PROJECT ASHABI
African Stories. Limitless Worlds.
PROJECT ASHABI
African Stories. Limitless Worlds.
G. K. Chesterton
Poet Gabriel Syme infiltrates a secret council of anarchists whose seven members are named after the days of the week.
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A WILD, MAD, HILARIOUS AND PROFOUNDLY MOVING TALE THE MAN WHO WAS THURSDAY
CHAPTER I. THE TWO POETS OF SAFFRON PARK CHAPTER II. THE SECRET OF GABRIEL SYME CHAPTER III. THE MAN WHO WAS THURSDAY CHAPTER IV. THE TALE OF A DETECTIVE CHAPTER V. THE FEAST OF FEAR CHAPTER VI. THE EXPOSURE CHAPTER VII. THE UNACCOUNTABLE CONDUCT OF PROFESSOR DE WORMS CHAPTER VIII. THE PROFESSOR EXPLAINS CHAPTER IX. THE MAN IN SPECTACLES CHAPTER X. THE DUEL CHAPTER XI. THE CRIMINALS CHASE THE POLICE CHAPTER XII. THE EARTH IN ANARCHY CHAPTER XIII. THE PURSUIT OF THE PRESIDENT CHAPTER XIV. THE SIX PHILOSOPHERS CHAPTER XV. THE ACCUSER
A WILD, MAD, HILARIOUS AND PROFOUNDLY MOVING TALE
It is very difficult to classify THE MAN WHO WAS THURSDAY. It is possible to say that it is a gripping adventure story of murderous criminals and brilliant policemen; but it was to be expected that the author of the Father Brown stories should tell a detective story like no-one else. On this level, therefore, THE MAN WHO WAS THURSDAY succeeds superbly; if nothing else, it is a magnificent tour-de-force of suspense-writing.
However, the reader will soon discover that it is much more than that. Carried along on the boisterous rush of the narrative by Chesterton’s wonderful high-spirited style, he will soon see that he is being carried into much deeper waters than he had planned on; and the totally unforeseeable denouement will prove for the modern reader, as it has for thousands of others since 1908 when the book was first published, an inevitable and moving experience, as the investigators finally discover who Sunday is.
THE MAN WHO WAS THURSDAY A NIGHTMARE
A cloud was on the mind of men, and wailing went the weather, Yea, a sick cloud upon the soul when we were boys together. Science announced nonentity and art admired decay; The world was old and ended: but you and I were gay; Round us in antic order their crippled vices came— Lust that had lost its laughter, fear that had lost its shame. Like the white lock of Whistler, that lit our aimless gloom, Men showed their own white feather as proudly as a plume. Life was a fly that faded, and death a drone that stung; The world was very old indeed when you and I were young. They twisted even decent sin to shapes not to be named: Men were ashamed of honour; but we were not ashamed. Weak if we were and foolish, not thus we failed, not thus; When that black Baal blocked the heavens he had no hymns from us Children we were—our forts of sand were even as weak as we, High as they went we piled them up to break that bitter sea. Fools as we were in motley, all jangling and absurd, When all church bells were silent our cap and bells were heard.
Not all unhelped we held the fort, our tiny flags unfurled; Some giants laboured in that cloud to lift it from the world. I find again the book we found, I feel the hour that flings Far out of fish-shaped Paumanok some cry of cleaner things; And the Green Carnation withered, as in forest fires that pass, Roared in the wind of all the world ten million leaves of grass; Or sane and sweet and sudden as a bird sings in the rain— Truth out of Tusitala spoke and pleasure out of pain. Yea, cool and clear and sudden as a bird sings in the grey, Dunedin to Samoa spoke, and darkness unto day. But we were young; we lived to see God break their bitter charms. God and the good Republic come riding back in arms: We have seen the City of Mansoul, even as it rocked, relieved— Blessed are they who did not see, but being blind, believed.
Arthur Conan Doyle
