Tales in which a supernatural visitor teaches a misbehaving character a lesson by showing him how his vice will lead to his destruction, such as Leo Tolstoy’s “Esarhaddon, King of Assyria” (1903), remind me of “The Story of King Midas” (1953), a stop-motion children’s short film that my family had on VHS when I was growing up. In this version of the Midas tale, a devilish (and apparently vampiric) figure visits the greedy King in his castle and gives him the golden touch, which Midas gleefully abuses until he turns his own daughter into gold. After emphasizing the moral of the story, the devil takes away the golden touch and restores Midas’s daughter to flesh and blood. Not so devilish in the end!
I think it was because I watched it as a child, but this film still makes me feel very strange. The design of the puppets, the dark and spotty visual quality, the film’s age: these details create a vaguely unsettling atmosphere. The film’s basis in an old tale is yet another part of this.
The tale is a straightforward form of literary narrative. The moral of “Esarhaddon, King of Assyria” is clear enough, and in case you miss it, Tolstoy’s supernatural visitor, an “old man,” gives it to Esarhaddon explicitly: “[l]ife is one in them all, and yours is but a portion of this same common life.” But the simplicity of the tale paradoxically allows for great depth and even a kind of strangeness, the same strangeness that the creators of “The Story of King Midas” achieve. “Esarhaddon, King of Assyria” is a part of a set of spiritual tales Tolstoy wrote later in his life, after his religious awakening, such as “Little Girls Wiser Than Men” (1885), “The Three Hermits” (1886), and “The Repentant Sinner” (1886). But even if you are familiar with these tales, Tolstoy might surprise with how far he goes in “Esarhaddon.”
You practice his expression in the mirror.
- You decide that you are going to become a shandeist.
- You buy a copy of The Shandeist’s Rubric.
- You begin at step one.
- You pause and consider why you decided to become a shandeist.
- Memories of childhood pass behind your eyes.
- You decide that most of them have had no bearing on your desire to become a shandeist.
- You take the following five steps very seriously.
- You ask your mother and father about your conception.
- Je te prie, mon chéri….
- Your father says that this is a very unseasonable question.
- You take the foregoing seven steps facetiously.
- It is time to draw some lines.
- You draw lines better on the Continent.
- To appease your father, you invite him on your Grand Tour.
- You see the Liberty Bell in Lyons.
- You memorize the following set of shandeistic proverbs.
- Let him who speaks to asses teach others how to bray.
- English is the language of vulgarity, Latin the language of profanity.
- Cut off the nose of the man who knows its size.
- The blank page may still be read.
- It is time to draw——some lines.
- You draw lines better with your uncle.
- Your uncle causally calls you a shandeist as he watches you draw lines.
- You realize that somewhere along the line, you became a shandeist.
- You try to remember a time when you were not.
At college, I host a weekly radio show. My co-host, Michael, and I read and discuss our favorite short stories and poems. Michael is an older man who has amassed a lifetime of literary knowledge. One day, shortly before our show, I told him I would be reading some stories by Donald Barthelme. He said that his impression of Barthelme (whom he had, admittedly, little read) was that he was an abstruse, academic writer whose stories don’t come to deeply human conclusions.
He was not wholly wrong. Barthelme does have some forbidding stories, stories that take heady aim at existentialist philosophy, such as “Kierkegaard Unfair to Schlegel,” “A Shower of Gold,” or “Nothing: A Preliminary Account.” Barthelme’s puckish, sometimes irreverent style probably does no favors for readers feeling alienated.
But not all of Barthelme’s stories are like this. Some, such as “Rebecca,” are modest in scope but great in depth. After the story ends, the narrator of “Rebecca” directly tells the reader the moral of the story. This is a surprising move, not only because it successfully avoids cheapening the story, but also because it contradicts Michael’s impression, which is a common one. “[O]ne should never cease considering human love, which remains as grisly and golden as ever, no matter what is tattooed upon the warm, tympanic page” — certainly a deeply human conclusion. The narrator says that there were other reasons for the story’s being written, but coyly insists that nine of them are secrets; whether or not readers take the bait, the tenth reason will satisfy them.
I first read this story in a class I took my junior year of college. My professor described it as a “Boy meets Girl” story. It’s probably unlike any such story you are familiar with. And yet its elemental concern with men and women and the relations between them make it the most thorough account of Boy’s meeting Girl I’ve ever read.
It is, at base, a story of recognition. A man, the narrator, and a woman have been meeting in their dreams every night for years. Both want to find each other in reality, but only the woman is able to remember anything about their meetings come morning. The conflict between the narrator and the woman is whether he will finally manage to remember her outside the dream and find her in reality; that is, whether he will come to understand that she is just as real as he is.
García Márquez uses strategies to align the reader’s experience with that of the narrator. Because the story is set in a dream, and because it is told in the first person, we can only truly be sure of the narrator’s existence: perhaps the woman is simply a figment of his imagination. We are further drawn into the narrator (and away from the woman) by his phenomenological narration: we do not see the woman walk over to the dressing table; rather, we see the narrator see her do so. As we read, we are forced to make the same choices the narrator makes. So the story’s conclusion forces us to deny the woman’s subjectivity. It leaves us guilty. It leaves us begging to remember the woman. It leaves us more conscientious people.