.

In the next paragraph, Chesterton makes a reference to the French Revolution. The same war comes up in the next chapter as well. It was a period of history which fascinated Chesterton (and also myself). I can't help but think that Chesterton's remarking how the "house of reason" is more hideous than unreason itself can be very appropriately read in light of such an event as the French Revolution. For more on that period of history, check out our last book club discussion.

Chesterton was a great admirer of Thomas Aquinas, so certainly not opposed to reason. But you might say he has a bone to pick with Rationalism. He certainly is no fan of the Enlightenment or of Empiricism. He's far too much a poet for that. I've had ambivalent feelings about Syme so far in the book, and they only grow more defined as the work progresses. I don't think Chesterton was totally "behind" Syme in his initially crafted defense of order and the predictable. As Joe points out in his comments on chapter one, there is, after all, something unpredictable in what is more predictable. Chesterton was "surprised" to find the grass green every morning. I think the reason he has thrown Syme into this adventure is to perhaps save him from being too much a rationalist - to save him of the errors of Voltaire, Rousseau, and Robespierre.

I'm rambling a bit, solet me try to sum it up: there's a biblical passage which I've always somehow felt is akin in its spirit to the "programme" of Chesterton. Thinking about what we've read, consider Paul's words to the Church in Corinth:

Where is the wise one? Where is the scribe? Where is the debater of this age? Has not God made the wisdom of the world foolish? For since in the wisdom of God the world did not come to know God through wisdom, it was the will of God through the foolishness of the proclamation to save those who have faith. For Jews demand signs and Greeks look for wisdom, but we proclaim Christ crucified, a stumbling block to Jews and foolishness to Gentiles, but to those who are called, Jews and Greeks alike, Christ the power of God and the wisdom of God. For the foolishness of God is wiser than human wisdom, and the weakness of God is stronger than human strength.

Any thoughts?

3) Chapter 10: Another very "fun" chapter, at least in the beginning. I still can't help picturing Chesterton at his type-writer, convulsing in a full body laugh with each further push of the envelope of believability. So, my question is, how do you find his pushing of this envelope? Shall we say, a la Chesterton, "really, sir, I must protest - isn't this a bit much?" Or is it a good time?

4) Another paragraph I thought noteworthy:

He felt a strange and vivid value in all the earth around him, in the grass under his feet; he felt the love of life in all living things. He could almost fancy that he heard the grass growing; he could almost fancy that even as he stood fresh flowers were springing up and breaking into blossom in the meadow—flowers blood red and burning gold and blue, fulfilling the whole pageant of the spring. And whenever his eyes strayed for a flash from the calm, staring, hypnotic eyes of the Marquis, they saw the little tuft of almond tree against the sky‑line. He had the feeling that if by some miracle he escaped he would be ready to sit for ever before that almond tree, desiring nothing else in the world.

A bit romantic, we might think. But still, rather a beautiful thought. I've made comparisons oftentimes before, and I'll make one again: I was reminded of Tolkien. His heros always reach a similar aestheticism in their moments of crisis (excepting Frodo's last journey in Mordor, but that's different for several reasons.) Any thoughts on this unique spiritualism of heros at the brink of hell?

The Man Who Was Thursday - Chap. 7 & 8

NEXT DEADLINE: One week from Monday - two more chapters.

Discussion Points

1) Chapter 7 of Thursday seems a little drawn out at first read. But something occurred to me during this section that I had temporarily forgotten in my analysis of the work: this story is supposedly an allegory. Now, that's not to say that every system will have a one-to-one meaning; but, nonetheless, the "symbolism" of this chapter is intriguing if you're looking for allegorical interpretation. Syme is being pursued through a thickening snowstorm which obscures his sight by a German Nihilist named "de Worms" and finally comes to confront his feared pursuer under the dome of St. Paul's Cathedral. Hrmmm...

I would also like to note that I made several literary associations while reading this chapter. I was reminded almost immediately of a passage in C.S. Lewis's Space Trilogy from the second book, Perelandra. In the book, Doctor Ransom (the protagonist) is pursued by a demon-inhabited man whose physical description and lame gait bear a striking resemblance to Professor de Worms. This passage in Lewis is itself rather similar to Tolkien's description of Gandalf's battle with the Balrog (fire-demon) of Morgoth in Kazaad-dum in The Lord of the Rings. Both these works come after Thursday. The scene also reminds one of an earlier piece of literature, however: "The Hound of Heaven" - a poem by Francis Thompson. Thompson, incidentally, died the year Thursday was published. Chesterton was certainly aware of him, and, if my memory serves, was an admirer of his. It would be interesting to research as to what month in 1907 Thompson died, and what month Chesterton finished writing this book...

Anyway: general comments on this chapter, and its potential symbolism, would be appreciated.

2) A purely literary note about Chapter 7: it struck me at first that Chesterton wrote "dialectically" for the character Gogol. The tactic seemed a little out of place given Chesterton's style. Gogol's being a spy helped to make sense of why this point was accented - pun intended. Thoughts?

3) Chapter 8 is my favorite so far. I laughed aloud through "the imposter's" entire description of how he came to be the famous German Nihilist. Re-reading still provides me with plenty chuckles - particularly as a philosophy student.

4) This chapter is full of Chestertonian tangents - little philosophical points subtly (or not so subtly) inserted into his narrative. I will draw attention to two particularly. But please do try to find more and point them out for the rest of us. The first is rather blatant, the second more suave.

Through all this ordeal [Syme's] root horror had been isolation, and there are no words to express the abyss between isolation and having one ally. It may be conceded to the mathematicians that four is twice two. But two is not twice one; two is two thousand times one. That is why, in spite of a hundred disadvantages, the world will always return to monogamy.

Brilliant. And so completely Chesterton. I love the gratuitous swipe at empiricism, too.

I understood that he had proved that the destructive principle in the universe was God; hence he insisted on the need for a furious and incessant energy, rending all things in pieces. Energy, he said, was the All. He was lame, shortsighted, and partially paralytic.

This one is a little harder to catch. I ran swiftly by it my first read. But there is a great irony here: a feeble, almost motionless nihilist inisting on the need for a furious and incessant energy. Which reminds me that I need to blog again about Stephen Hawking... but that will be later.

Happy reading!

GK's Mythopoeic Vision

Apropos a discussion going on down below about what Chesterton says might be found "at the ends of the world," I've decided to post what is probably my favorite poem by him, even though it's really a Christmas poem. Enjoy!

There is heard a hymn when the panes are dim,

And never before or again,
When the nights are strong with a darkness long,
And the dark is alive with rain.

Never we know but in sleet and in snow,

The place where the great fires are,
That the midst of the earth is a raging mirth
And the heart of the earth a star.

And at night we win to the ancient inn

Where the child in the frost is furled,
We follow the feet where all souls meet
At the inn at the end of the world.

The gods lie dead where the leaves lie red,

For the flame of the sun is flown,
The gods lie cold where the leaves lie gold,
And a Child comes forth alone.

SOURCE.

The Man Who Was Thursday - Chap. 5 & 6

Introductory Remarks

You're a bunch of lazy bums. And you know who you are.

I understand, it might be writer's block or something. I recommend listening to Vladimir Horowitz. That's what helps me, anyway...

Next deadline: 2 more chapters (7 & 8) in 10 days.

Discussion Points - Chapters 5 & 6

1) Not much to really say about Chapter Five. Comment freely, as you will. I find the character of Sunday to be particularly interesting.

2) Given the events in Chapter Six, what do you make of Sunday's staring at Syme throughout the conversation on the balcony?

That's really about it from me. These two chapters seemed to have been majorly concerned with moving the plot along. They weren't very "heady" from my perspective, but I'm open to any suggestions from the group. If anyone besides Dave decides to come out of hibernation, that is...

The Man Who Was Thursday - Chap. 3 & 4

Logistical Stuff

We're going to have to pick up the pace a little bit, now, everyone, if we want to get this book done by the end of the summer. I'll be posting the discussion content for chapters five and six by this coming weekend. Try to stay on pace. Let me know if it's running too far ahead via email.

For those interested, our discussion of the last two chapters are available here. I hope those who were silent last time join in on this one.

Also, if it helps while you're making comment, there is a good online text of the work available here. That online library, by the way, has quite a lot of good stuff, including an extensive collection of the Church Fathers (albeit not in the best translations).

Discussion Points - Chapters 3 & 4

1) Chesterton's premise of men honoring an word-of-mouth oath is most challenged in its credibility throughout the third chapter. Do you think he pulls off the conceit?

2) Chapter three, "The Man Who Was Thursday," with the two speeched given by Gregory and by Syme, reads as a very entertaining scene - one which I would love to see acted out. My favorite aspect is that Syme is still a man of honor despite his "betrayal." I loved especially the double entendre behind the following lines:

Syme: "Comrade Gregory accuses me of hypocrisy. He knows as well as I do that I am keeping all my engagements and doing nothing but my duty. I do not mince words.

However, my favorite part of the exchange, and the part I would most like to see acted out, would have the be the very end. I'd like to see the expression on Gregory's face:

Almost in the act of stepping on board, Gabriel Syme turned to the gaping Gregory.

"You have kept your word," he said gently, with his face in shadow. "You are a man of honour, and I thank you. You have kept it even down to a small particular. There was one special thing you promised me at the beginning of the affair, and which you have certainly given me by the end of it."

"What do you mean?" cried the chaotic Gregory. "What did I promise you?"

"A very entertaining evening," said Syme, and he made a military salute with the sword‑stick as the steamboat slid away.

Haha! Brilliant! James Bond has nothing on Gabriel Syme in the way of coolness.

Please comment upon your own favorite moments of this memorable scene.

3) There are some very interesting notions in Chapter four, "The Tale of a Detective." Permit me to reproduce a sizeable passage:

We say that the most dangerous criminal now is the entirely lawless modern philosopher. Compared to him, burglars and bigamists are essentially moral men; my heart goes out to them. They accept the essential ideal of man; they merely seek it wrongly. Thieves respect property. They merely wish the property to become their property that they may more perfectly respect it. But philosophers dislike property as property; they wish to destroy the very idea of personal possession. Bigamists respect marriage, or they would not go through the highly ceremonial and even ritualistic formality of bigamy. But philosophers despise marriage as marriage. Murderers respect human life; they merely wish to attain a greater fulness of human life in themselves by the sacrifice of what seems to them to be lesser lives. But philosophers hate life itself, their own as much as other people’s.

Living in our modern "culture of death," I think this idea, which seems to be Chesterton's spoken through the mouthpiece of the detective, holds merit. We've heard many times that we need to change the culture before simply enacting laws will do any good. Some disagree. Your thoughts?

4) Of course, feel free to comment upon anything else that struck you from this section of the work. But I will suggest one more passage which seems to lend itself to discussion. Consider the third to last paragraph of chapter four. It seems to be Chesterton's theory of good fantasy literature - a theory against, perhaps, the surrealism and absurdism which was burgeoning at the turn of the century. If you happen to know a little bit about Chesterton's thought on "fairy land," and how it may have influenced later writers like C.S. Lewis and J.R.R. Tolkien, please share.

Happy reading, til next time!

The Man Who Was Thursday - Chap. 1 & 2

Preliminary Remarks

For those from Saint Charles:
We are all philosophy majors, and G.K. Chesterton is certainly a great philosophical mind. This work is, in a sense, allegorical. It is a vehicle for some of the philosophical themes that Chesterton developed more completely in his non-fiction works (and there are quite a few of them.) So, while discussion about the plot and storyline is more than welcome, I think it would be even more beneficial to try to unpack some of these deeper themes running underneath the work. I'll do my best to point them out in my posts, and open up the discussion from there.

A note on commenting:
If there are any questions about place-names or clarifications of that sort that you wish to bring up, I invite you to email them to me. I will then post these on the main blog post, where everyone can more easily benefit from them. Reserve the comment box for the discussion of themes, and general impressions about the book as we read.

Discussion Points - Chapters 1 & 2

Chapter One

1) Comment upon Chesterton's writing style, if you like. Having been a fan of his essays and non-fiction work, I was pleasantly surprised by his skill and scene-painting in the opening pages of the work. His description of Soho in London, and his character introduction of Syme and Gregory, was quite well done in my opinion. So far, I'm finding Chesterton to be a better storyteller than I had given him credit for.

2) The first conversation between Gabriel Syme and Lucian Gregory is rather interesting, and does have philosophical overtones. Syme's defense of order is very reminiscent of Chesterton's Orthodoxy. His conversion to Christianity was very much based upon a natural experience of this, one of Thomas's five ways - he found that there was a definite "plan" behind creation. Comment on the conversation between these two. Would you agree more with Lucian - that poetry is good when it is unfettered - or Gabriel - that it is best when it is strictly ordered?

Chapter Two

1) Consider the conversation in the pub. Gregory comments about how anarchy seeks to "Abolish God." There is a bit of complicated history involved here, and an understanding of some of the social circumstances in which Chesterton was living at the time. Anarchy was a popular theme in fiction back then, and was one of the offshoots of Marxist ideologies that were creeping into the Western World. Feel free to comment upon this mentality, and whether you think that Chesterton's fear was a bit of a zany, conspiracy theory. Or perhaps, is the fear as real today as it was back then? Give special consideration to the fact that Gregory's "front," to avoid detection as a real anarchist, is his very radicality.

2) Chesterton's novel hinges upon a premise that we might not be able to "buy" today. That premise is that men honor oaths when they pledge them. This concept is a bit foreign in our day and age. Thus, the way that chapter two ends, and the progression of the novel, might seem a little incredible to us. Wouldn't Gregory simply turn Gabriel over? Or vice versa? Comment upon the fact that Chesterton apparently considered men's honor a plausible premise for constructing his thriller, and how he might have to change his approach if he were writing today.


Any other topics are more than welcome. Let's keep this fluid. Shall we try to have read through Chapter Four by next Wednesday, the 21st?