The Divine Mr. M

Slowing down again, but I’m ahead of schedule, so why not?

The Man Who Knew Too Much by G.K. Chesterton

My rating: 4 of 5 stars

Not to be confused with the Hitchcock films of the same name, which borrowed the title (and nothing else) from this 1922 collection of what are billed as detective stories, but are actually far more than that – they’re really commentaries on corruption and skullduggery among the upper class in the British govt at the time, and how they can literally get away with murder. While the stories are essentially standalone, they also form an interconnected narrative when bookended by the first and last stories.

The title character is Horne Fisher, a respected member of the upper class from a political family who is very well connected with top government officials – including the Prime Minister – and seems to know everybody and everything. That also means that while he is very adept at solving the murder mysteries that occur in these tales, he also believes that reporting his findings to the police will be not only futile, but also potentially damaging to the govt and the stability of the British Empire, or what’s left of it. Fisher’s cynical pessimism (some might say realism) contrasts to his sidekick, political journalist Harold March, whom he befriends in the first story.

Like Chesterton’s Father Brown stories, the mystery-solving bit is almost incidental to the scenarios in which they take place, with the crime usually happening mid-way through the story and Fisher solving the mystery quite quickly. For my money, I think that approach works better here than with the Father Brown mysteries, if only because Fisher comes across as a better defined character. What’s even more interesting is that Fisher is more of an anti-hero because of his complicity. He knows who’s guilty, yet is unwilling to turn them in – a point that March eventually calls him out on.

I will say that Chesterton probably assumed his audience would be informed of the big political issues of the day in early-1920s England – or at least the framework in which his fictional issues occur – so if you’re not up to speed on that, you may feel a bit lost, especially during the final story. Possibly more problematic for contemporary readers is the blatant anti-Semitism in one story, even if you take it as an accurate reflection of political sentiment at the time. (Chesterton himself has been accused of being anti-Semitic, though he always denied this and also denounced Hitler before it became popular.) Anyway, I found it strangely compelling.


Leaves of Grass by Walt Whitman

My rating: 1 of 5 stars

I read a few selected Whitman poems in a poetry class in university, and of course I’ve heard quotations of and references to his work in Dead Poets Society and Ray Bradbury stories and whatnot. And I remember learning that Whitman was very controversial for his day, not just for disregarding metre and rhyme, but also for the sexual overtones of some of his poems, not all of which could be said to be exclusively heterosexual, if you see what I’m saying. So sure, I figured I’d dive in his sole collection of poems, which originally started with 12 poems and now contains over 400.

And, well ... I’m probably not the most qualified person to review it, not exactly being a connoisseur of poetry. Let’s just say everyone has their own taste in poetry, and I have mine, and for the most part, Whitman is not it. There are a few gems here, all of which are among his shorter poems. In fact, I got more out of the short ones, as Whitman’s style is so grandiose and (for lack of a better term) emo to the point of pretentiousness that it makes the longer poems a real slog. Put another way, Whitman makes Bill Shakespeare look like Bukowski. Points for going against the grain, ditching conventions and celebrating the natural world and all, and the good ones are certainly worthwhile, but man, I’m glad that’s over.

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Sheer bloody poetry,

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