Chesterton wrote my favourite book (The Man Who Was Thursday), and I felt rather duty bound to read more of his literary works. By all accounts Chesterton was a remarkable man; a Catholic theologian, a philosopher, a noted wit -equal to Wilde-, a biographer, a novelist and general man of letters, he is credited with reintroducing Dickens to literary study and hobnobbed with the likes of Bertrand Russell, Bernard Shaw, Oscar Wilde and Hillaire Belloc. This considered means I more lightly to view his work very kindly indeed.
This book is formally in the vein of the Sherlock Holmes saga, following the pattern of a collection of short stories with similar themes and characters which can stand alone but lead to a denouement- in Doyle's case is generally more harrowing, in Chesterton's more jovial. Which is probably the best word to sum up the book.
There are no murders in this book, barely any crimes, it seems to be frankly like a series of really drunk people, getting really drunk and doing really drunk things with opium fumes thrown in there for good measure. Briefly the 'plot' concerns death threats in pansies, mad doctors, mad judges, mad majors, mad businessmen, odd (I wrote queer and thought better of it) vicars and social faux pas involving a mad viscount. The characters could be seen as a little shallow, but I think they're rather likable, the narrative is easy flowing and the wit is sublime.
It makes a nice change and I recommend it to be read as a nice breath of fresh air.
78/100 (Fiction)
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