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Simon the Jester

door William John Locke

LedenBesprekingenPopulariteitGemiddelde beoordelingAanhalingen
1921,135,847 (3.5)2
I met Renniker the other day at the club. He is a man who knows everything-from the method of trimming a puppy's tail for a dog-show, without being disqualified, to the innermost workings of the mind of every European potentate. If I want information on any subject under heaven I ask Renniker. "Can you tell me," said I, "the most God-forsaken spot in England?" Renniker, being in a flippant mood, mentioned a fashionable watering-place on the South Coast. I pleaded the seriousness of my question. "What I want," said I, "is a place compared to which Golgotha, Aceldama, the Dead Sea, the Valley of Jehoshaphat, and the Bowery would be leafy bowers of uninterrupted delight." "Then Murglebed-on-Sea is what you're looking for," said Renniker. "Are you going there at once?" "At once," said I. "It's November," said he, "and a villainous November at that; so you'll see Murglebed-on-Sea in the fine flower of its desolation." I thanked him, went home, and summoned my excellent man Rogers. "Rogers," said I, "I am going to the seaside. I heard that Murglebed is a nice quiet little spot. You will go down and inspect it for me and bring back a report." He went blithe and light-hearted, though he thought me insane; he returned with the air of a serving-man who, expecting to find a well-equipped pantry, had wandered into a charnel house. "It's an awful place, sir. It's sixteen miles from a railway station. The shore is a mud flat. There's no hotel, and the inhabitants are like cannibals." "I start for Murglebed-on-Sea to-morrow," said I. Rogers started at me. His loose mouth quivered like that of a child preparing to cry. "We can't possibly stay there, sir," he remonstrated. "We are not going to try," I retorted. "I'm going by myself." His face brightened. Almost cheerfully he assured me that I should find nothing to eat in Murglebed. "You can amuse yourself," said I, "by sending me down a daily hamper of provisions." "There isn't even a church," he continued. "Then you can send me down a tin one from Humphreys'. I believe they can supply one with everything from a tin rabbit-hutch to a town hall."… (meer)
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I read this just a little at a time, and as a result didn't get into the story as much as I might have otherwise, but it was pretty good. Simon de Gex has been informed that he will probably die within the next six months, so he determines to chuck his political career and do some good deeds while he still can. This mainly takes the form of trying to separate his friend from a woman reputed to be a gold-digger seductress. This proves possible, but complicated. The novel veers between farce and seriousness, but I think that's probably just a reflection of the main character's frame of mind: he is upset about a lot of things in his life, but tries to carry it off lightly. The most unusual events have to do with Anastasius Papadopoulos, a midget cat trainer with a few screws loose. While he provides lots of humor, he (and later his cats) also precipitate the dramatic confrontations of the story. ( )
  Alishadt | Feb 25, 2023 |
Must a man think he is dying to really go out and experience life? This is the dilemma that is lived by the main character Simon. Simon is a popular and up-and-coming Member of Parliament when a doctor turns his life upside with a fatal diagnosis.

Simon sets about 'fixing' life for his friend and ends up wrecking havoc upon everyone around him.

The story is a journey through the emotions surrounding mortality and Simon's quest to 'put things right' before he dies.

I really enjoyed this story. ( )
  hazysaffron | Feb 17, 2015 |
Toon 2 van 2
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I met Renniker the other day at the club. He is a man who knows everything-from the method of trimming a puppy's tail for a dog-show, without being disqualified, to the innermost workings of the mind of every European potentate. If I want information on any subject under heaven I ask Renniker. "Can you tell me," said I, "the most God-forsaken spot in England?" Renniker, being in a flippant mood, mentioned a fashionable watering-place on the South Coast. I pleaded the seriousness of my question. "What I want," said I, "is a place compared to which Golgotha, Aceldama, the Dead Sea, the Valley of Jehoshaphat, and the Bowery would be leafy bowers of uninterrupted delight." "Then Murglebed-on-Sea is what you're looking for," said Renniker. "Are you going there at once?" "At once," said I. "It's November," said he, "and a villainous November at that; so you'll see Murglebed-on-Sea in the fine flower of its desolation." I thanked him, went home, and summoned my excellent man Rogers. "Rogers," said I, "I am going to the seaside. I heard that Murglebed is a nice quiet little spot. You will go down and inspect it for me and bring back a report." He went blithe and light-hearted, though he thought me insane; he returned with the air of a serving-man who, expecting to find a well-equipped pantry, had wandered into a charnel house. "It's an awful place, sir. It's sixteen miles from a railway station. The shore is a mud flat. There's no hotel, and the inhabitants are like cannibals." "I start for Murglebed-on-Sea to-morrow," said I. Rogers started at me. His loose mouth quivered like that of a child preparing to cry. "We can't possibly stay there, sir," he remonstrated. "We are not going to try," I retorted. "I'm going by myself." His face brightened. Almost cheerfully he assured me that I should find nothing to eat in Murglebed. "You can amuse yourself," said I, "by sending me down a daily hamper of provisions." "There isn't even a church," he continued. "Then you can send me down a tin one from Humphreys'. I believe they can supply one with everything from a tin rabbit-hutch to a town hall."

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