It is very difficult to classify THE MAN WHO WAS THURSDAY. It is possible tosay that it is a gripping adventure story of murderous criminals and brilliantpolicemen; but it was to be expected that the author of the Father Brownstories 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 amagnificent tour-de-force of suspense-writing.
However, the reader will soon discover that it is much more than that. Carriedalong on the boisterous rush of the narrative by Chesterton’s wonderfulhigh-spirited style, he will soon see that he is being carried into much deeperwaters than he had planned on; and the totally unforeseeable denouement willprove for the modern reader, as it has for thousands of others since 1908 whenthe book was first published, an inevitable and moving experience, as theinvestigators finally discover who Sunday is.
To Edmund Clerihew Bentley
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 wa