Man Surprised By Something He Knew Was Going to Happen

This post will contain several spoilers, so I will say this here before I get into any: The Man Who Was Thursday, by G.K. Chesterton, is a fantastic book that you should read right away. At first, I wasn’t even sure about what to talk about because it actually might be one of my new favorites. Its characters are interesting and have depth, the prose gets you to think without distracting you from the story, it’s consistently exciting, and it’s one of the few books that occasionally made me laugh out loud. Seriously, go out, buy it, and read it before going any further from this sentence. It’s only 200 pages, and I’ve got time.

Yeah, you probably didn’t listen. Fudge Cookies. Well, at this point, don’t say I didn’t warn you. Major Spoilers on the port bow.

One interesting thing happened when I was reading this: I guessed the running plot twist/ gag. It was around the time the first policeman, de Worms, was revealed. I’m not even that sure what clues led me to that point; I guess I just figured it would be funny if it did work out like that. And lo, it happened as such. It was a new sensation for me, since I’ve only recently tried guessing the outcomes while reading books (a reason mystery novels don’t often work for me). It surprised me that, against all odds, I was right and everyone from Monday to Saturday was a cop. I was even right with Sunday, as I was on the fence about his status (shut up, I’m counting that one).

That’s not the interesting bit, though. The interesting part is how this didn’t affect my enjoyment at the book. What’s even weirder is that it didn’t even dampen the surprise/humor when each twist was revealed.

I’ll totally spoil another book in this upcoming paragraph to provide a contrast. Still new at this guessing game, I guessed correctly who the thief was in The Moonstone nearly as soon as the titular object was stolen. My suspicions held true throughout the course of the tale, one of the many things that made it a boring, arduous read. And although I was pleasantly stupefied when I found out I was only half-correct (in the sense that Franklin didn’t intend on taking it), I don’t think it was worth the 400+ pages to get there.

So what did TMWWT do right in this regard? One aspect that gave it an advantage over The Moonstone, by Wilkie Collins was the use of comedy. Each character groaned when another policeman was revealed after a while, essentially acting as an audience surrogate each time they cried, “Seriously? This again?” Lampshading the twist like that not only allows for a connection with the audience, but it remains something that the characters would do in that situation. And it got slightly funnier each time it happened, showing the humor available in repetition.

Secondly, it used escalation and good pacing effectively with each case. With each upcoming ‘anarchist,’ it seemed to be less likely that he’d reveal himself to be on the same side as our protagonist. And, as each situation varied in approach and mood, there were no patterns to be detected. The pacing in Moonstone would be hard-pressed to outrun a cheetah that’s been gutted and stuffed with gravy, unlike this tale.

And finally, the story could continue on thematically for each case if the opposite were true. Take, for example, the scene where Syme and de Worms confront Dr. Bull and Syme decides to throw caution to the wind and reveal that he’s a cop. Now, we know where it goes in the book, but imagine the alternative. It would be pretty funny for Dr. Bull to explain that he actually was an anarchist and he had no idea why they’d think otherwise. A character arc could develop for Syme where he starts to see consequences for his rashness. And, most importantly, it doesn’t stop the plot. There were a lot of factors that could still be explored in that scene if I was proven wrong.

Looking back, The Moonstone might not be a fair comparison- maybe I just really hated the book and wanted an excuse to bash it. And I’m not saying that the build up to who-done-it is bad for all mystery novels. I just think the pacing and the delivery of each twist in The Man Who Was Thursday was much more effective by using good comedy, pacing, and situations to make it unpredictable. And it allows for a better second read. Some of the fun of a mystery novel is taken away if you know the twist. Unless it’s a great one, like The Man Who Was Thursday could arguably qualify as. I’m not even sure to call it a comedy, adventure, mystery, awesome, etc., but I know it’s well worth your time to check it out.

Huh. I’ve been left with a lot of surplus bile, so I’ll close with this. Remember the last two pages? Utter BS. I’ve always hated that kind of plot twist, even if it’s barely ambiguous like this one. Sunday hijacking an elephant is hilarious, and I’ll eat someone else's hat if that didn’t happen in my world. Seriously, screw that epilogue. And it doesn’t even connect thematically or logically well with the main blog post book anyways.

Bob Dylan Forgets Who Subject of Memoirs Is

 Well, if there was any time to prove I’m an amateur at this, now would be the time.

I picked up this book on nobody’s bookshelf without thinking twice. Nobody’s bookshelf is the place in our living room that doesn’t exactly have adult books but has books my parents kind of forgot about. Some books are put there for no reason, like the Lord of the Rings Trilogy. This one I can understand ending up put down and given up on. Heck, the book’s actual owner, a friend of my mom, forgot it after lending it, In retrospect, I shouldn’t have brought it to college considering that, but I can fix that in a little bit.

But anyways, Bob Dylan. I picked this up ‘cause I’m a big fan of him. I hate picking favorites, but I’d consider him my favorite musician if pressed. His melodies are unforgettable, his songs poetic and insightful to anyone in any time in their life. Sure, he can’t sing, but that’s another reason I like him: I sympathize with him in that regard. I even like the songs of his that I shouldn’t. “Rainy Day Women #12 & 35” is hilariously bizarre and has a good beat, and I even like “The Levee’s Gonne Break,” though the similarities with that OTHER levee song are awkward.

But I still didn’t know that much about that guy, which is how Chronicles Volume One got pulled from Nobody’s Shelf. And I learned everything I didn’t want to know. Seriously, it became practically deliberate at one point, something I’ll get to later.

Ok, I say Bob Dylan. First thing on your mind? Probably the 60s stuff, the period of his peak in popularity. Songs like Blowin’ in the Wind, Like a Rollin’ Stone, All Along the Watchtower, and so on. Like me, you’d probably like to know how those songs were formed, rejected lyrics, his popularity from his own point of view, influences on the songs, germs, etc. Actually, you probably don’t care, but shut up, this is my hypothetical situation.

Yeah, you know where this is going. He talks about everything but.

Here’s what most of the book reads like:

“ Robert Johnson had a sound that really went through you, got you thinking. But that wasn’t folk music. Folk was something greater, all encompassing. It spoke to all peoples in all times. Woody Guthrie got that. He put that soul of folk in the songs, and that captivated me for days on end. I wonder if I’d ever make it big with my music and meet him, but I didn’t know what to write about.“ –Nick Edinger, trying not to make a gay joke about Bob and Woody.

That’s not exaggeration. Through the entire book, he either talks about others artists he likes, what folk music is, or Woody Guthrie. He’d narrate his own experiences playing music in New York and record talks sometimes, but if he wants to talk about something else other than himself, he ain’t goin’ nowhere.

You know that thing people say when a celebrity makes a big deal about herself or himself? How they sarcastically say, “Oh no, Somebody. Don’t be so modest. Please, indulge yourself a bit. Tell us more about you.”? I’m telling Bob Dylan that sincerely. No, seriously Robert. Put a sock in your soapbox and indulge yourself a bit. Get to the good stuff.

I’m on the verge of calling this book a conspiracy on my curiosity, not fully going there because that sentence doesn’t really make sense. I said earlier it seemed deliberately designed to piss me off, and here’s why. The end of Part 3 has him in Colombia Record Studios finishing his first record. A few shout outs to more artists later (because it was so popular the first hundred times, it deserved an encore), Part 4 began. ‘Alright,’ I thought. ‘Here we go. We’re finally starting to get to the good stuff.

Part 4 begins in 1987.

1987.

That’s right. This book skips the most influential part of his life. How do you even DO that in your own memoirs? That’s like a huge chunk of Abe Lincoln’s diary blank in between “I can’t believe I lost another election,” and “I’m going to see a play today with the wife. Should be fun.” Maybe that part’s in Volume Two, since the book is non-linear and eventually goes back to earlier in his life, but it still bugs me. He actually does mention writing the best songs from his glory days… in two sentences. Needed more word space for the tributes to every artist you liked on the radio at one time, huh?

What’s even more aggravating is that he does what I was hoping for in Part 4. In recording his first album in a long time, he talks about the process of making the songs, both the technical and songwriting aspects. Rejected lyrics, influences, and all the other missing parts are there. Sadly, I only recognized one song, but it was still interesting. I used to consider reading Volume 2 to try to get more of this, but things have changed.

But here’s where the amateur part comes in: what did I expect? Should I really demand his memories, his poured-out heart and soul, cater to my lack of Bob Dylan knowledge? To be honest, I’d probably be sick of talking about 50 years ago if I was him. I’ve never read someone’s memoirs before, so maybe I went in expecting an autobiography. That’s why I consider this a ramble instead of a review: it’s like asking a monkey to review King Kong. You can see the connection, but there’s still a gap between worlds there. And you’d have to clean up the thrown feces all over the monkey’s angry, nonsensical blog post later.

Likewise, as I practically invalidate the last two pages, I don’t hate the book. Dylan’s writing is really sincere and well versed, and I guess I’m happy knowing he’s a nice, modest guy deep down. When he’s suffering, like when he injures his arm right before a comeback tour, you really feel his pain. Really, the main complaints I have are how it’s long-winded and really off-topic- something you might not mind so much if you enter with different expectations than mine.

But this book ain’t for me, babe.

(I have another book on my dissecting table, but I’ll still take requests as a priority over it. I’ll get to work on it, but I want to have a good long conversation with Arkham City over procrastination first.)

New Blogger Rude to Readers in Introduction

‘Oh great,’ the thought bubble above you says. Another blog. Is there really anything left to talk about that no one else has?  What can this guy say that’s unique or funny that I can’t get anywhere else? Why should I stay here and keep reading?

To which I reply, “Who says I’m writing this for you?”

Really, this is mostly for me. I’ll read books (since I need to do more of that anyways instead of surfing the web) and talk about them here to keep my writing skills fresh. I’ll try to make it amusing along the way for anyone who stops by, and maybe I’ll learn a few things about myself and literature on the way. But if you squatters insist on entertainment, I guess I’ll give the people what they want.

Welcome to Man Reads A Book. I take requests.