Short . Stories
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National Advisory Board Jennifer Hood: Young Adult/Reference Librarian, Cumberland Public Library, Cumberland, Rhode Island. Certified teacher, Rhode Island. Member of the New England Library Association, Rhode Island Library Association, and the Rhode Island Educational Media Association. Christopher Maloney: Head Reference Librarian, Ocean City Free Public Library, Ocean City, New Jersey. Member of the American Library Association and the New Jersey Library Association. Board member of the South Jersey Library Cooperative. Kathleen Preston: Head of Reference, New City Library, New City, New York. Member of the American Library Association. Received B.A. and M.L.S. from University of Albany. Patricia Sarles: Library Media Specialist, Canarsie
High School, Brooklyn, New York. Expert Guide in Biography/Memoir for thf website About.com (http://biography.aboui com). Author of short stories and book rtoiew Received B.A., M.A. (anthropology^ an M.L.S. from Rutgers University. Heidi Stohs: Instructor in Language Arts, gradt ;s 10-12, Solomon High School, Solomc*n, Kansas. Received B.S. from Kansas St,ate University; M.A. from Fort Hays Slate University. Barbara Wencl: Library Media Specialist, COmo Park Senior High School, St. Paul, Minnesota. Teacher of secondary social studies and hi story, St. Paul, Minnesota. ReceivedB.S. andM.Ed. from University of Minnesota; received media certification from University of Wisconsin. Educator and media specialist with over 30 years experience.
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PDF Not Available Due to Copyright Terms
Table of Contents Guest Foreword "Why Study Literature At All?" Thomas E. Barden
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Introduction
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Literary Chronology
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Acknowledgments
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Contributors
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The Birds Daphne du Maurier
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Black Is My Favorite Color Bernard Malamud
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Dharma Vikram Chandra
. 46
The Diamond Mine Willa Gather
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The Gold of Tomas Vargas Isabel Allende
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Katherine Anne Porter
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Henne Fire Isaac Bashevis Singer
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The Invalid's Story Mark Twain
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Kitchen Banana Yoshimoto
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Rip Van Winkle Washington Irving
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Menagerie, a Child's Fable Charles Johnson
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Rules of the Game Amy Tan
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The Woman Who Came at Six O'Clock 275 Gabriel Garcia Marquez
The Purloined Letter Edgar Allan Poe
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Glossary of Literary Terms
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Cumulative Author/Title Index
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Nationality/Ethnicity Index
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Subject/Theme Index
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Why Study Literature At All? Short Stories for Students is designed to provide readers with information and discussion about a wide range of important contemporary and historical works of short fiction, and it does that job very well. However, I want to use this guest foreword to address a question that it does not take up. It is a fundamental question that is often ignored in high school and college English classes as well as research texts, and one that causes frustration among students at all levels, namely—why study literature at all? Isn't it enough to read a story, enjoy it, and go about one's business? My answer (to be expected from a literary professional, I suppose) is no. It is not enough. It is a start; but it is not enough. Here's why. First, literature is the only part of the educational curriculum that deals directly with the actual world of lived experience. The philosopher Edmund Husserl used the apt German term die Lebenswelt, "the living world," to denote this realm. All the other content areas of the modern American educational system avoid the subjective, present reality of everyday life. Science (both the natural and the social varieties) objectifies, the fine arts create and/or perform, history reconstructs. Only literary study persists in posing those questions we all asked before our schooling taught us to give up on them. Only literature gives credibility to personal perceptions, feelings, dreams, and the "stream of consciousness" that is our inner voice. Literature wonders about infinity, wonders why God permits evil, wonders what will happen to us after we die.
Literature admits that we get our hearts broken, that people sometimes cheat and get away with it, that the world is a strange and probably incomprehensible place. Literature, in other words, takes on all the big and small issues of what it means to be human. So my first answer is that of the humanist—we should read literature and study it and take it seriously because it enriches us as human beings. We develop our moral imagination, our capacity to sympathize with other people, and our ability to understand our existence through the experience of fiction. My second answer is more practical. By studying literature we can learn how to explore and analyze texts. Fiction may be about die Lebenswelt, but it is a construct of words put together in a certain order by an artist using the medium of language. By examining and studying those constructions, we can learn about language as a medium. We can become more sophisticated about word associations and connotations, about the manipulation of symbols, and about style and atmosphere. We can grasp how ambiguous language is and how important context and texture is to meaning. In our first encounter with a work of literature, of course, we are not supposed to catch all of these things. We are spellbound, just as the writer wanted us to be. It is as serious students of the writer's art that we begin to see how the tricks are done. Seeing the tricks, which is another way of saying "developing analytical and close reading
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skills," is important above and beyond its intrinsic literary educational value. These skills transfer to other fields and enhance critical thinking of any kind. Understanding how language is used to construct texts is powerful knowledge. It makes engineers better problem solvers, lawyers better advocates and courtroom practitioners, politicians better rhetoricians, marketing and advertising agents better sellers, and citizens more aware consumers as well as better participants in democracy. This last point is especially important, because rhetorical skill works both ways—when we learn how language is manipulated in the making of texts the result is that we become less susceptible when language is used to manipulate us. My third reason is related to the second. When we begin to see literature as created artifacts of language, we become more sensitive to good writing in general. We get a stronger sense of the importance of individual words, even the sounds of words and word combinations. We begin to understand Mark Twain's delicious proverb—"The difference between the right word and the almost right word is the difference between lightning and a lightning bug." Getting beyond the "enjoyment only" stage of literature gets us closer to becoming makers of word art ourselves. I am not saying that studying fiction will turn every student into a Faulkner or a Shakespeare. But it will make us more adaptable and effective writers, even if our art form ends up being the office memo or the corporate annual report. Studying short stories, then, can help students become better readers, better writers, and even
better human beings. But I want to close with a warning. If your study and exploration of the craft, history, context, symbolism, or anything else about a story starts to rob it of the magic you felt when you first read it, it is time to stop. Take a break, study another subject, shoot some hoops, or go for a run. Love of reading is too important to be ruined by school. The early twentieth century writer Willa Gather, in her novel My Antonia, has her narrator Jack Burden tell a story that he and Antonia heard from two old Russian immigrants when they were teenagers. These immigrants, Pavel and Peter, told about an incident from their youth back in Russia that the narrator could recall in vivid detail thirty years later. It was a harrowing story of a wedding party starting home in sleds and being chased by starving wolves. Hundreds of wolves attacked the group's sleds one by one as they sped across the snow trying to reach their village. In a horrible revelation, the old Russians revealed that the groom eventually threw his own bride to the wolves to save himself. There was even a hint that one of the old immigrants might have been the groom mentioned in the story. Gather has her narrator conclude with his feelings about the story. "We did not tell Pavel's secret to anyone, but guarded it jealously—as if the wolves of the Ukraine had gathered that night long ago, and the wedding party had been sacrificed, just to give us a painful and peculiar pleasure." That feeling, that painful and peculiar pleasure, is the most important thing about literature. Study and research should enhance that feeling and never be allowed to overwhelm it. Thomas E. Burden Professor of English and Director of Graduate English Studies The University of Toledo
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Introduction Purpose of the Book The purpose of Short Stories for Students (SSfS) is to provide readers with a guide to understanding, enjoying, and studying short stories by giving them easy access to information about the work. Part of Gale's "For Students" Literature line, SSfS is specifically designed to meet the curricular needs of high school and undergraduate college students and their teachers, as well as the interests of general readers and researchers considering specific short fiction. While each volume contains entries on "classic" stories frequently studied in classrooms, there are also entries containing hard-to-find information on contemporary stories, including works by multicultural, international, and women writers. The information covered in each entry includes an introduction to the story and the story's author; a plot summary, to help readers unravel and understand the events in the work; descriptions of important characters, including explanation of a given character's role in the narrative as well as discussion about that character's relationship to other characters in the story; analysis of important themes in the story; and an explanation of important literary techniques and movements as they are demonstrated in the work. In addition to this material, which helps the readers analyze the story itself, students are also provided with important information on the literary and historical background informing each work.
This includes a historical context essay, a box comparing the time or place the story was written to modern Western culture, a critical overview essay, and excerpts from critical essays on the story or author. A unique feature of SSfS is a specially commissioned critical essay on each story, targeted toward the student reader. To further aid the student in studying and enjoying each story, information on media adaptations is provided (if available), as well as reading suggestions for works of fiction and nonfiction on similar themes and topics. Classroom aids include ideas for research papers and lists of critical sources that provide additional material on the work.
Selection Criteria The titles for each volume of SSfS were selected by surveying numerous sources on teaching literature and analyzing course curricula for various school districts. Some of the sources surveyed include: literature anthologies, Reading Lists for College-Bound Students: The Books Most Recommended by America's Top Colleges; Teaching the Short Story: A Guide to Using Stories from around the World, by the National Council of Teachers of English (NCTE); and "A Study of High School Literature Anthologies," conducted by Arthur Applebee at the Center for the Learning and Teaching of Literature and sponsored by the National Endowment for the Arts and the Office of Educational Research and Improvement.
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Input was also solicited from our advisory board, as well as educators from various areas. From these discussions, it was determined that each volume should have a mix of "classic" stories (those works commonly taught in literature classes) and contemporary stories for which information is often hard to find. Because of the interest in expanding the canon of literature, an emphasis was also placed on including works by international, multicultural, and women authors. Our advisory board members—educational professionals—helped pare down the list for each volume. Works not selected for the present volume were noted as possibilities for future volumes. As always, the editor welcomes suggestions for titles to be included in future volumes.
How Each Entry Is Organized Each entry, or chapter, in SSfS focuses on one story. Each entry heading lists the title of the story, the author's name, and the date of the story's publication. The following elements are contained in each entry: • Introduction: a brief overview of the story which provides information about its first appearance, its literary standing, any controversies surrounding the work, and major conflicts or themes within the work. • Author Biography: this section includes basic facts about the author's life, and focuses on events and times in the author's life that may have inspired the story in question. • Plot Summary: a description of the events in the story. Lengthy summaries are broken down with subheads. • Characters: an alphabetical listing of the characters who appear in the story. Each character name is followed by a brief to an extensive description of the character's role in the story, as well as discussion of the character's actions, relationships, and possible motivation. Characters are listed alphabetically by last name. If a character is unnamed—for instance, the narrator in "The Eatonville Anthology"—the character is listed as "The Narrator" and alphabetized as ' 'Narrator." If a character's first name is the only one given, the name will appear alphabetically by that name. • Themes: a thorough overview of how the topics, themes, and issues are addressed within the story. Each theme discussed appears in a sepa-
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rate subhead, and is easily accessed through the boldface entries in the Subject/Theme Index. • Style: this section addresses important style elements of the story, such as setting, point of view, and narration; important literary devices used, such as imagery, foreshadowing, symbolism; and, if applicable, genres to which the work might have belonged, such as Gothicism or Romanticism. Literary terms are explained within the entry, but can also be found in the Glossary. • Historical Context: this section outlines the social, political, and cultural climate in which the author lived and the work was created. This section may include descriptions of related historical events, pertinent aspects of daily life in the culture, and the artistic and literary sensibilities of the time in which the work was written. If the story is historical in nature, information regarding the time in which the story is set is also included. Long sections are broken down with helpful subheads. • Critical Overview: this section provides background on the critical reputation of the author and the story, including bannings or any other public controversies surrounding the work. For older works, this section may include a history of how the story was first received and how perceptions of it may have changed over the years; for more recent works, direct quotes from early reviews may also be included. • Criticism: an essay commissioned by SSfS which specifically deals with the story and is written specifically for the student audience, as well as excerpts from previously published criticism on the work (if available). • Sources: an alphabetical list of critical material used in compiling the entry, with bibliographical information. • Further Reading: an alphabetical list of other critical sources which may prove useful for the student. It includes bibliographical information and a brief annotation. In addition, each entry contains the following highlighted sections, set apart from the main text as sidebars: • Media Adaptations: if available, a list of film and television adaptations of the story, including source information. The list also includes stage adaptations, audio recordings, musical adaptations, etc.
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• Topics for Further Study: a list of potential study questions or research topics dealing with the story. This section includes questions related to other disciplines the student may be studying, such as American history, world history, science, math, government, business, geography, economics, psychology, etc. • Compare and Contrast: an "at-a-glance" comparison of the cultural and historical differences between the author's time and culture and late twentieth century or early twenty-first century Western culture. This box includes pertinent parallels between the major scientific, political, and cultural movements of the time or place the story was written, the time or place the story was set (if a historical work), and modern Western culture. Works written after 1990 may not have this box. • What Do I Read Next?: a list of works that might complement the featured story or serve as a contrast to it. This includes works by the same author and others, works of fiction and nonfiction, and works from various genres, cultures, and eras.
Other Features SSfS includes' 'Why Study Literature At All?," a foreword by Thomas E. Harden, Professor of English and Director of Graduate English Studies at the University of Toledo. This essay provides a number of very fundamental reasons for studying literature and, therefore, reasons why a book such as SSfS, designed to facilitate the study of literture, is useful. A Cumulative Author/Title Index lists the authors and titles covered in each volume of the SSfS series. A Cumulative Nationality/Ethnicity Index breaks down the authors and titles covered in each volume of the SSfS series by nationality and ethnicity.
Citing Short Stories for Students When writing papers, students who quote directly from any volume of SSfS may use the following general forms to document their source. These examples are based on MLA style; teachers may request that students adhere to a different style, thus, the following examples may be adapted as needed. When citing text from SSfS that is not attributed to a particular author (for example, the Themes, Style, Historical Context sections, etc.), the following format may be used: "The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calavaras County." Short Stories for Students. Ed. Kathleen Wilson. Vol. 1. Detroit: Gale, 1997. 19-20.
When quoting the specially commissioned essay from SSfS (usually the first essay under the Criticism subhead), the following format may be used: Korb, Rena. Critical Essay on "Children of the Sea." Short Stories for Students. Ed. Kathleen Wilson. Vol. I.Detroit: Gale, 1997. 42.
When quoting a journal or newspaper essay that is reprinted in a volume of Short Stories for Students, the following form may be used: Schmidt, Paul. "The Deadpan on Simon Wheeler." Southwest Review Vol. XLI, No. 3 (Summer, 1956), 270-77; excerpted and reprinted in Short Stories for Students, Vol. 1, ed. Kathleen Wilson (Detroit: Gale, 1997), pp. 29-31.
When quoting material from a book that is reprinted in a volume of SSfS, the following form may be used: Bell-Villada, Gene H.' "The Master of Short Forms," in Garcia Marquez: The Man and His Work. University of North Carolina Press, 1990 pp. 119-36; excerpted and reprinted in Short Stories for Students, Vol. 1, ed. Kathleen Wilson (Detroit: Gale, 1997), pp. 89-90.
We Welcome Your Suggestions
A Subject/Theme Index, specific to each volume, provides easy reference for users who may be studying a particular subject or theme rather than a single work. Significant subjects from events to broad themes are included, and the entries pointing to the specific theme discussions in each entry are indicated in boldface.
The editor of Short Stories for Students welcomes your comments and ideas. Readers who wish to suggest short stories to appear in future volumes, or who have other suggestions, are cordially invited to contact the editor. You may contact the editor via E-mail at:
[email protected]. Or write to the editor at:
Each entry may include illustrations, including photo of the author, stills from film adaptations (if available), maps, and/or photos of key historical events.
Editor, Short Stories for Students The Gale Group 27500 Drake Road Farmington Hills, MI 48331-3535
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Literary Chronology 1783: Washington Irving is born on April 3 in New York City in same the year that the American Revolution formally ends. 1809: Edgar Allan Poe is born on January 19 in Boston, Massachusetts. 1819: Washington Irving's "Rip Van Winkle" is published. 1835: Mark Twain (born Samuel Langhorne Clemens) is born on November 30 in the village of Florida, Missouri. 1844: Edgar Allan Poe's "The Purloined Letter" is published.
1907: Daphne du Maurier is born on May 13 in London, England. 1910: Mark Twain dies on April 21 in his home near Redding, Connecticut. 1914: Bernard Malamud is born on April 28 in Brooklyn, New York, to Russian Jewish immigrant parents. 1916: Willa Gather's "The Diamond Mine" is published. 1922: Willa Gather receives a Pulitzer Prize for One of Ours. 1927: Katherine Anne Porter's "He" is published.
1849: Edgar Allan Poe dies on October 3, perhaps from a brain lesion, although critics speculate about other causes. 1859: Washington Irving dies on November 23. 1873: Willa Gather is born on December 7 in Back Creek Valley, Virginia. 1882: Mark Twain's "The Invalid's Story" is published. 1890: Katherine Anne Porter (born Gallic Russell Porter) is born on May 15 in Indian Creek, Texas. 1904: Isaac Bashevis Singer (born Icek-Hersz Zynger) is born on July 14 in Radzymin, Poland.
1928: Gabriel Garcfa Marquez is born on March 6 in Aracataca, Colombia. 1942: Isabel Allende is born on August 2 in Lima, Peru, daughter of Chilean diplomat, Tomas Allende. 1947: Willa Gather dies from a cerebral hemorrhage on April 24 in New York City. 1948: Charles Johnson is born on April 23 in Evanston, Illinois. 1950: Gabriel Garcfa Marquez's "The Woman Who Came at Six O'Clock" is published. 1952: Daphne du Maurier's "The Birds" is published.
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1952: Amy Tan is born on February 19 in Oakland, California, two and a half years after her parents emigrated from China. 1961: Vikram Chandra is born on July 23 in New Delhi, India. 1963: Bernard Malamud's "Black Is My Favorite Color" is published. 1964: Mahoko "Banana" Yoshimoto is born on July 24 in Tokyo, Japan. 1966: {Catherine Anne Porter receives a Pulitzer Prize for The Collected Stories of Katherine Anne Porter. 1967: Bernard Malamud receives a Pulitzer Prize for The Fixer. 1968: Isaac Bashevis Singer's "Henne Fire" is published. 1978: Isaac Bashevis Singer receives the Nobel Prize for literature.
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1980: Katherine Anne Porter dies from cancer on September 18 in Silver Springs, Maryland. 1982: Gabriel Garcia Marquez receives the Nobel Prize for literature. 1984: Charles Johnson's "Menagerie, a Child's Fable" is published. 1986: Bernard Malamud dies from natural causes on March 18. 1988: Banana Yoshimoto's "Kitchen" is published. 1989: Daphne du Maurier dies on April 19 in her beloved Cornwall. 1989: Amy Tan's "Rules of the Game" is published. 1990: Isabel Allende's "The Gold of Tomas Vargas" is published. 1991: Isaac Bashevis Singer dies after a series of strokes on July 24 in Surfside, Florida. 1994: Vikram Chandra's "Dharma" is published.
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Acknowledgments The editors wish to thank the copyright holders of the excerpted criticism included in this volume and the permissions managers of many book and magazine publishing companies for assisting us in securing reproduction rights. We are also grateful to the staffs of the Detroit Public Library, the Library of Congress, the University of Detroit Mercy Library, Wayne State University Purdy/Kresge Library Complex, and the University of Michigan Libraries for making their resources available to us. Following is a list of the copyright holders who have granted us permission to reproduce material in this volume of Short Stories for Students (SSfS). Every effort has been made to trace copyright, but if omissions have been made, please let us know. COPYRIGHTED MATERIALS IN SSfS, VOLUME 16, WERE REPRODUCED FROM THE FOLLOWING PERIODICALS: Gather Studies, \. 2, 1993. Copyright (c) 1993 by the University of Nebraska Press. Reproduced by permission of the University of Nebraska Press.— Mark Twain Journal, v. xxi, Winter, 1981-1982. Reproduced by permission.—Modern Fiction Studies, v. 28, 1982. Reproduced by permission.—New York Review of Books, v. xl, August 12, 1993. Copyright (c) 1993 by NYRV, Inc. Reproduced by permission. COPYRIGHTED MATERIALS IN SSfS, VOLUME 16, WERE REPRODUCED FROM THE FOLLOWING BOOKS:
Alter, Iska. From "The Broader Canvas: Malamud, the Blacks, and the Jews," in The Good Man's Dilemma. AMS Press, Inc., 1981. Copyright (c) 1981 by AMS Press, Inc. All rights reserved. Reproduced by permission.—Buranelli, Vincent. From "Fiction Themes," in Edgar Allan Poe. Twayne Publishers, 1977. Copyright (c) 1977 by Twayne Publishers. All rights reserved.—Gerber, Philip. From "Gather's Shorter Fiction: 1892-1948," in Willa Gather. Twayne Publishers, 1995. Copyright (c) 1995 by Twayne Publishers. All rights reserved.— Kelly, Richard. From "The World of the Macabre: The Short Stories," in Daphne du Maurier. Twayne Publishers, 1987. Copyright (c) 1987 by Twayne Publishers. All rights reserved.—Martin, Terence. From "Rip, Ichabod, and the American Imagination," in Washington Irving: The Critical Reaction. AMS Press, Inc., 1993. Copyright (c) 1993 by AMS Press, Inc. All rights reserved. Reproduced by permission.—Meyering, Sheryl L. From "The Diamond Mine," in A Reader"s Guide to the Short Stones of Willa Gather. G. K. Hall and Co., 1994. Copyright (c) 1994 by G.K. Hall and Co. All rights reserved. Reproduced by permission.—Wilson, James D. From "The Invalid's Story," in A Reader's Guide to the Short Stories of Mark Twain. G. K. Hall and Co., 1987. Copyright (c) 1987 by G. K. Hall and Co. All rights reserved. Reproduced by permission.—Young, Philip. From "Fallen from Time: The Mythic 'Rip Van Winkle,'" in Washington Irving: The Critical Reaction. AMS Press, Inc.,
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1993. Copyright (c) 1993 by AMS Press, Inc. All rights reserved. Reproduced by permission. PHOTOGRAPHS AND ILLUSTRATIONS APPEARING IN SSfS, VOLUME 16, WERE RECEIVED FROM THE FOLLOWING SOURCES: Allende, Isabel. From a cover of The Stories of Eva Luna. By Isabel Allende. Bantam Books, Inc., 1992. Cover art (c) 1991 by Leo and Diane Dillon. Reproduced by permission of Bantam Books, Inc., a division of Bantam Doubleday Dell Publishing Group, Inc.—Allende, Isabel, photograph by William C. Gordon. Reproduced by permission of Isabel Allende.—Gather, Willa, photograph. Hulton/ Getty Images. Reproduced by permission.—Chandra, Vikram, photograph by Jerry Bauer. Reproduced by permission.—Du Maurier, Daphne, photograph. Popperfoto/Getty Images. Reproduced by permission.—Dust Bowl, photograph. AP/Wide World Photos. Reproduced by permission.—Eastman, George, photograph. Hulton/Getty Images. Repro-
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duced by permission.—Garcia Marquez, Gabriel, photograph. AP/Wide World Photos. Reproduced by permission.—Group of Elderly Chinese men playing Chinese chess, photograph by Richard Bickel. Corbis. Reproduced by permission.—Indian Troops, photograph by David Kennedy. Corbis Images. Reproduced by permission.—Irving, Washington, photograph. The National Portrait Gallery, Smithsonian Institution.—Malamud, Bernard, photograph by Jerry Bauer. Reproduced by permission.—Man dressed as Sherlock Holmes, photograph. Getty Images. Reproduced by permission.—McClure's Magazine (cover). Special Collections Library, University of Michigan. Reproduced by permission.— Poe, Edgar Allan, photograph. AP/Wide World Photos. Reproduced by permission.—Porter, Katherine Anne, photograph by Paul Porter. AP/Wide World Photos. Reproduced by permission.—Singer, Isaac Bashevis, photograph. UPI/Corbis-Bettmann. Reproduced by permission.—Tan, Amy Ruth, photograph. Getty Images. Reproduced by permission.— Twain, Mark, photograph. The Library of Congress.
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Contributors Bryan Aubrey: Aubrey holds a Ph.D. in English and has published many articles on twentiethcentury literature. Entry on Dharma. Original essay on Dharma.
and creative writing and focuses her writing on literary themes. Entry on He. Original essays on The GoldofTomds Vargas, He, and Kitchen.
Cynthia Bily: Bily teaches writing and literature at Adrian College. Entry on Rip Van Winkle. Original essay on Rip Van Winkle.
Beth Kattelnian: Kattelman holds a Ph.D. in theatre from Ohio State University. Original essay on The Birds.
Liz Brent: Brent has a Ph.D. in American Culture from the University of Michigan and works as a freelance writer. Entry on Menagerie, a Child's Fable. Original essay on Menagerie, a Child's Fable.
David Kelly: Kelly is an instructor of creative writing and literature at Oakton Community College in Illinois. Original essays on Dharma and Rules of the Game.
Kate Covintree: Covintree is a graduate of Randolph-Macon Women's College with a degree in English. Original essay on Rules of the Game. Douglas Dupler: Dupler has taught college English and has published numerous articles. Entry on Kitchen. Original essay on Kitchen. Erik France: France is a librarian and college counselor, and he also teaches at University Liggett School and Macomb Community College near Detroit, Michigan. Original essay on Dharma. Curt Guyette: Guyette has a bachelor's degree in English from the University of Pittsburgh. Original essay on The Birds. Joyce Hart: Hart has degrees in English literature
Laura Kryhoski: Kryhoski is a former English as a Second Language (ESL) teacher and is currently a freelance writer. Original essay on Kitchen. Uma Kukathas: Kukathas is a freelance writer and editor. Original essay on The Woman Who Came at Six O 'Clock. Deneka Candace MacDonald: MacDonald is an instructor of English literature and media. Original essay on The Birds. Josh Ozersky: Ozersky is a critic and essayist. Original essays on Henne Fire and Rip Van Winkle. Wendy Perkins: Perkins teaches American literature and film and has published several essays on American and British authors. Entry on The Birds. Original essay on The Birds.
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Ryan D. Poquette: Poquette has a bachelor's degree in English and specializes in writing about literature. Entries on Black Is My Favorite Color, The Diamond Mine, The Gold of Tomds Vargas, The Invalid's Story, The Purloined Letter, Rules of the Game, and The Woman Who Came at Six O'Clock. Original essays on Black Is My Favorite Color, The Diamond Mine, The Gold of Tomds Vargas, The Invalid's Story, The Purloined Letter, Rules of the Game, and The Woman Who Came at Six O'Clock. Michelle Prebilic: Prebilic is an independent author who writes children's literature. She holds
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degrees in psychology and business. Original essay on Menagerie, a Child's Fable. Susan Sanderson: Sanderson holds a Master of Fine Arts degree in fiction writing and is an independent writer. Entry on Henne Fire. Original essays on Henne Fire and The Woman Who Came at Six O'Clock. Paul Witcover: Witcover is an editor and writer whose fiction, book reviews, and critical essays appear regularly in print magazines and online media. Original essays on Black Is My Favorite Color and Menagerie, a Child's Fable.
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The Birds After its publication in 1952 in her short story collection The Apple Tree, "The Birds" became one of Daphne du Maurier's most celebrated works. The story presents an unrelenting portrait of terror and a compelling analogy of the atmosphere of fear generated in America and Europe during the Cold War years.
Daphne du Maurier
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Covering only a few days in the life of a family living on the Cornish coast of England, "The Birds" examines what would happen if animals traditionally regarded as symbols of peace and freedom began to ruthlessly attack humans. The story opens in the middle of the night when farm worker Nat Hocken wakes to an insistent tapping at his window. Du Maurier quickly increases the tension and horror as Nat's family suffers several vicious attacks by hordes of swarming birds, seemingly bent on destruction. Richard Kelly, in his article on du Maurier for Twayne 's English Authors Series Online notes,' 'by limiting the focus of her story upon Nat Hocken and his family, du Maurier manages to convey the effect of a believable claustrophobic nightmare." This sense of claustrophobia is heightened by the story's references to the bombing raids England endured during World War II and the paranoid atmosphere created by the threat of nuclear holocaust during the middle of the twentieth century. Eleven years after it was written, the story was turned into a popular film version by Alfred Hitchcock.
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Author Biography Daphne du Maurier was born on May 13, 1907, in London, England to Gerald (an actor and manager) and Muriel (an actress) du Maurier. Her grandfather was artist and author George du Maurier (Peter Ibbetson in 1891 and Trilby in 1894). As a child, Daphne enjoyed reading and indulging in games of fantasy, which helped develop her literary talents. She lived in Cornwall throughout most of her life, first in her parents' summer home near Plymouth and later in Menabilly, a nearby seventeenthcentury estate. The gothic landscape of Cornwall, the setting for the legends of King Arthur, Tristan and Iseult, and many pirate tales, inspired her work and often became the landscape of her own fiction, most notably in her novels Jamaica Inn (1936), Frenchman's Creek (1941), The House on the Strand (1969), and the short story "The Birds." She would also write a history of the area in 1967. Wayne Templeton, in his article on du Maurier for Dictionary of Literary Biography, notes that during her adolescence, she "began to experience an intense desire to be a boy." Templeton reasons that these feelings suggested an "awakening of lesbian tendencies in an era when many people, including homosexuals themselves, believed that one person in a homosexual relationship must have female inclinations, the other male." In later years, she would often pretend to be a boy named Eric Avon. Due to the stigma that was attached to homosexuality, du Maurier suppressed her sexual tendencies, but often noted to friends that she kept a "boy in a box." These masculine leanings influenced her novels and stories, which were often dominated by a male narrator. She began her literary career in 1925 when she started writing dark, pessimistic verse and short stories that were clearly influenced by Katherine Mansfield, Guy de Maupassant, and Somerset Maugham. Her first two publications, the short stories "And Now to God the Father" and "A Difference in Temperament," appeared in 1929 in The Bystander, a periodical edited by her uncle, William Beaumont. While she was staying with her parents in their home in Cornwall, the twenty-four-year-old Daphne penned her first novel, The Loving Spirit, a historical romance that became a best-seller and also earned critical praise. The book inspired Frederick ' 'Boy'' Browning, a major in the Grenadier Guards, to meet her, and soon, the couple was married.
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Templeton notes,' 'while du Maurier would confess to being deeply in love with several women during her life, she would never admit, even to herself, that she was bisexual." Her literary reputation as an important new talent was solidified by the publication of her fourth novel, Jamaica Inn (1936). Critics noted her similarities to the gothic novels of the Bronte sisters, Jane Eyre (1847) and Wuthering Heights (1847). When Rebecca appeared, however, in 1938, critics determined that she had established her own literary voice. Her short story collections were also well received, especially The Apple Tree: A Short Novel and Some Stories (1952), published in America as Kiss Me Again, Stranger (1953) and as The Birds and Other Stories (1963); and Not After Midnight, and Other Stories (1971), republished as Don't Look Now (1971). Successful film versions have been made of several of her novels and stories, including Rebecca, "The Birds," and "Don't Look Now.'' Du Maurier was awarded the National Book Award in 1938 for Rebecca and given the title Dame Commander by the Order of the British Empire in 1969. She died on April 19, 1989, in her beloved Cornwall.
Plot Summary The story opens on the third of December on the Cornish coast of England. The weather has changed overnight from a mild autumn to a cold, harsh winter. The narrator introduces Nat Hocken, who supports his wife and two children through his government pension and through work at a neighboring farm. While watching the sky, Nat notes that the birds appear more restless than usual. Mr. Trigg, who owns the farm where Nat works, attributes the birds' unusual behavior to the coming hard winter. That night, while all of his family sleeps, Nat hears a tapping at his bedroom window. As he opens it, he feels something jabbing at his hand. He sees a bird fly away and notices that his hand is bleeding. Soon after he returns to bed, the tapping returns, this time with more force. When he opens the window, a dozen birds go after his face, drawing more blood. After an intense struggle, he is able to beat them off, and they fly away. Soon after, he hears his daughter scream in the next room. When he rushes in, he
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finds a swarm of birds attacking the children. Again, he is eventually able to fight them off, though many dead birds are left behind. After the attack, Nat tries to calm and comfort his family, explaining that the harsh winter has disturbed the birds and that they came into the house because they were frightened and lost and wanted shelter. His wife, though, notes that the weather has changed too quickly for the birds to be affected by it. Nat finds his own comfort in the order of the kitchen, with everything in its proper place. The next morning, Nat walks his daughter Jill to the bus stop and then stops at the Trigg's farm to "satisfy himself that all was well." Mrs. Trigg, the farmer's wife, thinks Nat has exaggerated his story about the attack since she and her husband have had no trouble with the birds. Nat returns home and removes the dead birds from the children's room. As he looks out at the sea, he sees thousands of gulls amassing on the waves. When he returns to the house, his wife informs him that she heard several reports on the radio of bird attacks occurring all over the country, including London. He tells her about the thousands of gulls in the sea, waiting, he insists, to launch an assault. In order to protect them during the night, Nat boards up the windows and the chimney. When he notes that the gulls have risen from the waves in silent circles in the sky, he runs to the bus stop to meet Jill. When the birds start to swarm overhead, Nat begins to run, pulling a frightened Jill behind him. At home the family huddles in the kitchen, listening to the sounds of birds scraping and smashing against the boarded windows, trying to get in. They hear on the radio that a national emergency has been declared due to the attacks. In a few hours, the attack subsides when the tide ebbs. Nat notes that the birds have been splitting the wood barricades and so reinforces them with furniture and with the dead bodies of birds who have smashed themselves against them. During the next attack, which begins a few hours later, the birds break into the children's room, and Nat finds that the emergency radio system has gone dead. When the attack subsides, the family ventures out to the Trigg's farm to gather supplies, continually watched by the land birds who are waiting for the gulls to begin the next onslaught. They find the dead bodies of Mr. and Mrs. Trigg as well as Jim, their cow hand. Nat notes that no smoke is coming
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from the chimneys of the other houses in the area and regrets that he did not take the other children home with him. After gathering up food and fuel from the farm, the family returns home and the attack soon begins again. The story closes with Nat listening to the "tearing sound of splintering wood."
Characters Jill Hocken Jill is used to heighten the story's tension, but her character is more fully developed than that of her brother. She is quite scared of the birds throughout most of the story, especially when she sees her brother and her father's injuries. She also picks up on her parents' apprehension, which compounds her fears. However, she also exhibits a childlike resilience when, the day after the first attack, she plays with youthful unconcern, dancing'' ahead of her father and "chasing the leaves" on the way to the bus. She and her brother find enjoyment during the bumpy ride home from the Trigg farm.
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Media Adaptations Alfred Hitchcock directed and produced The Birds for Universal Pictures in 1963. Evan Hunter wrote the screenplay based on du Maurier's story. The film stars Tippi Hedren, Rod Taylor, and Jessica Tandy. The television film The Birds II: Land's End, aired in 1994 as a sequel to The Birds.
Johnny Hocken Johnny, like his sister, is used to heighten the story's tension and to illustrate one of its main themes. His initial injury fills his parents with dread and compels them to do whatever they can to protect their children. He, like Jill, displays a child's resiliency.
Mrs. Hocken Mrs. Hocken appears as a stereotypical' 'weak woman'' and is not very fleshed out; perhaps this is why du Maurier never gives her a name. While she does comfort her children and often tries to shield them from fearful thoughts, she appears almost as afraid as they and displays a childlike sense of insecurity and terror. She refuses to stay in the house with the children when Nat decides to go for supplies, and she never displays the confidence in their survival that her husband has.
Nat Hocken Nat Hocken's wartime disability provides him with a pension. As a result, he only needs to work part time at the Trigg's farm to support his wife and two children. Trigg gives him the lighter jobs at the farm, which he carries out efficiently. Nat gains the reputation for being a solitary man. In between his chores on the farm, he often stops to gaze out at the sea that surrounds the farmland on either side and watch the movement of the birds. His nature allows him to be keenly observant of his surroundings. He is the first in the area to take
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the threat of the birds seriously, since he has always carefully monitored their behavior. He quickly takes stock of the situation, sensing that the nighttime attack will not be the last and determines the materials and supplies he and his family will need to survive. Nat is also a realist. He immediately understands the dangerous situation he and his family are in and the difficulties the authorities will face in trying to get rid of the birds. Nat keeps a cool head under pressure, focussing solely on how to protect his family both physically and emotionally. When the birds break into the children's bedroom, he immediately pushes the children out before he begins his battle with the birds. When he sees the gulls swarming inland, his first thought is his daughter's safety, and so he runs to the bus stop to fetch her. At home, he continually tries to comfort and reassure his family that no harm will come to them as he sets up barricades around the house. Even at the end of the story, with little hope of rescue, cut off from neighbors and the outside worlds, Nat does not succumb to his fears. He continues to try everything he can to survive. His empathy emerges as he comforts his family and protects them from further distress. He does not tell them that the birds have broken into the bedroom and he cheers his children when they hear birds dropping dead outside the door. In an effort to distract them, he tries to make a game of the experience for Jill and Johnny, explaining that they will be camping out in the kitchen for the night. When he notes that no smoke is coming out of his neighbors' chimneys, he berates himself for not bringing all the children home with him so that he could protect them.
Jim Jim takes care of the cows on the Trigg's farm. He does not like Nat because of his reputation for reading books and acting "superior." Thus, he shows no desire to converse with him when Nat comes to warn his neighbors about the birds. Jim does not believe Nat's story since "it took time for anything to penetrate Jim's head." He is killed when the birds attack the Trigg's farm.
Mr. Trigg Mr. Trigg owns the farm on which Nat works. When Nat tries to convince him about the impending danger, he and his wife treat "the whole business as he would an elaborate joke." Trigg represents the average citizen who would not take this
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type of threat seriously, due to their complacency, their confidence in the authorities to protect them, and in their own resilience. He assures Nat that he will shoot the birds out of the sky and invites him to come over the next morning to enjoy "a gull breakfast." As a result, Trigg does not take any steps to protect himself or his wife, and the birds kill them both.
Mrs. Trigg Like her husband, Mrs. Trigg does not believe Nat's story.
Themes Survival At its heart,' 'The Birds'' is a story of survival. The plot and the thematic foci begin and end with Nat Hocken's struggle to survive the bird attacks. Du Maurier frames the story with these attacks, opening with a sole bird pecking at Nat's bedroom window and ending with a swarm bombarding the Hocken's home, seemingly desperate to get to the family huddling inside. Thus, Nat's main activity during the duration of the story is to protect himself and his family against this dangerous onslaught. The cool-headed Nat works carefully and methodically to insure his family's survival. After the first attack, he boards up the windows, noting that they are the birds' easiest point of entry. He then reinforces the doors and blocks the chimney. Even during the frightening attacks, Nat continually focuses on survival, determining what he must do when the assault subsides. During each break, he summons his courage and ventures out into the open with little protection in order to repair the breaks in the barricades he has constructed or to gather food and fuel in preparation for the next attack.
Parenting Nat's determination to protect his children supersedes his own instinct for self-preservation. At the beginning of the story, his daughter's scream causes him to rush into his children's room to find that a swarm of gulls have broken in. His only concern is for the safety of his offspring, and he immediately pushes them out of the room before he begins to fight off the birds. The next day when he
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Topics for Further Study • Alfred Hitchcock based his film version o f ' 'The Birds" in part on two separate incidents in California when large groups of gulls broke into homes and smashed into car windows, as noted by Camille Paglia in her critical assessment of the film. Research these incidents and any others you can find on documented bird attacks. How realistic are the attacks in the story as compared to the real-life incidents? How could the behavior of the birds be explained? • While Hitchcock maintained the tension of the story in his film version, he dramatically changed the plot. Do you think a successful film version could be made that would retain most of the story's plot elements? How would you go about filming a more accurate version of the story? • Americans on the home front never had to live through the bombing raids that the British endured during World War II. Research the psychological effect these raids had on the population. • In the story, the government can find no way to control or get rid of the birds. Investigate possible ways authorities could have stopped the attacks or at least protected the victims.
observes a mass of gulls moving inland, he rushes to his daughter's bus stop, determined to protect her. After he deposits her safely in his neighbor's car, he returns home on foot. Just as he approaches his door, he again is viciously attacked by another onslaught of birds. Nat also attends to his children's emotional needs. Throughout the story, he tries to calm their fears by diverting their attention from their winged assailants. He directs them to the daily rituals of family life and encourages his wife to prepare their favorite treats. When the birds begin to break into the upstairs bedrooms, he barricades his family downstairs, enticing them with the chance to have an exciting camp out in the kitchen.
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Gender Roles During the family's struggle to survive, Nat and his wife fall into stereotypical gender roles, which some scholars, most notably Margaret Forster in her acclaimed biography of du Maurier, attribute to the author's ambiguous sexuality. Nat is the one who takes charge of the protection of the family while his wife, who is never given a name by du Maurier, most often cowers in the background with her children. Mrs. Hocken does tend to the children by dressing Johnny's wound and preparing their meals, but she often seems as terror-stricken as they are. When Nat decides to leave the house to look for food and fuel after an attack has subsided, his wife is so filled with terror that she refuses to stay behind with the children. The portrait of her subservience and weakness is reinforced when Nat has to order her to stay back when he explores the Trigg's farmhouse. At first, she tries to follow, but Nat's firmness causes her to retreat back to her children.
Style Setting Du Maurier uses the setting to reinforce a sense of menace. Her descriptions of the weather and the elements suggest that these forces are working in tandem with the birds. Nat notes the abrupt change in the weather, which he considers ' 'unnatural'' and "queer" the night before the first attack. He exclaims that' 'never had he known such cold'' as the wind seems to "cut him to the bone" much like the birds plan to do. The sea and the wind appear to be empathetic to the birds, almost as though they are participants in the attacks. Nat notes ' 'there was some law the birds obeyed, and it was all to do with the east wind and the tide." The gulls "ride the seas" before they come into land, and their attacks are timed by the tides. After the birds dive-bomb the Hocken's house, the wind sweeps away their broken carcasses.
Tone The unrelenting threat of the birds creates a continual atmosphere of terror in the story. The tone is set quickly during the first night of attacks when the birds break into the children's room. The incident fills Nat with fear not only for his own survival, but, more importantly to him, the survival of his family. The level of terror rises as each avenue of assistance is cut off. Initially, the family is sure that
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they can receive help from their neighbors and from the government. Yet after the radio goes dead and they hear planes crashing in the distance, they gradually become aware that they are on their own, a realization that is reinforced when they find the dead bodies of their neighbors. The atmosphere of terror reaches its most intense point at the end of the story when the family huddles together in the kitchen, listening to the sounds of the birds splintering the wooden barricades, turning on the wireless to hear only silence, and recognizing that they are completely alone.
Historical Context The Cold War Soon after World War II, when Russian leader Joseph Stalin set up satellite communist states in Eastern Europe and Asia, the "cold war" began, ushering in a new age of warfare and fear, triggered by several circumstances: the emergence of the United States and the USSR as superpowers, each country's ability to use the atomic bomb, and the conflict between communist expansion and the determination to keep it in check. Each side amassed stockpiles of nuclear weapons that could not only annihilate each country, but the world. Both sides declared the other the enemy and redoubled their commitment to fight for their own ideology and political and economic dominance. As China fell to communism in 1949 and Russia crushed the Hungarian revolution in 1956, the United States appointed itself as a sort of world police, and the Cold War accelerated. In 1950, the United States resolved to help South Korea repel communist forces in North Korea. By 1953,33,629 American soldiers had been killed in the Korean war. The Cold War caused anxiety among Europeans and Americans fearing annihilation by Russians and the spread of communism. Citizens were encouraged to stereotype all Russians as barbarians and atheists who were plotting to overthrow their governments and brainwash their citizens. The fear that communism would spread to the United States led to suspicion and paranoia. Many suspected communists or communist sympathizers saw their lives ruined. This "Red Scare" intensified with the indictment of ex-government official Alger Hiss (1950) and Julius and Ethel Rosenberg (1951) for passing
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Compare ft Contrast • 1950s: Fear of a Russian attack with nuclear bombs prompts Americans and Europeans to build air raid shelters and conduct emergency drills.
ernment and academia; for his recklessness, he is censured by the U.S. Senate in 1954.
Today: With the overthrow of communism in the USSR, the Cold War has ended, yet the same level of fear exists in America, generated by the threat of terrorism.
• 1950s: America sends troops to South Korea to help the government wage a war against communist North Korea.
• 1950s: Wisconsin Senator Joseph McCarthy conducts hearings from 1950 to 1954 intended to detect communist penetration of American gov-
defense secrets to the Russians. Soon, the country would be engaged in a determined and often hysterical witch-hunt for communists, led by Senator Joe McCarthy and the House Un-American Activities Committee (HUAC). (In 1954, McCarthy was censured by the Senate for his unethical behavior during the Committee sessions.) By the time of McCarthy's death in 1957, almost six million Americans had been investigated by government agencies because of their suspected communist sympathies, yet only a few had been indicted. In response to the cold war threat, Americans and Europeans built bomb shelters and conducted air raid drills, which frightened school children and heightened the atmosphere of paranoia and mistrust.
Horror Story The horror story has been an important genre in British and American literature for the last two hundred years and provides a notable link to the gothic novel. Subjects popular with horror stories include murder, suicide, torture, and madness. The stories can involve ghosts, vampires, and demons and the practices of exorcism, witchcraft, and voodoo. The thrust of the horror story involves testing the central characters' courage and endurance as they experience physical as well as psychological danger. The terror that fills them can result from
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Today: Racial profiling is being considered as a tool to help combat the threat of terrorism.
Today: America is engaged in a war against terrorism. In 2002, that war centers on Afghanistan as U.S. troops, aided by the British, overthrow the Taliban.
emotional chaos and push them to the edge of sanity and barbarism. These stories reflect the attempt to understand deeply rooted and primitive urges and fears as they are linked to concepts of death, punishment, and evil. Elements of the horrific occur in classical literature as far back as Virgil's Aeneid and Lucan's Pharsalia through the Elizabethan and Jacobean tragedies, to the Gothic novel and short story in the nineteenth century. Early stories in this genre focused on the terrors of eternal damnation as outlined by various religious doctrines and on the secular "hell" of madhouses and prisons. Twentieth-century horror stories examined punishment as well as the dark recesses of the mind. Notable authors in this genre include E. T. A. Hoffman ("Die Elixiere des Teufels" and "Ignaz Denner"), Edgar Allan Poe ("The Tell-Tale Heart" and "The Black Cat"), Henry James ("The Turn of the Screw"), Ambrose Bierce( "The Man and the Snake" and "A Watcher by the Dead"), and contemporary writer Stephen King.
Critical Overview By the time her short story collection The Apple Tree: A Short Novel and Some Stories (1952),
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published in America as Kiss Me Again, Stranger (1953) and later as The Birds, and Other Stories (1963) appeared, du Maurier was a well established commercial success. As Nina Auerbach notes in her article on the author for British Writers, du Maurier did not receive much attention from scholars who deemed her work ' 'too readable to be literary." The publication of The Apple Tree: A Short Novel and Some Stories in 1952, which contained her masterful short story "The Birds," however, earned her praise from critics as well as the public. After the publication of Not After Midnight, and Other Stories (1971), republished as Don't Look Now (1971), along with the appearance of Margaret Forster's biography in 1993, du Maurier's literary reputation grew to the point that many scholars now echo Auerbach's assessment that she is "an author of extraordinary range and frequent brilliance." Sylvia Berkman, in her review of Kiss Me Again, Stranger for the New York Herald Tribune Book Review, singled out "The Birds" in the collection, praising how du Maurier builds up her harrowing account of the birds' attacks ' 'with intensifying accurate detail." Yet, Berkman insists that the story's references to the Cold War "dissipate the full impact of a stark and terrifying tale." In his article for The New York Times Book Review, John Barkham notes that du Maurier delights in baffling her readers with ' 'her mysteries." Barkham calls "The Birds" "a masterpiece of horror." Richard Kelly, in his overview of du Maurier for the Reference Guide to English Literature, claims that the story, along with Rebecca and Don't Look Now, "stand out among her works as landmarks in the development of the modern gothic tale."
Criticism Wendy Perkins Perkins teaches American literature and film and has published several essays on American and British authors. In the following essay, Perkins compares du Maurier's short story "The Birds" with Alfred Hitchcock's film version. In 1963, Universal Pictures released Alfred Hitchcock's The Birds to public and critical acclaim. Evan Hunter's screenplay loosely adapted Daphne du Maurier's short story, transplanting the location
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from the Cornish coast of England to the seaside town of Bodega Bay and changing a major thematic direction. In du Maurier's tale, the bird attacks and the characters' responses to them emerge as a political statement on the paranoid atmosphere that existed in Europe and America during the Cold War in the 1950s and 1960s. Hitchcock's version discarded this topical theme and opted instead for a portrait of the main character's psychosexual power struggle, heightened and redirected by the bird attacks. Both story and film, however, offer gripping portraits of humans struggling helplessly against the darker forces of nature. In her review of Kiss Me Again, Stranger for the New York Herald Tribune Book Review, Sylvia Berkman complains that du Maurier's story is "marred by unresolved duality of intent." She insists that the author's "turning of this material also into a political fable, with the overt references to control from Russia and aid from America . . . dissipates the full impact of a stark and terrifying tale." Berkman, however, fails to note that by placing the story into a Cold War context, du Maurier increases the story's sense of isolation and doom. The bird attacks as an analogy for nuclear destruction compound the characters' fears of complete and inevitable destruction. Du Maurier begins her political framework when, after the first bird attack, Nat visits the Triggs' farm to see if anyone there had had a similar experience. The Triggs and their hired hand Jim note that they have not been attacked and consider Nat's story to be either an exaggeration or a nightmare. Their inability to recognize impending danger from the skies reminds Nat of the air raids England suffered through during World War II, which he had also endured. Many ignored the air raid sirens, failing to take appropriate precautions and seek shelter, and so were subsequently killed by German bombs. Du Maurier plants another reference to the bombing campaign when Nat later notes, as his family huddles in the kitchen during another attack, that the experience is just like being in an air raid shelter. The threat becomes intensified by the narrator's suggestion that during their attacks, several of the birds become suicide bombers, calling to mind the Japanese kamikaze fighters during World War II. The memory of his past experiences during World War II coupled with the political realities of the present magnify Nat's terror as a new threat comes from the sky. Cold War fears of communist invasion emerge in the story when, after several
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What Do I Read Next? • Emily Bronte's Wuthering Heights (1847), a tale of love and death on the moors of Yorkshire, has been long considered one of the finest novels in the gothic tradition. • Charlotte Bronte, Emily's sister, earned accolades for Jane Eyre(\ 847). Her novel focuses on a governess who comes to live in an estate owned by the mysterious Mr. Rochester. • Du Maurier's collection, Not After Midnight,
people have been attacked, many insist that the Russians have poisoned the birds, prompting their bloodthirsty behavior. The BBC's declaration of a national emergency before all communication is cut off increases the sense of inevitable destruction. Richard Kelly, in his article on du Maurier for Twayne 's English Authors Series Online, concludes that the Hocken family "becomes a microcosm of an apparent worldwide disaster, and the conclusion of the story clearly suggests that the birds will destroy all the people on earth." Deciding that du Maurier's short story could not be expanded into a feature length film, Alfred Hitchcock added a new plot line, that of the romantic relationship between the film's two main characters, rich socialite Melanie Daniels (played by Tippi Hedren) and lawyer Mitch Brenner (played by Rod Taylor). The action begins when Melanie drives to Mitch's home in Bodega Bay and she becomes embroiled in a battle of wills and wits not only with Mitch, but also with his mother, with whom he lives, and his ex-girlfriend. These antagonistic relationships are dramatically altered by the bird attacks, which are quite similar in design and intensity to those in the short story. At the beginning of the film, Melanie appears as an independent, self-assertive woman who determines to establish a romantic union with Mitch. She initially becomes the sexual aggressor in the relationship, discovering where Mitch lives and subse-
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and Other Stories (1971), republished in America as Don't Look Now (1971) includes one of her most successful stories.' 'Don't Look Now'' traces a young couple's struggle to cope with the death of their daughter. • Du Maurier's Rebecca, published in 1938, chronicles the life of a young, frail woman who must face the ghosts of the past in an isolated mansion on the Cornish coast.
quently delivering a pair of lovebirds for his sister Cathy's birthday in an effort to make an impression on him. Mitch lives with his mother and Cathy, as Melanie discovers when she asks a resident for directions and is told the address of Lydia Brenner and "the two kids." This description reflects the suggestion of an oedipal relationship between Mitch and his mother, who appears grasping and manipulative, and who obviously feels threatened by Melanie. Lydia has previously been successful at destroying her son's romantic relationships, as his ex-girlfriend Annie notes. Ironically, Annie tries to discount the Freudian implications of their relationship when she remarks, "with all due respect to Oedipus," Lydia is not a "jealous woman" or a "clinging, possessive mother" but merely fears ' 'being abandoned.'' Yet, as Camille Paglia notes in her analysis of the film, Hitchcock admitted in his assessment of Lydia that she has been ' 'substituting her son for her husband." The suggestion of Mitch's attachment to his mother is reinforced by the fact that, as Paglia has observed, Lydia and Melanie look "remarkably alike." The ensuing power struggle between Lydia and Melanie for Mitch's attention is interrupted and redirected by a gathering of birds. Melanie is attacked by a lone gull as she pilots a boat to Mitch's dock, but, the next day, it escalates to a flock of birds attacking Cathy and her friends during a birthday party. This incident begins to change Melanie's role as sexual aggressor to a more tradi-
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While the story and the film follow different plot lines, the tone and the impetus for the narrative in the film stay remarkably true to the original: a nightmarish vision of a disordered universe where man's traditional hierarchical position in nature is reversed."
tional role of maternal protector, as she comforts Cathy, in effect usurping Lydia's position. This maternal relationship is reinforced later as she tries to calm Cathy after sparrows invade the house through the chimney and terrorize her and Lydia to the point that Lydia appears numbed and quite fragile. Relationships shift one more time at the end of the film when Melanie becomes trapped in the attic with a flock of frenzied birds that viciously attack her. After Mitch eventually pulls her out, she appears to be in a catatonic state, her aggressive will successfully broken. At this point, Lydia reassumes her maternal role and helps guide Melanie out of the house and into Mitch's car. Lydia appears victorious as she cradles the now submissive woman who has tried to interfere with the Brenner family's loyalties to its matriarch. Yet her cradling of the broken Melanie suggests that Lydia will now welcome her into the family in her more passive role. While the story and the film follow different plot lines, the tone and the impetus for the narrative in the film stay remarkably true to the original: a nightmarish vision of a disordered universe where man's traditional hierarchical position in nature is reversed. Nature conspires against the Hockens and the Brenners as it appears to aid the birds in their attacks. In both, the sea seems to work in conjunction with the birds. In the story, the gulls ride the waves, waiting for the tide to signal the next attack. In the film, the pet store saleswoman notes, a few
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hours before the gull assaults Melanie in the boat, that ' 'there must be a storm at sea. That can drive them inland." The predatory nature of the birds becomes evident in both works. Nat insists that the attacks have been logically planned: the gulls go after humans in the country, and the larger birds cover the cities. Prior to one attack, Nat notices gulls circling overhead ' 'as though they waited upon some signal. As though some decision had yet to be given. The order was not clear." Mitch recognizes the same type of "instinct to destroy mankind with all the deft precision of machines'' after the gull assaults Melanie. He exclaims,' 'it seemed to swoop down at you deliberately," just like the swarm of birds do the next day during Cathy's party. The characters respond to the crisis in similar ways. In each, a family is bombarded by a swarm of birds that invades a family's home and terrorizes the occupants. Hitchcock echoes the political backdrop of du Maurier's story when he explains that this incident in the film was based on the bombing of London during World War II, which his mother endured. In each, a main character is trapped alone in part of the house, struggling to survive the onslaught of the murderous birds. The pace in both quickens as the characters and readers/audience experience unrelenting terror while watching the birds amass, preparing for the next offensive. Nat carefully watches the waves where the birds sit, waiting for nature to signal their movements. Melanie waits outside the schoolhouse for Cathy while, one by one, a swarm of blackbirds gather ominously on the jungle-gym in the playground. The characters either reinforce or revert to traditional roles during the crisis. Throughout the attacks, Nat assumes the dominant role of protector as he pushes his children out of their bedroom after the birds have broken in, and he runs to the bus stop to pick up his daughter. Meanwhile, his wife alternates between cowering in the corner of her kitchen and comforting her terrified children. The presence of children also gives the characters in the film an opportunity to revert to conventional behavior. After the attacks begin, Melanie noticeably softens as her primary concern becomes Cathy's welfare. Yet it is Mitch who becomes the family's ultimate protector as he rescues Melanie from the attic and drives his family away from their invaded home. In her preface to The Breaking Point, du Maurier writes,' 'There comes a moment in the life of every
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individual when reality must be faced. When this happens, it is as though a link between emotion and reason is stretched to the limit of endurance, and sometimes snaps." All the adult women, Mrs. Hocken, Lydia, and Melanie, snap to some degree while the men stay focused on what is necessary for survival. Thus, both author and filmmaker suggest that, when faced with physical danger, men, out of necessity, assume the dominant role, a very traditional point of view made more complex by the nature and consequences of the threat. Hitchcock most likely included a romantic plot line to help insure the film's success, yet his divergence from du Maurier's story becomes a successful and thought-provoking extension of the author's themes. By grounding their works in an apocalyptic vision of the destruction of mankind, both present compelling studies of human behavior. Source: Wendy Perkins, Critical Essay on "The Birds," in Short Stories for Students, The Gale Group, 2002.
Beth Kattelman Kattelman holds a Ph.D. in theatre from Ohio State University. In this essay, Kattelman discusses the literary techniques du Manner uses to create the horrific effect of her short story.
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. . . du Maurier's story is a very compact, effective shocker that utilizes some traditional techniques of the horror genre to create a haunting, powerful impact upon the reader."
were the suicides, the divers, the ones with broken necks. Wherever he looked he saw dead birds." They hear through his ears: "At last the beating of the wings about him lessened and then withdrew, and through the density of the blanket he was aware of light. He waited, listened; there was no sound except the fretful crying of one of the children from the bedroom beyond." The reader is there in the room with Nat.
What would happen if nature purposefully turned against the human race? This simple premise is the basis for Daphne du Maurier's taut, tension-filled short-story "The Birds." In a few short pages, du Maurier takes the reader on a journey through a desperate fight for survival against a savage, unnatural world. How does du Maurier successfully achieve such a horrific effect in so few pages? She does so by masterfully employing some traditional techniques that are characteristic of the horror genre.
This "parallel journey" is a common technique of the horror genre. Horror writers often place readers in the middle of the same situation that engulfs the protagonist. In his book The Philosophy of Horror, Noel Carroll notes that' 'Horror appears to be one of those genres in which the emotive responses of the audience ideally, run parallel to the emotions of the characters. Indeed in works of horror the responses of the characters often seem to cue the emotional responses of the audiences." Thus, the short story writer provides clues as to how the reader should react through descriptions of the characters' reactions.
One technique du Maurier uses is that of focusing the tale solely upon the character of Nat Hocken. Although other characters appear in the tale, they are relatively inconsequential. "The Birds" is definitely Nat's story, and du Maurier takes the reader on a journey right along with him. The story never cuts away from what Nat is thinking, feeling, or doing, and thus, the reader gains a strong sense of identification with the main character. The description of Nat's actions and intentions allows readers to place themselves "in Nat's shoes," thus experiencing the fear and horror exactly as he does. They see through his eyes: "There were dead birds everywhere. Under the windows, against the walls. These
Du Maurier provides numerous examples of this technique in "The Birds." For instance, after the first major attack in the children's room, du Maurier notes how Nat is "shocked and horrified." She also lets the reader know that he is "sickened" at the site of the dead bird carcasses littering the floor. These descriptors play upon the reader's emotional state, drawing them into the situation and placing them right next to Nat in his struggle for survival. As the story progresses du Maurier provides even more information about Nat's experiences, describing not only his mental and emotional state, but his physical state, as well: "The terrible, fluttering wings. He could feel the blood on his
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hands, his wrists, his neck. Each stab of a swooping beak tore his flesh." The reader is meant to vicariously feel what Nat is experiencing and du Maurier's adept use of description helps achieve this end. In addition to taking the reader upon a parallel journey with the protagonist, du Marnier uses another common technique of the horror genre; she turns a common, familiar, "human-friendly" item into a cold-blooded killing-machine. By turning the "known" into the "unknown," the horrific effect is heightened. As Carroll states in his book,' 'Horror is generated in part by the apprehension of something that defies categorization in virtue of our standing or commonplace ways of conceptualizing the order of things." In other words, horror is created when ordinary, everyday objects look or behave in ways that are unfamiliar. They move outside the bounds of recognition, either in form or in behavior, and into an unknown realm. This cuts to the very heart of human apprehension. As the famous horror writer H. P. Lovecraft notes in "The Appeal of the Unknown," "The oldest and strongest emotion of mankind is fear, and the oldest and strongest kind of fear is fear of the unknown." Human beings make sense of their world through categorization. Knowledge is power, and familiarity with something or someone provides a sense of comfort. Horror writers shatter this comfort by forcing a reader to look at the familiar in a new and different light, thus disorienting them. The disorientation creates fear and apprehension, and ultimately causes the emotion we have come to know as horror. Writers can create this disorientation a variety of ways. They may conjure up a monster or a presence, which does not exist in the real world, or they may alter familiar creatures so that they look and/or behave differently than anything that can be found in common experience. The latter is what du Maurier does in "The Birds.'' She creates her horrific effect by fashioning a threat out of creatures that are well-known and considered benign by most human beings. Birds are usually thought to be beautiful, sweet creatures. They serenade mankind with sweet songs and are a symbol of peace and love. It is presumed that birds are not endowed with any malicious intent and that they will always behave as expected. These beliefs are very reassuring. When the known world goes awry, however, the impact can be shocking.
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By turning these everyday creatures into savage killing-machines, du Maurier creates a stronger effect than she might have achieved if she had chosen a fantastic or supernatural predator. Birds serve as a much more plausible threat, thus creating a very powerful story. After all, it is much easier to believe that the needle-beaked crow circling overhead might suddenly swoop down and viciously attack you than to expect Godzilla to show up in your back yard. Du Maurier even emphasizes the commonality of the birds in her story. During Nat's conversation with Mrs. Trigg, she suggests that the attacking birds have been blown in from the Arctic circle. He assures her that this is not the case, however: ' 'No, they were the birds you see about here every day." By investing innocent, omnipresent creatures with a malicious, evil intent, the horror is made more immediate for the reader. It's an effective technique and one that has been used repeatedly by many of the great horror-masters. For example, in Cujo, Stephen King turned a loving family pet into a vicious killer, and there are numerous stories in which the most angelic-looking child is turned into the embodiment of evil, as in William Peter Blatty's The Exorcist. In "The Birds," du Maurier repeatedly juxtaposes the ordinary rituals of hearth and home with the extraordinarily threatening occurrences that are taking place outside. This is a third technique that serves to heighten the tension of this tale. Throughout the story, Nat tries to maintain some semblance of order and normality as a way to allay his family's fears and to retain his own sanity. He believes that if he and his family can focus upon parts of their world that are still familiar, perhaps order will be restored and things will revert back to normal. Du Maurier gives the reader several descriptions of Nat's need to hold on to the well-known parts of his world:' 'he knelt down, raked out the old embers and relit the fire. The glowing sticks brought normality, the steaming kettle and the brown teapot comfort and security." The more Nat tries to cover up his rising fear and hysteria, however, the more he telegraphs it to the reader. The warm, familiar world of Nat's home stands in stark contrast to the cold, evil swarms of birds that are circling outside. Nat assures his family that as long as the radio is playing or the fire is burning, things will be all right. The reader knows, however, that Nat's reassurances to his wife and
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children are hollow and that things are probably not going to be ' 'all right'' as he keeps insisting. The radio will go silent and the fire will eventually go out. Du Maurier's story is a very compact, effective shocker that utilizes some traditional techniques of the horror genre to create a haunting, powerful impact upon the reader. She takes the reader on a parallel journey with the protagonist, turns the known into the unknown, and juxtaposes the comfort of traditional family life against the deadly force of nature gone awry. She also adds one extra ' 'shocker'' at the end of her tale. Adding to the horrific lingering effect of the story is the unresolved ending. Instead of providing a nice tidy conclusion for the story, she brings it to an abrupt halt and never provides a justification for why the events have occurred. The reader is left "hanging" and wondering, right along with Nat. Du Maurier does not let the reader off the hook by explaining away the birds' bizarre behavior or by suggesting a plausible solution by which the human race might save itself. Instead, she forces Nat and the reader to remain in a claustrophobic house where all they can do is sit, listen, and wait for the inevitable terror that's certain to return. Source: Beth Kattelman, Critical Essay on "The Birds," in Short Stories for Students, The Gale Group, 2002.
Deneka Candace MacDonald MacDonald is an instructor of English Literature and media. In this essay, MacDonald considers du Maurier's text as a reflection on nature versus culture, the human condition, and feminist principles. In the latter part of the twentieth century, with recurring environmental disasters of every imaginable kind, scholars, pseudo scholars, and the like began to take a marked interest in the growing binary relationship between humankind and animals, or more to the point, between culture and nature. Moreover, this theme of cultural distress has been reflected in contemporary fiction, which often personifies natural enemies of humankind on a variety of levels. Full of striking warfare metaphors, poignant spatial imagery, and provoking references to the "other," Daphne du Maurier's "The Birds" is a clever fictional addition to this growing concern with the phenomenon of nature versus culture. Du Maurier begins her tale with a marked indicator of the role nature will play in her story:
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.... the birds are representative of othered beings, not even the traditionally foreign others of the historical period (Russia), but local others, minorities and marginalized beings who have joined together to become one powerful force in the face of previous control and power."
"On December the third the wind changed overnight and it was winter." With this dramatic change in the weather, the birds begin to loom in the sky, illustrating their powerful presence and foreshadowing the dread that awaits Ned Hocken, his family, and ultimately, humankind. It is this relationship between human and nature that du Maurier is primarily concerned with as she immediately sets up a powerful dichotomy between the two: "the figure of the farmer silhouetted on the driving-seat, the whole machine and the man upon it would be lost momentarily in the great cloud of wheeling, crying birds." This initial image of the farmer astride his machine, battling a ' 'cloud'' of birds, is the first in a series of disturbing motifs that continue throughout the story; the message is clear: man/machine cannot successfully battle nature/the birds. Indeed, as "The Birds" continues, readers learn that nature works deliberately against man; it is nature's tides (the flood tide) that bring the vicious bird attacks, just as it is the ice cold wind that chips against Nat's hands, discouraging him as he works to defend his home. Images of war, carnage, and holocaust soon become linked with the open geography of the farm as well as the closed confined spaces of Nat's home. As he runs for shelter and protection from the raid in the gaping sky, Nat notes that the birds become bolder with each diving attempt at his body: They kept coming at him from the air, silent save for the beating wings. The terrible fluttering of the birds. He could feel the blood on his hands, his wrists, his
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neck. Each stab of a swooping beak tore his flesh. If only he could keep them from his eyes. Nothing else mattered.
In addition to the boldness of the birds, it becomes apparent that some of the birds are selfless, attacking for the greater cause "with no thought for themselves." Nat looks on in horror as the suicidal, dive-bombing birds miss him, crashing, "bruised and broken, on the ground": "The wings folded suddenly to its body. It dropped like a stone.... They heard the thud of the gannet as it fell." To his dismay, Nat discovers that man-made products such as windows are not sufficient protection against nature's anger. Frantically, he turns to natural products, first wood to board the windows and doors, and then the gruesome bloodied bodies of the dead birds themselves to insulate the broken boards and windows. He reasons that "the bodies would have to be clawed at, pecked, and dragged aside, before the living birds gained purchase on the sills and attacked the panes." This image of carnage immediately following the first major bird attack foreshadows further warlike imagery for the story. The birds have literally become an army, their corpses used as a repugnant defense. Further, both the black, cold weather and the viciousness of the birds themselves are attributed to Russian influence, just as Mrs. Trigg's indifference to the problem is ' 'like air-raids in the war,'' reflecting a cold war attitude. Nat's wife, too, reflects this mentality: "Won't America do something? They've always been our allies, haven't they? Surely America will do something?" Later, holocaust images are abundant when Nat neglects to keep the kitchen fire alight. He becomes frenzied as he attempts to pull the "smouldering helpless bodies of the birds caught by fire" from the chimney, unable to think of anything else, unable to heed the cries from his family in the background. When it is over, the kitchen fills with the smell of burning feathers from the ' 'heaped singed bodies of the birds." However, the battle with nature and culture stretches beyond Nat's small farm home in England but to the rest of the country (and the world by implication). Thus, the wireless radio ends its final transmission with the national anthem after its warning of the unnatural behavior of the birds. The telephones go "dead" during the night while the birds attack, and Nat discovers Mr. Trigg's body
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beside the telephone, indicating that he made a failed attempt to telephone for help before the birds gorged on his body. Clearly, mechanical developments in technology are no match for nature's birds. In addition, man's attempt to launch an ' 'air raid'' on the beasts fails when the birds attack the aircraft, infecting their propellers and sending them crashing into the farmland. Even the wind seems to come alive as it reclaims the dead birds, "sweeping them away" back into the sea during Nat's attempt to bury their bloodied bodies. Nat and his family are forced to hide, afraid and hunted as the birds launch a systematic attack, in the small confined space of their manmade cottage. The wide open spaces of the farm and the sea are occupied by the birds and are, therefore, unsafe for humanity. The story ends with a poignant analogy between nature and culture: "Nat listened to the tearing sound of splintering wood. . . . the stabbing beaks, the piercing eyes, now giving them this instinct to destroy mankind with all the deft precision of machines." Consequently, as Gina Wisker notes in her article "Don't Look Now," "the unease she [du Maurier] leaves us with develop[s] into fully fledged refusals of closure, and celebratory transgressions." Indeed, the people in ' 'The Birds'' will not be rescued. There will be no happy ending. They will die. Despite the fact that critics, including the biographer Nina Auerbach in Daphne du Maurier: Haunted Heiress, have plainly confirmed du Maurier's non-feminist status, her work clearly reflects some of the same issues which feminism explores. Further, as du Maurier challenged mainstream assumptions in her own life, experimenting in lesbian relationships and challenging the traditional roles of gender, it is perhaps not surprising that' 'The Birds'' openly and cleverly addresses the motif of otherness. As Anne Williams notes in The Horror, The Horror: Recent Studies in Gothic Fiction, ' 'Ever since its origins in the late eighteenth century, the Gothic has provided Anglo-American culture with a space of monstrous 'otherness.'" Throughout "The Birds," there is the suggestion that the birds that attack Nat Hocken and others are strange relentless beings who must be from outside the natural order of things. Nat initially tells his children not to worry, that the birds "aren't the birds, maybe, from here around. They've been
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driven down from up country." This notion is reiterated by Mrs. Triggs later when she says, "I suppose the weather brought them.... Foreign birds maybe, from the Arctic circle." Not only does this reinforce the already blatant cold war imagery in the story, but it also points to comfortable accusatory "othering" within the text. The vicious attack of the birds has come from elsewhere; local birds would never turn on the local people. Ironically, the reader discovers that these are local birds. Further, they are several species of local birds: "robins, finches, sparrows, blue tits, larks, and bramblings, birds that by nature's law kept to their own flock and their own territory, and now joining one with another in their urge for battle." Most importantly here, as Nat notes, these are birds, who, "by nature's law" would not normally band together. Metaphorically, on one level, the birds represent Mother Nature as she works to bring the birds of many species together in an angry army to attack and punish humanity. On another level, the birds are representative of othered beings, not even the traditionally foreign others of the historical period (Russia), but local others, minorities and marginalized beings who have joined together to become one powerful force in the face of previous control and power. They attack the farmer and the farm hands, the patriarchal inhabitants of nature's land who have reaped her resources. As Wisker notes: It exposes hidden fears and lurking perversities derived from disgust at difference... at the Other, at the abject, the 'not I,' rejected otherness. . .. The abject also involves anything monstrous and animal like which can take over and destroy.
Thus, the birds will not be stopped; they will not remit. They are relentless, acting with the nature's floods, timing their attacks to coincide with the ebb and flow of the tides.
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ally represent peace, freedom, and spirituality—but with something distinctly sinister about them: "but even when they fed it was as though they did so without hunger, without desire. Restlessness drove them to the skies again." Particularly, this story reflects the teetering between reason and sanity in the character Nat Hocken. Indeed, as Carol LeMasters notes in Roles of a Lifetime, "[du Maurier's] view of humanity proved darker than anything her literary forbears could have envisioned." Thus, although Nat is ' 'aware of misgiving without cause,'' he attempts to remain entirely reasonable for much of the story, assuring his family and himself that there are logical reasons for the strange unnatural behavior of the birds. He states that "it must have been fright that made them act the way they did," or that "the east wind brought them in. They were frightened and lost, they wanted shelter." Nat's reasonable explanations are confirmed by the wireless that recounts the "suspected reason of cold and hunger" as the bird's motivation for attack. Nat's fear of the bird phenomenon can be seen clearly in his overcompensation to detail in the task of preparing the home. He is decidedly ' 'over practical" throughout the ordeal. He immediately heeds the wireless instructions to protect his home, busily setting about the property boarding up windows, filling the chimney bases, and awaiting further news from the radio. He keeps himself occupied, thinking of food supplies, how many candles they will need, whether or not they have enough batteries and coal for the fire, etc., and where and when they can gather more.
' The Birds'' is one of many stories in which du Maurier explores the workings of the mind. As a woman interested in the inner struggle with internal evil and the disturbing images of the unconscious mind, du Maurier often explores the notion of horror from these perspectives. Thus, a crucial theme in ' 'The Birds'' is the relationship between reason and insanity. The story is expertly constructed to play upon both the characters' and the readers' ability to reason in the midst of unreasonable behavior.
However, as he battles nature's ice cold wind and goes about his tasks, his own musings about the attacks are full of self-doubt. He is certain that Mr. Trigg's "shooting match" with the birds will fail, and curses the man for not having the insight to defend his home. Eventually, Nat begins to ascribe human attributes of consciousness, greed, viciousness, and awareness to the army of birds attacking his home: '"they've got reasoning powers,' he thought, 'they know it's hard to break in here. They'll try elsewhere.'" Moreover, while Nat is initially confident that the authorities will solve this crisis with nature, he begins to doubt their competence: "someone high up had lost his head."
Du Maurier presents the reader with ordinary birds—seemingly harmless animals who tradition-
Finally, as the birds ravenously hunt him and his family, he becomes less rational. Nat eventually
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resists reason and embraces the terror of the birds. As he lights his last cigarette and watches the empty packet burn, he is resolved to his fate. Wisker notes that du Maurier herself says it best when she acknowledges, in a private letter: "The evil in us comes to the surface. Unless we recognize it in time, accept it, understand it, we are all destroyed, just as the people in "The Birds" were destroyed." Source: Deneka Candace MacDonald, Critical Essay on "The Birds," in Short Stories for Students, The Gale Group, 2002.
Curt Guyette Guyette has a bachelor's degree in English from the University of Pittsburgh. In the following essay, Guyette examines the influence of the Cold War and nuclear proliferation on du Maurier's story. In her short story "The Birds," author Daphne du Maurier creates a chilling piece of fiction that haunts the imagination by vividly conjuring up innate primal fears. Her stark depiction of a family huddled inside their house as hordes of vicious birds relentlessly attack is truly the stuff of which nightmares are made. When explored at a deeper level, however, this piece can be interpreted as something much more than just a macabre scenario involving birds gone berserk. Looked at closely, du Maurier's story can be seen as a cautionary tale about man's tendency to wage war and the profound dread plaguing a civilization perched on the brink of annihilation because of that trait. Published as part of a collection of stories in 1952, "The Birds" was written when the psychological wounds of World War II were still fresh, and the Cold War between western democracies and the Soviet Union was already well under way. As a native of Britain, du Maurier was keenly aware of the terror wrought by the German bombing raids that besieged England. Married to a British army officer who commanded an airborne division, she lived with the constant knowledge that one day there could be a knock on the door informing her that she had become a widow and that her small children were fatherless. But the end of the war did not bring a sense of peace or stability, neither for du Maurier nor the rest of the world. The images of mushroom clouds erupting from atom bombs dropped on Japan continued to cast their troubling shadows across the planet as the arms race with the Soviets escalated and the specter of nuclear conflict hovered. Such a conflict threatened not only humanity, but all life on
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earth. As a result, for the first time in history, man's unique tendency toward war had culminated in weapons of mass destruction that posed a direct threat to the entire natural world. Just as the world suddenly changed forever at that instant the first atomic bomb exploded over Hiroshima to usher in the nuclear age, the change portending doom is equally swift and unexpected as the story of "The Birds" begins. The world changes literally overnight as the mild, mellow days of autumn are transformed, immediately becoming cold and harsh as a foreboding wind begins to blow in from the east. The land freezes hard as stone in a matter of hours. "Black winter had descended in a single night," writes du Maurier. The story's central character, Nat Hocken, is a war veteran suffering from a disability. Because he works part-time at a farm, Nat is very much in touch with the rhythms of nature. Living near the ocean, he takes pleasure in watching the seasonal rituals that dictate the migration patterns of the many different kinds of birds that inhabit the area along the British sea coast that's home to Nat and his family. It is while Nat is working in the fields that he first senses something odd about the birds gathering around him. There are many more of them than normal, and they seem unusually agitated. Nat thinks of them as a "warning" that winter is approaching. When the weather turns with a shift in the wind that night, the coinciding attack of birds is immediate. First it is just one small bird fluttering against the bedroom window of Nat and his wife, but even it draws blood. Before the night is through, Nat is battling fiercely to protect his young children from the swarm of birds that have flooded into their room. As the sun rises and the birds flee, Nat surveys the carnage and sees several dozen dead birds of many different varieties. It is more proof that something unnatural is occurring because, under normal circumstances, these birds would have "kept to their own flock and their own territory ... It is as though a madness seized them, with the east wind," Nat tells his wife. References to the "east wind" are frequent throughout the story. Ensuring that the significance of that is not lost on readers, du Maurier is even more explicit when referring to the source of this sudden cold. Mrs. Trigg, the wife of the farmer Nat works for, asks him specifically if he thinks the razor sharp wind is blowing in from Russia. Later in
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the story, after the birds have made their first attack, the farmer tells Nat, "They're saying in town the Russians have done it. The Russians have poisoned the birds." It is a stark example of the kind of cold war paranoia that was proliferating during the 1950s. But that threat is not enough to instill caution in the farmer. Ignoring advice to board up his windows to fend off attack, he thinks a gun will allow him to handle any threat the birds might pose. Nat sees the farmer's dismissive attitude toward precautionary measures as similar to that of people who failed to acknowledge the onset of the second world war. There are numerous references to World War II throughout the story. As it turns out though, the postwar attack of birds seem to be an even more formidable enemy than the Axis powers were. The British planes that successfully fought off the Germans prove useless against the small winged creatures willing to thrust themselves into engines, causing the aircraft to crash and explode. Likewise, the massive warships that helped the British and their allies beat back the forces of fascism are powerless against this new terror. From Nat's vantage point, the only weapon that might be of use is poison gas, which may kill the birds but would (like nuclear fallout) leave behind a world so "contaminated" that it would be uninhabitable. This sense of futility reflects du Maurier's personal philosophy regarding war. According to Margaret Forster's biography Daphne Du Maurier: The Secret Life of the Renowned Storyteller, the author saw all armed conflict as a fruitless endeavor. As she wrote to a friend regarding the war: "What carnage there is going to be ... and what will have been achieved? Nothing." Forster also described a time during the middle of World War II when du Maurier looked at her young son and pessimistically thought about the terrible fighting and how his generation will all be "doing the same in twenty years' time, and it made her shudder." That same sort of dire outlook permeates ' 'The Birds." In Twentieth Century Romance and Historical Writers, Richard Kelly writes about the struggle Nat Hocken and his family endure when they see "nature turn upon them . . . The end result," observes Kelly about the attack, "is that human beings are forced to act like animals themselves, with survival as their solitary goal." Whether the Hocken family will prevail is something that's left to doubt. As "The Birds" draws to a close, the family is huddled inside their kitchen as if it were an air raid shelter, with food and
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. . . for the first time in history, man's unique tendency toward war had culminated in weapons of mass destruction that posed a direct threat to the entire natural world,"
fire wood in short supply. The radio is silent, and they are shut off from the outside world as hordes of birds stab at the windows and claw at the roof with their talons. Indeed, the family's survival is very much in question. What brought them to that point is what du Maurier described as a new-born instinct "to destroy mankind with all the deft precision of machines." As the Hocken family is forced to live like animals, the birds in this story display a type of intellect usually associated with humans. From the outset, Nat notices that the birds gather to attack in organized "formations," like so many war planes. It is as if they were on specific missions, acting under orders from some unseen high command, with some flocks being assigned cities to attack while others are given rural areas to assault with their kamikaze-like bombardments. "They've got reasoning powers,'' thinks Nat. And that may be the ultimate horror story: a world in which nature, threatened with annihilation by the awesome destructive powers of modern technology, retaliates by assuming a characteristic that otherwise makes man unique—the ability to ruthlessly and systematically wage all-out war. Source: Curt Guyette, Critical Essay on "The Birds," in Short Stones for Students, The Gale Group, 2002.
Richard Kelly In the following essay excerpt, Kelly explores du Maurier's treatment of the "breaking point" between emotion and reason and the effect this has on the characters in ' 'The Birds.'' Although some of du Maurier's novels, such as The House on the Strand and The Flight of the Falcon, acknowledge the workings of the unconscious mind, most of her short stories focus upon this sixth sense
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and explore the region of the mind that borders upon reason and madness, the natural and the supernatural. In her preface to The Breaking Point, du Maurier writes,' There comes a moment in the life of every individual when reality must be faced. When this happens, it is as though a link between emotion and reason is stretched to the limit of endurance, and sometimes snaps." Two of her tales that study this breaking point, "The Birds," and "Don't Look Now," have been indelibly etched upon millions of minds through the enormously popular films by Alfred Hitchcock and Nicholas Roeg. ' The Birds'' is an excellent short story that has been turned into a very bad motion picture. "On December the third the wind changed overnight and it was winter," the story opens. This sudden shift in the weather sets the tone for the catastrophic change in the natural order of things to follow. The tale focuses upon an English farmer, Nat Hocken, his wife and children. As the cold begins to bite into both the land and Nat's body, he notices that there are more birds than usual, both over the sea and land. That night he hears pecking at the windows of his home. The birds are trying to get in, and when he goes to investigate the noise one of them pecks at his eyes. Some fifty birds then fly through the open window in his children's room, and he manages to kill most of them amidst the hysterical cries of the children. The next day the family discusses the bizarre occurrence. Nat explains that the east wind must have affected the behavior of the birds and caused them to seek shelter in his house. When his daughter, Jill, says that they tried to peck at her brother's eyes, Nat again offers a rational explanation. "Fright made them do that. They didn't know where they were, in the dark bedroom." Later that day, Nat sees what he thinks are white caps out at sea, but they turn out to be hundreds of thousands of gulls: "They rose and fell in the trough of the seas, heads to the wind, like a mighty fleet at anchor, waiting on the tide." When he returns home his wife informs him that there was an announcement on the radio stating that "its everywhere. In London, all over the country. Something has happened to the birds." A later bulletin says that "That flocks of birds have caused dislocation in all areas." "Dislocation" is a key word in this story, for it identifies the fundamental disruption in the natural order of things. Man, who is ordained to have dominion over the birds and the beasts, suddenly
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has his authority threatened. There is not only a dislocation in the great chain of being but within people's minds. Reason and serenity are displaced by fear and panic in this unexpected reversion to a Darwinian world of the survival of the fittest. Realizing that neither the government nor the military could do anything to help at this point, Nat assumes the thinking of a survivalist: "Each householder must look after his own." Life within his small farmhouse takes on the character of Londoners during the airraids: the family huddles together, food is carefully accounted for, windows and other openings are sealed up, as they prepare for the invasion. The next day the birds continue to gather ominously in the sky and in the fields. On his way home Nat is viciously attacked by a gull, and during his panic a dozen other gulls join in. ' 'If he could only keep them from his eyes. They had not learnt yet how to cling to a shoulder, how to rip clothing, how to dive in mass upon the head, upon the body. But with each dive, with each attack, they became bolder." Safe at home again, Nat has his wounds treated by his wife, and his children become terrified at the sight of the blood. The battle is now in earnest. The parents do their best to keep the children distracted, but their gut fear shows in their faces and in their actions. That night thousands of birds assault the house, breaking the windows, screaming down the chimney. Using all of his energy and resourcefulness, Nat manages to get his family through the harrowing hours. Daylight brings a degree of safety, for the birds seem to settle quietly in the fields. Nat goes to the home of his neighbor, the Triggs, to see if he can get some food for his family and discovers the mutilated bodies of the couple. Mr. Trigg is lying next to his telephone, and his wife, an umbrella and a few dead birds at her side, is lying on her bedroom floor. Nat gathers up some food and returns home. This time he barricades his house with barbed wire around the boarded windows and chimney. He works feverishly as his wife and children sleep and then joins them in the hope that his small world is secure. The story ends with Nat lighting up his last cigarette and listening to the attack of the birds: The smaller birds were at the window now. He recognized the light tap-tapping of their beaks, and the soft brush of their wings. The hawks ignored the windows. They concentrated their attack upon the door. Nat listened to the tearing sound of splintering wood, and wondered how many millions of years
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The were stored in those little brains, behind the stabbing beaks, the piercing eyes, now giving them this instinct to destroy mankind with all the deft precision of machines.
By limiting the focus of her story upon Nat Hocken and his family du Maurier manages to convey the effect of a believable claustrophobic nightmare. The birds may be attacking people throughout the world, but du Maurier wisely keeps the story within the confines of one person's family (though, of course, Nat hears reports of the birds turning predatory in London). The Hocken family becomes a microcosm of an apparent world-wide disaster, and the conclusion of the story clearly suggests that the birds will destroy all the people on earth. During recent years there have been stories and films featuring everything from rabbits to ants as man's final enemy. Du Maurier's story, however, was something of a shocker at the time, and her choice of birds as the destroyers was particularly effective. Birds have long been associated with peacefulness, beauty, freedom, spirituality, music, and poetry. Unlike ants, frogs, rats, bees and the other assortments of creatures that go on the rampage in contemporary science fiction tales, birds are attractive and elusive creatures. By making them relentless, almost calculating predators, du Maurier revolutionizes the traditional symbolism of birds, and her story conjures up the nightmarish imagery of the paintings by Hieronymus Bosch, in which grotesque birds with stabbing beaks threaten the rational order of things. Du Maurier plays upon the archetypal fear of having one's eyes pierced by having Nat several times throughout the story exclaim in the midst of an attack that he must protect his eyes. One other nice touch in the story is that du Maurier does not offer some pseudo-scientific explanation for the birds' behavior. Given an ordered and reasonable world, her characters attempt to explain the phenomena in terms they can understand—a shift in the weather or migration patterns. They gradually discover, however, that their life-long assumptions about reason and order do not apply, that their world has suddenly become absurd, a bad dream in which rules of logic and common sense no longer work. The end result is that human beings are forced to act like animals themselves, with survival as their solitary goal. Alfred Hitchcock became interested in du Maurier's story after he read the headlines of a Santa Cruz newspaper: "A Sea Bird Invasion Hits
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Birds
'Dislocation' is a key word in this story, for it identifies the fundamental disruption in the natural order of things. Man, who is ordained to have dominion over the birds and the beasts, suddenly has his authority threatened."
Coastal Homes." Realizing that there was no plot or character development in the short story, Hitchcock knew he would have to get someone, preferably a novelist, who could expand the story and make it suitable for a film. He turned to the novelist Evan Hunter. Hunter's final story line is as follows: A rich San Francisco socialite named Melanie Daniels (played by Tippi Hedren) meets a brash young lawyer named Mitch Brenner (played by Rod Taylor) in a pet shop. Despite Mitch's arrogant manner, Melanie is attracted to him, and she travels by boat to his home in Bodega Bay to deliver a pair of love birds his young sister wanted. Returning to town, Melanie is attacked by a swooping gull that wounds her head. Later she accepts an invitation to Mitch's home for dinner, despite his mother's disapproval of her. The birds in the area, meantime, show signs of erratic behavior. Melanie goes to help out at the sister's birthday party the next day, and during the party a flock of gulls attacks the children. The school teacher, Annie Hay worth (played by Suzanne Pleshette), was formerly in love with Mitch and provides the love triangle. The violence increases as a flock of sparrows pours into the house through the chimney. A neighboring farmer and his wife are pecked to death; another attack leads to an explosion of a gasoline tank; and Annie is killed while trying to protect her students. Finally, Melanie, Mitch, his mother and sister, barricade the house against a brutal onslaught of birds. During a lull the next day, Mitch gets his car, and he drives the terrified group away slowly down a road surrounded by birds.
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Hitchcock did not want any stars in his film. He told Hunter, "I'm the star, the birds are the stars— and you're the star." Apart from the famous stage actress Jessica Tandy, who played the mother, there were no well-known actors in the film. Hitchcock chose Suzanne Pleshette, a newcomer, over Anne Bancroft for the role of the school-teacher. He gave Tippi Hedren and Rod Taylor their first leading roles. A great expense of time and money went into the birds themselves: mechanical birds, animated birds, and real birds. Two men, wearing protective gloves, threw live birds at Tippi Hedren during the climatic scene. Hours were spent in shooting this scene in a caged room as Hedren attempted to act under the constant bombardment of feathers and beaks. Once a frightened bird left a deep gash on her lower eye lid, and the terror in the cage became more than mere acting. If a lesser figure than Hitchcock had produced this film it is doubtful that it would have received such enormous notoriety. It is without a doubt the worse film version of a du Marnier story. Evan Hunter's script is largely devoted to the dull and unbelievable love story between Mitch and Melanie. The audience must sit through over an hour of poor acting and vapid dialogue before the birds get their chance to star. The nightmare effect of du Maurier's story is diminished beyond recall, with the exception of one excellent scene in which Melanie sits outside the school house waiting for Mitch's sister. As she sits there smoking a cigarette, a jungle-gym set in the background ominously fills up with large blackbirds. Brenda Gill, in the New Yorker, observes that the film "doesn't arouse suspense, which is, of course, what justifies and transforms the sadism that lies at the heart of every thriller. Here the sadism is all too nakedly, repellently present.... If this picture is a hit, the Audubon Society has an ugly public-relations problem on its hands." Most of the major newspapers and magazines attacked this film with the vehemence of the predatory birds themselves. Before long, the critics were busily attacking each other. Gary Arnold in Moviegoer ridicules the opinions of Peter Bogdanovich and Andrew Sarris, who contend that The Birds is Hitchcock's greatest artistic achievement. Arnold observes that Evan Hunter's script lies at the heart of the film's failure: "Since the people in the film are so shallow, so lacking in the qualities and complexities of human beings, the birds themselves lose a good deal of force both as terrorizers and possible symbols.
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Assaulting vacant, passive, cardboard figures proves very little, I think, about what men are like or what they may have in store for themselves." ... The autobiographical fable embedded within this tale, then, argues that du Maurier's wide experience, her best-selling novels, and her concessions to Hollywood are all meritorious. The elitist writers may have the adulation of the snobbish literary establishment but real life moves on a lower, more powerful plane, and the elitist will one day come to realize that. In most of her short fiction du Maurier is primarily interested in conclusions and in the events that lead to those conclusions. Character, atmosphere, language, social commentary—all are of secondary interest to her as she plunges her undefined characters into a sequence of events that inextricably lead them to a predestined, usually surprising, fate. Her stories present life in neat, tidy little packages. Her characters are manipulated by their contrived future, their every gesture and word leading to a preconceived conclusion. Du Maurier's best stories avoid this easy pattern in favor of a more complex, ambiguous view of life. "The Birds," ' 'Don't Look Now," ' 'The Way of the Cross,'' and "Ganymede" are four of her most convincing and entertaining stories. Like Rebecca and The Parasites, two of her best novels, they convey a cogent sense of the terror and comedy of ordinary human life. Source: Richard Kelly, "The World of the Macabre: The Short Stories," in Daphne du Maurier, Twayne Publishers, 1987, pp. 123-40.
Sources Auerbach, Nina, "Daphne du Maurier," in British Writers, Scribner's, 1996, pp. 133-49. , Daphne du Maurier: Haunted Heiress, University of Pennsylvania Press, 2000. Barkham, John, "The Macabre and the Unexpected," in the New York Times Book Review, March 8, 1953, p. 5. Berkman, Sylvia, "A Skilled Hand Weaves a Net of Horror," in the New York Herald Tribune Book Review, March 15, 1953, p. 4. Carroll, Noel, The Philosophy of Horror, Routledge, 1990, pp. 17, 126-27. Forster, Margaret, Daphne du Maurier: The Secret Life of the Renowned Storyteller, Doubleday, 1993, p. 184.
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Kelly, Richard, "Daphne du Maurier: Chapter 6: The World of the Macabre: The Short Stories," in Twayne's English Authors Series Online, G. K. Hall, 1999. , "du Maurier, Daphne," in Reference Guide to English Literature, Vol. 1, Introductions, Writers A-G, 2d ed., edited by D. L. Kirkpatrick, St. James Press, 1991, pp. 515-16. , "du Maurier, Daphne," in Twentieth-Century Romance and Historical Writers, 3d ed., edited by Aruna Vasudevan, St. James Press, 1994, pp. 201-02. LeMasters, Carol, "Roles of a Lifetime," in The Gay and Lesbian Review, Vol. 7, University of Pennsylvania Press, 2000, p. 48. Lovecraft, H. P.,' 'The Appeal of the Unknown,'' in Horror, Greenhaven Press, 2001, p. 29. Paglia, Camille, The Birds: BFI Film Classics, British Film Institute, 1998. Templeton, Wayne, "Daphne du Maurier," in Dictionary of Literary Biography, Vol. 191: British Novelists Between the Wars, Gale, 1998, pp. 85-94. Williams, Anne,' 'Daphne du Maurier: Writing, Identity, and the Gothic Imagination," in The Horror, The Horror: Recent Studies In Gothic Fiction, Vol. 46, No. 3, John Hopkins University Press, 2000, p. 790.
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Wisker, Gina, "Don't Look Now," in Journal of Gender Studies, Vol. 8, University of Hull, 1999, pp. 19, 21-22.
Further Readiner Forster, Margaret, Daphne du Maurier: The Secret Life of the Renowned Storyteller, Doubleday, 1993. Forster's biography renewed critical interest in du Maurier and offered insight into how her relationships with the women and men in her life were reflected in her works. Harris, June, "du Maurier, Daphne," in Contemporary Popular Writers, edited by Dave Mote, St. James Press, 1997, pp. 127-29. This overview offers a brief but comprehensive look at du Maurier's major themes and style. Horner, Avril, and Sue Zlosnik, Daphne du Maurier: Writing, Identity and the Gothic Imagination, St. Martin's Press, 1998. This thoughtful critique places du Maurier's fiction in the gothic tradition.
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Black Is My Favorite Color Bernard Malamud 1963
Bernard Malamud's ''Black Is My Favorite Color'' was first published in the Reporter on July 18,1963. It has since been reprinted in several short story collections, the first being Idiots First, also in 1963. Eight years before' 'Black is My Favorite Color'' was published, African-American Rosa Parks refused to give up her bus seat to a white man, igniting the Civil Rights movement that reached its height at the same time Malamud was writing his story. The outcry for racial equality that characterized the 1950s and 1960s influenced much literature, including Malamud's. In particular, "Black Is My Favorite Color'' picked up on the tense relations between the Jewish-American and African-American communities. The story concerns Nat Lime, a fortyish, white, Jewish bachelor in Harlem who repeatedly tries to integrate himself into the African-American community by dating black women, hiring black personnel in his liquor store, and trying to do good deeds for blacks wherever possible. All of his efforts end up backfiring, as his status as a white, Jewish man continually alienates him from all African Americans. Critics have interpreted the cynical tone of Malamud's story to mean that the author thought the attempts at racial integration at the heart of the Civil Rights movement were hopeless. The story featured a harsh realism, which was a dramatic departure from the mythical style that Malamud had become famous for with novels like 1952's The Natural, his
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first and still his best-known book. Malamud is often praised for his short stories, and several critics consider' 'Black Is My Favorite Color'' to be one of his best. A current version of the story can be found in The Complete Stories, published after the author's death by The Noonday Press in 1997. Malamud is also known for his first short story collection, The Magic Barrel (1958), which won the National Book Award for fiction.
Author Biography Bernard Malamud was born in Brooklyn, New York, on April 28, 1914, to Russian Jewish immigrant parents who owned and operated a grocery store. Although his parents had little education and knew very little about the arts, Malamud found his way into the prestigious Erasmus Hall High School in Brooklyn. He published his early short stories in the school's literary magazine, The Erasmian. After earning a bachelor's degree from the City College of New York in 1936 and his master's degree from Columbia University in 1942, Malamud taught night classes at Erasmus Hall. During this time period, inspired by World War II and the nightmares of the Holocaust, Malamud examined his own Jewish heritage. The beliefs and views he garnered from his studies and his self-reflection influenced his writing throughout his lifetime.
Bernard Malamud
For the next decade, Malamud taught high school while publishing his short stories in magazines. In 1949, the author accepted an English position at Oregon State, where he taught for the next twelve years. During this time, he published some of his best-known works, including his first two novels, The Natural and The Assistant, drawing heavily upon his parents' background as grocery store owners.
Plot Summary
In the early 1960s, the tensions between blacks and whites in New York inspired Malamud to write his short story, "Black Is My Favorite Color." The story, in which the protagonist strives for racial equality, was published in 1963, in the same year that the Reverend Martin Luther King Jr. gave his famous ' 'I Have a Dream" speech during his peaceful march on Washington. Malamud is not only considered one of the top Jewish-American writers, but one of America's greatest writers, period. His award-winning works are noted for their exploration of the Jewish-American experience, often in ways that mix realistic and
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fantastic elements. He received the National Book Award in fiction in 1959 for his short story collection The Magic Barrel and in 1967 for his novel The Fixer. The latter also earned the Pulitzer Prize in fiction that same year. Malamud died of natural causes on March 18, 1986.
Charity Quietness ' 'Black Is My Favorite Color'' starts out with a description by Nat Lime, the narrator, of his cleaning lady, Charity Quietness, who eats her lunch by herself in the bathroom in Nat's Harlem apartment. Although Nat, a forty-four year old Jewish bachelor, has invited Charity to eat lunch with him in the past, she insists on eating in the bathroom. Nat says that this is his fate with colored people, a term he uses through the story. Nat explains that, despite this fate, black is his favorite color and that he is drawn to colored people. He talks about the liquor store that he runs in Harlem and claims that, although he has tried several times to show his affection for black people, he has not had any reciprocity.
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Nat's Childhood Nat uses the current situation with Charity Quietness as a springboard to discuss his earliest memories of colored people. The first colored person that Nat met was Buster Wilson, when Nat and his family moved near a black neighborhood in Brooklyn. His family had lived in Manhattan, but Nat's father, a cutter by trade, developed arthritis in his hands and could no longer work. As a result, Nat's mother started selling paper bags from a pushcart, which was just enough to support them in Brooklyn. Nat recalls seeing Buster, a young colored boy around his age, playing marbles by himself. Nat wants to become his friend, but Buster does not give him the opportunity. Nat talks about Buster's father, whose alcoholism affects his work as a barber. Even though Nat and his family are poor, he notes that Buster and the other colored people in his block are much worse off. Nat likes the parties that the colored people have, and he watches the black girls through the windows when he walks by their tenements. However, he notes that the parties bring drinking and rights, and he recalls some of the brutal fights he has seen, including one where Buster's father gets in a fistfight. The police break up the fight and beat everybody with their nightsticks, including Buster's father. One day, Nat steals fifteen cents from his mother and, in a conciliatory gesture, offers to take Buster to the movies. Buster accepts and even goes several more times with Nat—who pays for other items, as well, like candy. One day, unprovoked, Buster hits Nat in the teeth and calls him a Jew in a derogatory manner. Their friendship abruptly ends.
Ornita Harris Later in life, Nat meets Mrs. Ornita Harris, a young black widow. Ornita accidentally drops her glove one day, and when Nat picks it up for her, she tells Nat that she does not accept favors from white men. Ornita comes into Nat's liquor store a week later. She does not recognize him at first, but when she does, she apologizes for her behavior regarding the glove. Nat offers her a discount on her bottle of Scotch, which she accepts. Ornita comes into Nat's store every two weeks for liquor, and each time, Nat gives her a discount. As Nat recounts the memory, he notes that Ornita was attractive in the ways that he likes. Over time, Nat learns that Ornita's husband was a skyscraper window cleaner who fell fifteen stories when his safety belt broke. After his death,
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Ornita began working as a manicurist. Nat tells Ornita that he is a bachelor and that he lives with his mother, who has cancer. Although Ornita is resistant, Nat finally convinces Ornita to go on a date with him that summer. The date is very uncomfortable, and the two do not feel closer at the end of the night. Ornita will not let Nat take her back to Harlem, so he calls her a cab instead. Ornita questions why they are even bothering to date each other, but Nat convinces her to go on another date with him. At the end of this date, the two sleep together; Nat says that he fell in love with Ornita that night. That same week, Nat gets held up in his liquor store by two black men, one of whom cracks Nat on the head with his gun. Nat is in the hospital for a little while, during which time Ornita comes to visit him and offer comfort. When Nat is released from the hospital, his mother is dead. He mourns her loss by himself at first, but after a week, he goes to Ornita and proposes to her. Ornita declines his offer, explaining that she is unsure that the interracial marriage would work. Over the next several weeks, the two date a few times a week, and, as Nat talks more about marriage, he slowly convinces Ornita to accept his proposal. Nat begins to make preparations to sell his business so the two can move to San Francisco, where interracial marriages are more accepted. One night, however, as Nat is walking Ornita back to her house, three young black men with switchblades stop them. The young men do not listen to Nat's claims that he helps blacks out by employing them at good wages. Instead, they stereotype him, calling him a Jew landlord, and tell him, in very derogatory terms, that he cannot sleep with Ornita anymore. One of the men slaps Ornita, and when Nat hits the young man, all three of the young men knock Nat into the gutter, take his wallet, and run.
Kicked in the Teeth Nat tries to follow Ornita home, but she is distraught and walks home on her own. She cancels their date the next night, and when Nat calls her, she says that the interracial marriage will not work. While recounting the demise of his relationship with Ornita, Nat recalls a situation where he tried to help a blind black man across the street. The blind man claimed that he could tell Nat was white. At the same time, a colored woman pushed Nat out of the way—and into a fire hydrant—and brusquely said
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that she would help the blind man. Nat comes to an understanding of the impossibility of his situation, that despite his intentions, when he tries to show affection, he gets kicked in the teeth for his efforts. At the end of the story, Nat returns from his reminiscence to the present moment of the story—Charity Quietness eating her lunch in the bathroom. Frustrated, he yells at her to come out.
old white, Jewish bachelor who claims to have always had an attraction to black people. Nat begins his tale by talking about his maid, Charity Quietness, who insists on eating her lunch in Nat's bathroom, separate from him. Nat provides his history with black people, starting with the first black person he tried to befriend: Buster Wilson, a boy who lived in Nat's Brooklyn neighborhood. Nat coaxes Buster into going to the movies with him on several occasions, but the friendship ends when Buster hits Nat and calls him a Jew in a derogatory manner.
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Nat does not have much more luck with Mrs. Ornita Harris, a widow. Nat tries to be nice to Ornita when he first meets her, but she mistakes chivalry for charity and tells him she does not like white men doing her favors. He meets her again in his liquor store, where she is more cordial. He gives her a discount on her order, and after she visits his liquor store a few more times, Nat and Ornita begin to date. Nat becomes very interested in her, and he believes that he has fallen in love with her after the first time they sleep together. Ornita does not reciprocate his feelings right away; in fact, it takes a while before she can even feel comfortable around him.
Mrs. Ornita Harris Mrs. Ornita Harris is a young, black widow who dates Nat, a white Jewish man, but who cannot bring herself to marry him. Ornita meets Nat when he picks up a glove she has dropped. She is rude to him, telling him that she does not need his favors, but when they meet a week later in Nat's liquor store, she is more cordial. Nat gives her a discount on her order, and she begins to come in every couple weeks. Ornita and Nat start dating, but there is a discomfort between them. She tells Nat that their dates are pointless, but she continues dating him. The first night they sleep together, Nat thinks he has fallen in love with her. After Nat gets held up at his store by two black men, landing him in the hospital, Ornita comes to visit him. Shortly thereafter, Nat proposes to Ornita, but she refuses his offer. They continue to date one another, however, and as Nat talks more about the possibility of marriage, Ornita warms up to the idea. One night, as Nat is walking Ornita back to her house, three young black men stop them. The men are very rude and say some very indecent things about the interracial couple. One of the men slaps Ornita. Nat hits the man, and all three men proceed to knock Nat into the gutter, take his wallet, and flee the scene. Nat tries to console Ornita, but she is distraught, and she calls off the wedding plans, claiming that it will never work.
Nat's store gets held up by two black men, one of whom knocks Nat out with his gun. While he is in the hospital, Ornita comes to visit him. When he gets out of the hospital, he proposes to Ornita, but she is reluctant at first. As they begin to date more seriously, she warms up to the idea of marriage. Nat makes plans to sell his liquor store so they can move to San Francisco, where interracial marriages are more accepted. One night, after Nat and Ornita enjoy a troublefree dinner with one of Nat's friends, three young black men stop them as they are walking home. The three men express outrage at the fact that a black woman is with Nat, a white Jewish man. One of them slaps her, prompting her to scream and Nat to hit him. Soon Nat finds himself in the gutter without his wallet, and Ornita refuses his offer to continue walking her home. Moreover, she calls off the engagement and stops dating him. As the story ends, Nat comes back to the present situation, with Charity Quietness eating her lunch in the bathroom. Frustrated, he tells her to come out.
Nathan Lime The narrator, Nathan Lime, known to most of the story's characters as "Nat," is a forty-four year
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Nathan's Father Nathan's father has to quit working when his arthritis gets too bad, which forces the family to move from Manhattan to Brooklyn. He dies when Nathan is only thirteen.
Nathan's Mother Nathan's mother supports the family after her husband's arthritis gets so bad that he cannot work anymore. When they move from Manhattan to Brooklyn, she earns a living by selling paper bags from a pushcart. Nathan's mother is the one who says that if he ever forgets he is a Jew, a non-Jewish person will remind him that he is one, which happens repeatedly to Nathan in his relations with black people. Nathan's mother lives with her son, and, over the course of the story, she dies from cancer. Nathan gets the news when he gets out of the hospital.
Charity Quietness Charity Quietness is Nat's cleaning lady, who starts coming in once a week to clean his apartment. The first time she comes to clean, Nat invites her to eat lunch with him. She tries, but pretty soon, she takes her lunch into the bathroom and eats it there, as she does at the beginning of the story. After Nat has narrated his tale, and illustrated how he always tries to help blacks and gets nothing but pain for his troubles, he comes back to present-day, where Charity is still in the bathroom, although he soon yells at her to come out.
Buster Wilson Buster Wilson is the first black person whom Nat tries to befriend; like future attempts, this relationship fails miserably. Nat notices Buster after Nat's family moves into Buster's neighborhood. He tries to befriend him, but Buster ignores him. Finally, he gets Buster to go to a movie with him. After several such social outings, Buster punches Nat in the mouth, calling him a Jew in a derogatory way.
Mr. Wilson Buster's father is a barber who likes to get drunk and fight at parties; on one occasion, the young Nat witnesses him being beaten up by the police. It is at this point that Nat offers to take Buster to the movies.
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rhemes Racial Inequality From the very beginning of the story, when "Charity Quietness sits in the toilet," eating her eggs, while Nat eats in the kitchen, the divide between African Americans and Caucasians plays a major role in the story. Nat recalls how he invited Charity to eat with him in the kitchen when she first came to work as his cleaning woman. Charity is only able to take "a small bite" out of one of her eggs. At that point, as Nat says, "she stopped chewing and she got up and carried the eggs in a cup to the bathroom, and since then she eats there." This divide between cultures is even more apparent when Nat recalls the ' 'rundown," ' 'Negro houses'' that are located in the middle of a ' 'not-sohot white neighborhood." As Nat says, "In those days though I had little myself I was old enough to know who was better off, and the whole block of colored houses made me feel bad in the daylight." Even as a child, Nat knows that he is better off than African Americans. Nevertheless, he tries to ignore this, and he starts a friendship with Buster, a black boy in the neighborhood. He is unsuccessful at first, until Buster's father gets taken away by the police for fighting, and Nat offers to take Buster to the movies. However, Nat remarks that even though he pays for Buster's movies and candy and shares his comic books with Buster, "we never got to be friends. Maybe because it was a one-way proposition—from me to him." Even as an adult, Nat is unable to get most people to see past his skin and his comparatively privileged status. When some black street thugs stop him and his African-American lover, Ornita, Nat tries to tell them, "we're all brothers. I'm a reliable merchant in the neighborhood." The young men ignore his statements and tell him that he talks "like a Jew landlord . . . Fifty a week for a single room," and "No charge fo the rats." Although he hires black workers, dates black women, and does many favors for black people, none of this matters in the eyes of these three African Americans.
African Americans Nat is drawn to African-American culture, but he is repeatedly refused the acceptance he desires
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Topics for Further Study • Many regard Rosa Parks's refusal to give up her bus seat in 1955 as the official beginning of the Civil Rights movement, even though it was not the first civil rights protest. Research civil rights events that occurred before December 1,1955— including individual, group, and governmentsponsored actions—that also contributed to the rise of the movement. Plot these events on both a map and a time line. Where and when did most of these events take place? • Martin Luther King Jr. advocated a nonviolent approach to dissolving racial inequalities. One of his contemporaries, Malcolm Little, known as Malcolm X, was commonly viewed by whites as an aggressor; in truth, the issue was more complex than that. Research the life stories of both men and compare their philosophies on civil rights. • Research the history of interracial relationships
in San Francisco, where, as Nat remarks in the story, such relationships were not as taboo as they were in New York in the 1960s. Why was it easier for interracial couples in San Francisco? What kinds of problems might interracial couples have still faced? • Although many fields of employment were closed to African Americans in the 1950s and 1960s, some African Americans were successful at transcending the boundaries. Research one African American from a scientific or professional field who achieved success during this time period, and write a short biography about him or her. • Find three urban artists from the twentieth century, and review at least two paintings by each. What are the common themes in their art? How do the individual artists differ in their approaches?
from African Americans. After Charity refuses to eat with Nat, instead eating her lunch in the bathroom, Nat says, "It's my fate with colored people." He goes on to say that, despite this kind of treatment, "black is still my favorite color." Nat says he's "tried more than once" to show black people "what was in my heart toward them," but that "the language of the heart either is a dead language or else nobody understands it the way you speak it." He even goes so far as to say, "If I wasn't white my first choice would be black."
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In fact, based on the pattern of Nat's life as he tells it, the reader is led to assume that Nat does wish he was black. As a child in Brooklyn, Nat hangs around the poor black houses as much as he can. His first attractions to girls come from the trips by these houses. "The young girls, with their pretty dresses and ribbons in their hair, caught me in my throat when I saw them through the windows." Later, he dates Ornita Harris, an African-American woman, and feels himself fall in love with her. She ulti-
With Ornita, Nat tries to have an interracial relationship, something that he knows will draw looks from others. However, on their first date, Nat recalls that "Nobody was surprised when they saw us, nobody looked at us like we were against the law." Still, in the 1960s, at the height of the Civil Rights movement, when interracial relationships were seen by most whites and blacks as bad, this is a concern for Nat. It is also a concern for Ornita; so when Nat proposes marriage to her, he says that they could move to San Francisco, which is more sup-
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mately refuses to marry him, however, because Nat is not African American, and she believes that their racial differences are too great. As Nat's mother warned him when she was alive, "if you ever forget you are a Jew a goy [non-Jew] will remind you." In the end, mother knows best, and the African-American community, to which Nat desperately tries to gain acceptance, remains closed to him.
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portive of interracial relationships: "I was there for a week in the Second War and I saw white and colored living together," says Nat. Ornita says no to the marriage proposal at first, mainly because, though her husband is dead, he still lives on in her memory, and she says that he "woulda killed me" for marrying a white man. Ornita also brings up the issue of children, saying "Were you looking forward to half-Jewish polka dots?" Nat is undeterred by this, however, saying simply that he "was looking forward to children." Nat wants to look past skin color and focus on their feelings for each other, but Ornita is unsure. When she does finally start to warm up to the idea, Nat sets up a dinner at the house of one of his friends, who is supportive of the interracial relationship.' 'It wasn't a bad time and they told us to come again," says Nat. Even Ornita is feeling good, but it does not last for long. On their way home, the two are stopped by three young black men, who do not like seeing Ornita with a white man. They threaten Ornita, and Nat tries to step in to defend her, but it is no good. They slap her and knock him down. Although Nat brushes the incident off, it is a pivotal moment for Ornita, who calls off any plans for a wedding. Nat pleads with her, saying they can move away so they "wouldn't have the kind of trouble that we had." But Ornita likes her family and wants to stay where she is. Even though there is the promise of San Francisco, Nat can do nothing to save the relationship.
Violence Malamud includes many violent episodes in his story, and it is significant that most of the violence is instigated by African Americans. When Nat is young, he notes that, although he likes the parties in the black houses, ' 'with the parties came drinking and fights." Nat remembers one fight in particular, when Buster's dad "chased another black man in the street with a half-inch chisel." When Buster's dad catches the man and stabs him, young Nat notices that the other man is ' 'bleeding through his suit" and wishes he could "pour it back in the man." When the police come, Buster's father tries to run away, "but a cop ran after him and cracked him on his Homburg hat with a club, right on the front porch." Violence even happens between children, as when Nat recalls one day with Buster when, out of nowhere,' 'he hit me in the teeth." Nat experiences
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other physical abuse in the story at the hands of African Americans, such as when he is held up at his store by "two big men—both black—with revolvers." One of them hits Nat "over the ear with his gun. I stayed in the hospital a couple of weeks." Similarly, at the end of the story, some black street punks threaten to shave all of Ornita's hair off as punishment for being with Nat. When one of the punks slaps her, Nat hits him back, and ' 'the next I knew I was laying in the gutter with a pain in my head." The violence expressed by the African Americans in the story provides yet another barrier between them and Nat, who is generally a peaceful guy. He does not understand, and is even ' 'frightened' ' by the violence he sees in the black neighborhood as a kid. Unfortunately, in this story and in the real life society it reflected, violence was a side effect of racial inequality, and since Nat is on the privileged side of this racial divide, he will never understand it.
Style Point of View This was the first story that Malamud wrote in the first-person point of view—characterized by the use of "my" and "I"—which is a more personal style of telling a story. It also gives the story more impact, since the narrator is communicating his or her thoughts and feelings directly to the reader, as opposed to using a third-person narrative "voice" to guide the telling of the tale. For example, when Nat Lime says in the beginning that "I was still feeling not so hot after Ornita left,'' he then characterizes himself as a "bachelor with a daily growing bald spot on the back of my head'' and that' 'I could lose frankly fifteen pounds," the readers are getting a very personal view of him. Nat is heartbroken that Ornita, his love, has left him, and he is feeling very self-conscious about his hair loss and his weight. If the story were told by an omniscient narrator, who could see inside Nat's head and let the reader know that "he was still feeling not so hot," and that "he felt he could lose frankly fifteen pounds," the emotion would not be as strong. However, even though stories narrated in the first person are more personal, when a writer uses a
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third-person, omniscient (all-knowing) narrator, the kind that Malamud had used in his other stories up to this point, the writer has more freedom. An omniscient narrator can go inside any character's head and reveal any knowledge to the reader. In a first-person narrative, however, other characters are seen only in light of the protagonist's perspective. For example, when Nat first proposes to Ornita, she says no. After more pressure from him, she finally gets to the point where she says maybe. As Nat says, ' 'Maybe is maybe so I'll wait. The way she said it, it was closer to yes." Nat thinks that he can tell how Ornita is feeling, but since there is no omniscient narrator, the reader can never know for sure. So in the end, there are advantages and disadvantages to both types of narration. The first-person narration works for Malamud in this story, however, because he is not as concerned with letting the reader know how the other characters felt as he is in giving Nat's perspective on why he has not had any success in integrating himself into the African-American community.
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From this point on, the majority of the story is one large flashback, told in past tense, where Nat goes back into his past to show the reader other examples where his good intentions have been spurned by African Americans. At the end of the story, after he has recounted how Ornita left him and he was spurned by a black blind man whom he tried to help, Nat thinks:' 'That's how it is. I give my heart and they kick me in the teeth." Immediately after this thought, Nat yanks the reader back into the present, where Charity is still in the bathroom eating her eggs. Nat is pretty frustrated after recounting all of his negative experiences, and he yells at Charity to come out of the bathroom. By splitting the present-tense event of Charity in the bathroom into two pieces, the reader is able to understand better the frustration that Nat feels when he yells at her, as well as to gain a perspective on the unwitting perpetuation of the anger and tension between the races.
Description Tense Malamud also experiments with tense, the way in which a writer uses verbs to denote time or duration. Authors write in past tense when they want to communicate how something ' 'happened,'' in present tense when they want to show how something "is happening," or future tense, when they want to say how something "will happen." The tense of a story helps to determine how the reader reacts to the tale. Most fiction is told in past tense, where the narrator recounts something that has happened. Present tense is more rare because it tells of something that is happening right now, and most readers find it easier to believe a tale if it is something that has already happened. In "Black Is My Favorite Color," however, the story is framed by two halves of a situation that is going on in Nat's present. The story starts, ' 'Charity Quietness sits in the toilet eating her two hard-boiled eggs while I'm having my ham sandwich and coffee in the kitchen." After this first, brief look at the segregation between Nat and Charity, in which Nat gives details about Charity and about himself, Malamud launches into the past tense. Nat talks about the first time he met Charity, when he ' 'made the mistake to ask her to sit down at the kitchen table with me and eat her lunch." As Nat thinks about how Charity has refused to do so, it sparks some general thinking from him, about how this is representative of his life.
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Malamud is a master when it comes to evoking images in his readers' minds. In this story, his stark, realistic depictions of life in Brooklyn in the 1920s are very telling. "We didn't starve but nobody ate chicken unless we were sick, or the chicken was." With this line, Nat communicates to the reader that his family was really poor. Unless they are sick and need chicken noodle soup, the only way his family ever eats chicken is if there's something wrong with it and nobody else wants it. Malamud's descriptions are particularly gritty when describing the AfricanAmerican experience. Nat, when describing how much worse it was for African Americans, says: ' The Negro houses looked to me like they had been born and died there, dead not long after the beginning of the world." Malamud evokes an image of death and decay, giving the reader a better picture of how bad the houses look, and underscoring the feeling of decay in the story.
Historical Context Ghettoes After both World Wars, blacks from the Southern United States migrated north in large numbers.
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Compare & Contrast • 1960s: Motown music, a simple, catchy, distinctly African-American sound, dominates the pop charts. Its performers, all African Americans, find acceptance from white audiences. Today: Rap music, which began as a distinctly African-American sound, inspires white performers such as Eminem, a rap artist who takes the medium to new heights with his critically favored songs. • 1960s: Massive inequalities between races fuel the Civil Rights movement, which is in full force. Today: Although great strides have been made
Most were only able to find low-paying, unskilled labor positions which only provided enough money to live in crowded, inner-city slums known as ghettoes. These urban neighborhoods, like the one where Ornita lives in the story, were characterized by their dilapidated buildings and high crime rates. The ghettoes were segregated by race. In ' 'Black Is My Favorite Color," Nat, a white man, owns a business in the ghetto but does not live there, where people are often so poor that extended families live together in one cramped residence—as is the case with Ornita, who lives with her brother's family. Instead, Nat has an apartment by himself in a nicer section of the city, where he even pays a black cleaning woman to come in and take care of his place once a week.
The Civil Rights Movement Begins Although the tensions of racial inequality had been brewing for a long time, they came to a head on December 1,1955, in Montgomery, Alabama, when an African-American woman named Rosa Parks refused to give up her seat, in the front of a bus, to a white man. This simple act of defiance—it was against Montgomery's law for a black person to sit in the forward section of a city bus—got Parks
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through civil rights awareness and legislation, inequalities between races still exist in America. • 1960s: Many northern cities contain ghettoes, rundown slums that host specific minority groups, which typically have high crime rates. These lower-income areas help to segregate blacks from whites. Today: Most major American cities have lowerincome sections, which can host an ethnically diverse group of residents. These areas help to segregate working-class Americans from those in the middle and upper classes, who typically live in suburbs.
arrested and jailed. The resulting outcry from the African-American community included a boycott of Montgomery city buses that drew national attention. In addition, Parks's bravery inspired Reverend Martin Luther King Jr., whose passionate speeches in Montgomery earned him a national reputation.
"I Have a Dream" Following his success in Montgomery, Reverend King traveled the United States for the next several years, giving speeches and spreading his message of nonviolent protest, a method of protest he had learned from studying the teachings of India's spiritual leader, Mahatma Gandhi. In the fall of 1963, King organized a civil rights march on Washington, where he delivered his famous "I Have a Dream" speech. In it, King promoted the type of racial integration that Nat dreams of in "Black Is My Favorite Color," where whites and blacks exist in harmony. King became a martyr for the Civil Rights movement when he was assassinated in Memphis, Tennessee, on April 4, 1968.
African-American Performers Although African Americans were shut out of many fields of employment up through the 1950s
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and 1960s, entertainment was one area where blacks were able to match or exceed the achievements of whites. In 1955, African-American jazz trumpeter Miles Davis was widely recognized as the leading jazz musician of his time, which was the first time ever that a black man had held this distinction. The same year, African American Chuck Berry's popular rock and roll tune ' 'Maybellene'' hit number one on the rhythm and blues charts and also scored in the Top Ten on the pop charts, as did many of his subsequent songs. In 1959, former boxer Berry Gordy helped to found Motown, a coalition of recording, distribution, publishing, and management businesses in Detroit devoted to promoting African-American music in the mainstream. The distinct "Motown Sound" that resulted from this enterprise dominated the charts through the mid1960s, with acts like The Temptations, Little Stevie Wonder, and the Supremes appealing to black and white audiences alike. On a similar note, in 1960, African American Chubby Checker created a national dance craze when he sang his version of Hank Ballard's song "The Twist" on American Bandstand. Checker's version reached the top spot on the pop charts, and his dance by the same name was adopted by white teens, and soon after by their parents, who helped to propel the song to the top of the charts once again.
Critical Overview ' 'Black Is My Favorite Color'' appeared for the first time in the Reporter on July 18, 1963. Later that year, it was published in Idiots First, Malamud's second short story collection. His first collection, The Magic Barrel, won the National Book Award for fiction, and many critics continue to praise these short stories as Malamud's best. However, both Idiots First and "Black Is My Favorite Color" have received their fair share of good criticism since they were published. In fact, Sidney Richman, in his 1966 book, Bernard Malamud, stated that the story was ' 'not only one of the best stories in the entire collection but one which deserves to stand with some of the finer pieces in The Magic Barrel." Richman also heralded the story's "striking departure from the earlier work,"
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noting that the story was the first time in Malamud's career that he employed a first-person narrator, and remarking on the absence of fantasy, which had been present in Malamud's earlier work. "Malamud seems to be pitting his vision against a firmer reality, to be working with objective experience in a way he had never done before," said Richman. Over the years, many critics have focused on the overt racial themes in the story. In his essay, "Women, Children, and Idiots First: Transformation Psychology," in Bernard Malamud and the Critics (1970), Samuel Irving Bellman asked whether or not Malamud had a "special point" in his "reconstructionist view of society, whereby nonJews turn into Jews. . . . much to their discomfort." Bellman believed the answer was "yes," that Malamud was trying to say "the world is losing its oxygen and becoming unfit to live in." In this poisoned world, "people grow desperate in their plight'' and ' 'make a pitiful spectacle as they fight a losing battle." Critics have also noted the story's relation to Malamud's other works. As Jeffrey Helterman noted in 1978 in his entry on Malamud for the Dictionary of Literary Biography, the story "explores the blackJewish relations that would become the primary concern of The Tenants." Helterman was also one of several critics who remarked on the futile nature of Nat's efforts, since "the narrator can never penetrate into the alien culture." As Helterman said about Nat,' 'he tries to help a black blind man home only to discover that even a blind man can tell he is white." On a similar note, a year after Helterman's critique was published, Robert Solotaroff called "Black Is My Favorite Color" one of Malamud's "understandably painful stories . . . in which the generous, or at least justifiable, intentions of decent people are frustrated." Criticism on Malamud experienced a surge in the 1980s, when Malamud selected several of his stories, including "Black Is My Favorite Color," for publication in his Stories of Bernard Malamud. Many critics praised this collection as they had Malamud's previous collections. Robert Alter of The New York Times Book Review noted that Malamud's "real gift is for the short story, for the spare, rigorous etching of solitary figures caught in the stress of adversity." Likewise, Paul Gray of
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Time magazine said that "the book not only offers substantial evidence that Malamud's stories are better than his novels; it makes the distinction seem irrelevant." And Marcia G. Fuchs of the Library Journal said of the book that ' 'this is the master storyteller at his best—unforgettable, colorful characters caught in pathos mundane and cosmic, treated with humor, compassion, humanity." Of course, not all critics loved the story, or the collection. Gene Lyons of Newsweek said that the stories in the collection were ' 'not entirely successful, despite a seriousness, steadfastness and simple integrity that one cannot help but admire." Specifically, he noted that "Black Is My Favorite Color" was "badly dated at best." And Richard Oilman, in his 1986 article for The New Republic, said that he felt Malamud was ' 'weakest when he sought or fell into too direct a way to our emotions, when he was most self-consciously 'humane.' I think of stories like 'Black Is My Favorite Color.'" In 1997, eleven years after Malamud's death, his publisher released one final collection, The Complete Stories, which also received praise from critics. As the title suggests, this contained all of Malamud's short fiction in the chronological order in which the stories were written, not published. As Amy Boaz of the Library Journal noted about this arrangement, "displayed thus, Malamud's skill is consistently sound, effected quietly through disciplined pacing and dignified characters."
Criticism Ryan D, Poquette Poquette has a bachelor's degree in English and specializes in writing about literature. In the following essay, Poquette discusses Malamud's use of a first-person narrator to disguise the narrator's flaws in Malamud's story. Upon first reading Malamud's ' 'Black Is My Favorite Color," readers may be tempted to feel sorry for the protagonist, Nat Lime, a white, Jewish bachelor who has spent nearly four decades of his life trying— and failing—to find acceptance within the New
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York African-American community. Nat does so by performing good deeds for, and attempting to develop relationships with, black people. Indeed, Robert Solotaroff referred to the story as one of Malamud's ' 'understandably painful'' tales,' 'in which the generous, or at least justifiable, intentions of decent people are frustrated." However, when one looks past Nat's self-pitying narration and begins to examine both his actions and his faulty perception of them, Nat's intentions appear neither generous nor justifiable, and the reasons for his lack of acceptance becomes clear. In 1963, when Malamud wrote "Black Is My Favorite Color," he made a striking departure from his other works. As Sidney Richman noted in his 1966 book, Bernard Malamud, the story was "the first time in his writing career that he has entirely forsaken the omniscient point of view." There are some very good reasons why Malamud did this. First, stories narrated in the first person are more personal, since the reader hears a character's thoughts directly, instead of having them filtered by a nameless, third-party voice. Because of this, Nat's account of his life and struggle has more impact on the reader. At the same time, Malamud uses this selfpitying narration to mask several unpleasant facts about Nat, which, when taken collectively, paint Nat in an entirely different light than the way he describes himself to the reader. As Nat remarks in the beginning of the story, incidents like his black cleaning woman refusing to eat in the same room with him signify his ' 'fate with colored people." He tells the reader that "black is my favorite color," although "you wouldn't know it from my luck." Throughout the story, Nat communicates to the reader that his motives have been pure in his attempts to help African Americans, and that he has been repeatedly mistreated: "That's how it is. I give my heart and they kick me in the teeth," he notes at the end of the story. However, perceptive readers who are willing to dig under Nat's self-pitying narration and examine his actions, as well as certain intentionally conspicuous words and phrases that Malamud uses, will realize that Nat's good intentions are misguided and that he fails to understand the true plight of the African-American community. Nat thinks that he is a good person because he treats African Americans as equals, saying that "there's only one human color and that's the color of blood." However, Nat does do special favors for black people wherever
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What Do I Read Next? • America and I: Short Stories by American Jewish Women Writers, published by Beacon Press in 1990, contains selections from female Jewish writers from five generations. Edited by Joyce Antler, it is a dynamic chronicle of twentiethcentury Jewish-American women's literature and features some of last century's finest short story writers. • Saul Bellow, a Jewish-American contemporary of Malamud, received the National Book Award for fiction for his book, The Adventures ofAugie March. The story concerns the title character, a young Jew in a working-class Chicago neighborhood who is forced to embark upon a number of odd jobs when the depression hits. Critics hailed the work for its originality and for its positive message that life is worth living. • Best Contemporary Jewish Writing, edited by Michael Lerner and published by Jossey-Bass in 2001, collects poetry, fiction, essays, and memoirs from the top contemporary Jewish writers. The works in the book date from 1994 to 2000. The essays explore Jewish identity, spirituality, scripture, the Holocaust, conflicts in Israel, and Jewish culture.
ways in her life. The book was published by Riverhead Books in 1997. • Malamud's The Assistant, originally published in 1957 by Farrar, Strauss, is about an ItalianAmerican drifter who gets a job working for a humble Jewish grocer. When he falls in love with the storekeeper's daughter, he is forced to reexamine his moral and spiritual beliefs. • Malamud's The Tenants, published in 1971 by Farrar, Strauss, details the struggles between Harry, a minor Jewish novelist who agonizes over finishing a novel—which is about a writer who cannot finish a novel—while living in an apartment building that the landlord wants to tear down. A black writer, Willie, moves into the building, sparking a bitter rivalry between the two writers. The book is currently out of print, but it is one of Malamud's major works and can be found in many libraries.
• In Aliens in America, Sandra Tsing Loh, a girl who was born to a Chinese father and German mother, writes many comic, autobiographical tales about how her parents' separate cultures have blended in unique and almost implausible
• Love's Revolution: Interracial Marriage, written by Maria P. P. Root and published by Temple University Press in 2001, chronicles the social changes that have led to the growth and acceptance of interracial marriages. Root, a clinical psychologist, interviewed about two hundred people from a wide variety of racial and ethnic backgrounds for her study, and their stories and views permeate the book, which also includes a section that details the specific challenges that interracial couples face.
possible. This desire to be charitable is hinted at in the first line of the story, with the very name of the character, "Charity Quietness." This odd name catches the reader's attention. As Malamud shows that while Nat's ' 'charitable'' acts seem good on the surface, underneath their quiet exterior lurks his real reason for doing them—to feel better about himself. His drive begins in early childhood, when Nat notices the worn-out houses owned by African Americans in his neighborhood and says, "In those
days though I had little myself I was old enough to know who was better off, and the whole block of colored houses made me feel bad in the daylight." As a child, Nat knows he is not as poor as people like Buster, an African American who is Nat's age, and he feels guilty about it. This guilt manifests itself in many acts that Nat thinks are well-meaning or charitable, such as taking Buster to the movies, buying him candy, and letting him borrow Nat's comic books.
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. . . Ornita falls from her high place when she is
However, in his obsessive quest to be charitable to African Americans, Nat also blinds himself to how he may be hurting others, including his own family. For example, when Nat funds the first of the movie trips with Buster, he does it by stealing "fifteen cents from my mother's pocketbook." This misguided attempt at helping Buster is potentially harmful to Nat and his own family, who themselves are so poor that "nobody ate chicken unless we were sick, or the chicken was."
A prime example of Nat's misguided charity is Ornita Harris. Nat first meets Ornita at a bus stop, when he picks up "her green glove that she had dropped on the wet sidewalk." Ornita is very rude to Nat, saying that she '' 'don't like white men trying to do me favors.'" A week later, she comes into Nat's liquor store "for a bottle of Scotch." Nat tells her he would like to give her a discount, but he does not want to offend her. Ornita recognizes him and apologizes for her behavior regarding the dropped glove. As it turns out,' 'she took the discount. I gave her a dollar off,'' says Nat, which would have been a sizeable discount in the 1960s, when a dollar was worth much more than it is today. The result? Ornita starts coming in "every two weeks for a fifth of Haig & Haig,'' and each time he gives her the large discount. As Nat says, his ' 'colored'' helpers look at him when he tells them to give Ornita the discount, but Nat says he "had nothing to be ashamed." However, many times Ornita comes into the store and does not talk but just pays for her alcohol,' 'less discount," and walks out. On these occasions, Nat notes that "her eyes were tired and she didn't look to me like a happy woman."
When he is an adult, Nat tries to be charitable to African Americans through his business. However, once again he is blinded to the potential hurt he could be causing to people, in this case blacks themselves. Nat's choice to run a liquor store itself shows that he has not been paying attention to the negative effects of alcohol on African Americans. Although Nat does not realize it, his role as a liquor store owner helps maintain the oppression of those whom he is trying to help. When Nat is looking back on his childhood, he notes how Buster, the black boy he is trying to befriend, is the son of a barber. But Nat remembers that Buster's father was "too drunk to stay a barber." This implies strongly that one of the reasons why Buster must live in a house that is so rundown it looks like it ' 'had been born and died there, dead not long after the beginning of the world," is because Buster's father cannot hold down a job due to his alcoholism. This was a common problem, and still is, in urban areas, where people can lose hope and sometimes turn to alcohol as an escape. Nat's store in Harlem helps to feed that problem in the African-American community, especially since he gives "discounts to certain custom-
Nat is unaware of his misguided actions, which stem in large part from his lack of awareness of the full meaning of the African-American plight. The fact is, Nat is a privileged white man, and, as such, blatantly enjoys comforts that African Americans do not. As referenced above, Nat steals from his mom's purse for movies—one assumes that there is no money in Buster's house to steal, even if he wanted to, since he wears the same "brown wool sweater, one arm half unraveled." When Nat is an adult, this superiority is evident in other ways. For example, when Nat is held up, he has enough money to stay "in the hospital a couple of weeks" and notes that as far as the robbery goes, "I was insured." However, for black people like Ornita, life is not so easy. After the death of her husband, "a window cleaner on the big buildings" who "fell fifteen stories," Ornita "got a job as a manicurist in a Times Square barbershop." Ornita has to provide for herself because, even when her husband was alive, he did not make enough to pay for the life insurance that would have protected her after his death.
slapped by the black youths, reminding her that the white world is not hers. The fall is devastating for Ornita, whose black world does not give her Nat's white safety nets—money, mobility, and opportunity."
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ers," meaning his African-American customers. Nat sees this as a kind gesture, but his "charity" only makes it easier for his African-American customers to buy more alcohol.
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Perhaps the biggest privilege Nat has is his ability to pick up extra residences as necessary. When Nat wants a private room for him and Ornita to share on their dates—so that they do not bother his mother, who lives with him—he rents a "furnished room," in addition to the three-room apartment he's already renting. Meanwhile, Ornita, like most black people in the ghetto, cannot even afford one residence on her own. She lives "with her brother's family." Nat does not fully understand why his role as a white man—who enjoys these special privileges— would keep him and Ornita apart, and near the end of the story, even Ornita has forgotten their differences and warmed up to the idea of marriage to Nat. After having an enjoyable dinner with some of Nat's friends, Nat and Ornita are forced to take the subway back to Ornita's neighborhood ' 'because of a twenty-four hour taxi strike.'' Nat and Ornita both having had a great time at dinner, he notes that she "looked relaxed, wonderful." However, this calm is shattered when three young, African-American street punks stop Nat and Ornita while they are walking from the subway to her house. The men, angry that Ornita is with a white man, threaten her, and she says she will "scream long and loud" if they try anything. The men do not listen. Nat says, ' 'They slapped her. I never heard such a scream. Like her husband was falling fifteen stories." This is a very odd way to describe a scream. Nat references the scream again when Ornita is saying goodbye to him at the subway, after she has refused to let him walk her to her home. ' 'Her face was gray and I still remembered her scream," says Nat. There is something about the quality of the scream that sticks in Nat's mind, although he does not understand it completely. This odd scream that Nat mentions twice is another clue from Malamud. For Ornita, her long, sorrowful scream, which invokes an image of her husband's death, coincides with revelation. She now realizes that she cannot marry Nat. She had talked herself into marrying the white man, a person who is from a higher class than she is, but she cannot last at this new height. Like her husband, who fell fifteen stories to his death when his safety belt broke, Ornita falls from her high place when she is slapped by the black youths, reminding her that the white world is not hers. The fall is devastating for Ornita, whose black world does not give her Nat's white safety nets—money, mobility, and opportunity.
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After the incident, Nat tries to plead with Ornita, letting her know that they could avoid the problem, saying "if we got married and moved away we wouldn't have the kind of trouble that we had. We wouldn't come in that neighborhood anymore." But Ornita is unconvinced, saying that she has "family there and don't want to move anyplace else." In fact, Ornita cannot move anywhere else. For Nat, who has the privilege of renting extra rooms for his dating life or picking up and moving to another state if he chooses, life will always be different; he will always have choices. In the end, it is this profound misunderstanding of the true plight of African Americans, along with his failure to recognize the selfish nature of his "charitable" acts, that will reinforce Nat's outsider status. As Edward A. Abramson noted in Bernard Malamud Revisited, ' 'Ultimately, Nat Lime cannot overcome the superior position that he, as a white man, holds in society; the black world is closed to him, and each race is going in a different direction." Even in the end, this a fact that Nat just doesn't comprehend as he screams at Charity Quietness to come out of the bathroom. Source: Ryan D. Poquette, Critical Essay on "Black Is My Favorite Color," in Short Stories for Students, The Gale Group, 2002.
Paul Witcover Witcover is an editor and writer whose fiction, book reviews, and critical essays appear regularly in print magazines and online media. In the following essay, Witcover discusses fantasy, realism, and race in Bernard Malamud's short story. Bernard Malamud was a writer whose work explored questions and themes of Jewishness in a humanistic and often fantastic fashion. Jewish identity and experience had both a specific and a universal meaning for Malamud. He filled his fiction with characters like Nat Lime, from the short story "Black Is My Favorite Color,"—characters who, while retaining their essential Jewishness, also represent humanity in general. As Malamud noted in a 1968 interview with the Jerusalem Post quoted by critics Leslie and Joyce Field in the introduction to Bernard Malamud: A Collection of Critical Essays, "[personally, I handle the Jew as a symbol of the tragic experience of man existentially. I try to see the Jew as universal man." He then proceeded to make one of his most famous statements: "Every man is a Jew though he may not know it." In an interview with the Fields appearing in the same collection, Malamud offered a sobering clarifica-
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tion of this statement, calling i t ' 'a metaphoric way of indicating how history, sooner or later, treats all men." The shadow of the Holocaust hangs heavy over these words, as indeed it does over all of Malamud's work. In a world where the Holocaust is possible, the real and the fantastic are one. In "Malamud's Grace: Humanism With and Without Tears," an homage to Malamud published after Malamud's death in 1986, critic Richard Oilman honored the synchronistic quality of the author's vision: "He was neither a realist nor a fantasist. He was both. I don't mean he alternated between reality and fantasy, but that at his best the line between the two was obliterated." More than that, Malamud recognized that this was true not only at the far-flung frontiers of human experience, such as the Holocaust or slavery, but within the seemingly mundane and trivial precincts of everyday life as well. "Black Is My Favorite Color" appeared in Malamud's second collection of short fiction, Idiots First, published in 1963. Critics are sharply divided over the quality of this story, which is set primarily in the Harlem section of New York City and features, as its main character and narrator, a middleaged Jewish liquor store owner named Nat Lime who, despite lifelong feelings of friendship, and more, for African-American people, has experienced a disappointing history of relationships with them. Oilman, for example, finds the story to be among Malamud's weakest, "brought down by predictable sentiment." Sidney Richman, however, in his book-length critical study Bernard Malamud expresses the opposite opinion, calling the "comic and terrifying'' tale ' 'not only one of the best stories in the entire collection, but one which deserves to stand with some of the finer pieces in The Magic Barrel." If there is one point on which all the critics agree, it is that' 'Black Is My Favorite Color'' is not a fantasy. In fact, Iska Alter, in her study of social criticism in Malamud's fiction, The Good Man's Dilemma, calls the story "quintessential realism." A brief review of the relationship between American Jews and African Americans helps to situate the story's characters and plot in a historical context. The relationship has its roots in slavery: African-American slaves in the American South found much to identify with in the Bible's depiction of the Egyptian bondage of the Jews and God's intervention, through Moses, to end it. Indeed, to give but one example, the escaped slave Harriet Tubman (1820-1913) was compared to Moses for
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her extraordinary efforts in leading other slaves to freedom by means of the Underground Railroad. Spiritual songs provide more evidence of how deeply and personally enslaved African Americans took the Jewish experience to heart, finding, through religious song, both a parallel to their own oppression and a powerful stimulus for their dreams of freedom. The Jews, who, long before the evil of the Nazis, had been coming to the United States as refugees from European countries in which they and their ancestors had endured centuries of officially sanctioned and enforced anti-Semitic policies that exploded periodically in murderous pogroms, were not blind to this parallel. The cruelties and injustices heaped upon blacks in the United States by the white Christian males, who constituted the dominant power structure, undoubtedly reminded Jewish Americans of the horrors they had come to America to escape. Many—though by no means all—felt a sacred obligation, one deeply rooted in Jewish faith and culture, to help the slaves win their freedom. Jews were among supporters of the cause of abolition, later taking leading roles in the struggle for civil rights; the NAACP, for example, was founded in 1909 by black and Jewish leaders. Although Jews enjoyed substantial advantages in American society that blacks did not, based on differences of skin color, education, and economic position, to say nothing of having come to the United States voluntarily, many blacks nevertheless recognized that, as far as the ruling class of white Christian males was concerned, Jews, though not black, were not quite white, either. Thus, a strong natural alliance took shape between these two oppressed minorities, one that reached its apogee in the modern civil rights movement that began in the mid-1950s. By the early 1960s, American Jews were traveling south by the hundreds to register voters and join protest marches and sit-ins, sharing hardships, beatings, arrests, and worse alongside blacks. Cracks in the African-American-Jewish alliance were already starting to form, however, due in part to the economic and cultural success of Jews within the American mainstream. Many African Americans resented this success, and not entirely without reason, as the success came at their expense. The social and economic stresses of the United States' intensifying involvement in Vietnam only widened these cracks. Even before Martin Luther King Jr.'s assassination in 1968, militant factions such as the Black
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Panthers had rejected his path of nonviolence, preaching, instead, a variety of doctrines that embraced the concept of Black Power and frequently involved racial animosity, separatism, and anti-Semitism. Partly in response to this, and partly as a result of a reawakened sense of Jewish identity brought about by still-fresh memories of the Holocaust and by the Arab/Israeli conflicts of the era, the moral compass of many American Jews began to swing increasingly toward Israel and the battles being fought there. The old alliance between African Americans and Jews was finished, and, though it never completely collapsed in the remaining years of the century as many had feared (or hoped) it would, neither did it return to what it had once been. Malamud wrote ' 'Black Is My Favorite Color'' in 1963, the year that Martin Luther King Jr. delivered his famous ' 'I Have a Dream'' speech on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial in Washington, D.C. But while King spoke hopefully of a future of racial harmony in which men and women would be judged not by the color of their skins but on the content of their character, Malamud was sounding a far more pessimistic note. The story, as related by Nat Lime ("forty-four, a bachelor with a daily growing bald spot"), is—or at least appears to be—a simple one of disappointed love. It opens in Nat's apartment in the Upper West Side of New York City, where he is having his lunch in the kitchen: a ham sandwich and cup of coffee. Meanwhile, his cleaning lady, a woman with the unusual name of Charity Quietness, is eating her lunch in the bathroom. Such a name is a sure tip-off that "Black Is My Favorite Color" is not, in fact, "quintessential realism." It is a hybrid fiction containing both real and fantastic elements. The name Charity Quietness alludes to a verse from the Old Testament Book of Isaiah, which can be translated from the Hebrew: "The work of charity shall be peace and the effect of charity quietness and confidence forever'' (Isaiah 32:17). Malamud intends the name to be partially ironic, for charity of the sort practiced by Nat results in the opposite of peace and quietness. In an allegorical manner, the character of Charity Quietness is a personification of the qualities of peace and quiet, qualities attributed to godliness, just as she, the cleaning lady named Charity Quietness, comes to Nat from "Father Divine." Here, however, such qualities as charity and quietness, even—or perhaps especially—when they come from God, are not offered freely as gifts, but are either bestowed for obedience to divine will or withheld as punishment for disobedience. The God
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, In a world where the Holocaust is possible, the real and the fantastic are one."
of this story, at least, is very much the vengeful patriarch of the Old Testament, as Malamud makes abundantly clear through his use of allegory and allusion. The name Nat Lime has allegorical significance as well. Nat, besides being an allusion to Hawthorne, one of Malamud's favorite writers, suggests Nathan, the Old Testament prophet, and indeed Malamud's story, according to Alter, writing in his article ' The Broader Canvas: Malamud, the Blacks, and the Jews," "strikes with the uncommon force of prophecy." As with many of the Old Testament prophets, Nat's message—to which he himself, ironically, is deaf—is as tart and sour as a lime. Nat explains that when Charity first started cleaning for him, he ' 'made the mistake to ask her to sit down at the kitchen table with me and eat her lunch'' of hard-boiled eggs, but "after a minute she stopped chewing and she got up and carried the eggs in a cup to the bathroom, and since then she eats there.'' Nothing he says can convince Charity to eat in the kitchen, not even when he volunteers to eat elsewhere himself. "That's how it goes," he says, "only don't get the idea of ghettos. If there's a ghetto I'm the one that's in it." Nat's words, which indirectly affirm that Charity is black while simultaneously denying that he is prejudiced against her for that reason, may strike readers as self-pityingly histrionic, but they will turn out to be truer than he knows. It is important to remember in this regard that the word "ghetto"— which in America refers to inner-city slum areas populated by poor minorities, usually black and/or Hispanic—originated centuries ago in Europe, where it referred to special zones within cities to which Jews were restricted by law; the Nazis took this idea, as they did so many others, to its horrific extreme, creating Jewish ghettos that were merely waiting rooms for the concentration camps built for the Final Solution; that genocidal history, in turn, was seized upon in the 1960s, and later by left-wing intellectuals and activists in the United States and elsewhere, including some in the African-American
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community, as a metaphor for what was taking place in American ghettos, with their high crime rates, poor medical care, and other killing burdens of institutional neglect and racism. Thus, when Nat uses the word here, he is not, as may first appear to be the case, appropriating the African-American experience; while that may be part of what is indeed going on, centuries of Jewish experience give all Jews, even in America, a legitimate right to apply this emotionally charged word to their own experience, though not, of course, at the expense of denying its meaning to African Americans (and vice versa). Shared custody of a word like ghetto, which is often consecrated in the minds of African Americans and Jews alike by their respective histories of spilled blood and cruel victimization, is complicated and fraught with the potential for violent misunderstanding.
dentally, should not be confused with Malamud. Malamud may be the author of "Black Is My Favorite Color," but the storyteller is his narrator, the fictional Nat Lime. Can readers trust what Nat is telling them? Will he lie to readers consciously or unconsciously? Will he lie to himself? Malamud has already provided readers with the answer to the first question.
Significantly, Nat never directly refers to Charity as an African-American woman in the long opening paragraph; he does so only indirectly, in the phrase about ghettos already noted, and again, more explicitly but still indirectly, at the end of the paragraph, in a final sentence that strikes the same histrionic tone: "It's my fate with colored people." Nat reveals two other important pieces of information about himself in the opening paragraph. The first is that his mother is dead and that Charity's eyes remind him of his mother's before she died. The second is that about a year and a half ago, a woman named Ornita "left," by which readers assume, as indeed turns out to be the case, that a woman with whom Nat was romantically involved broke off their relationship at that time, though readers do not yet know the reasons why. Readers have also grown accustomed to Nat's way of talking to readers by the end of the first paragraph; Nat is talking directly to readers, telling them his story as surely as if they were sitting at the kitchen table with him. In fact, although the story Nat tells moves around in time and place, the circumstances of the telling remain the same throughout: Nat sits in the kitchen, Charity in the bathroom. Indeed, the story ends by forcefully reminding readers of that fact. What readers notice about Nat's way of talking is that he has a tendency toward self-deprecating, selfdramatizing turns of phrase, as well as a habit of avoiding certain details, such as race, by mentioning them only indirectly, if at all. This is useful to know because a reader's reaction to stories often depends not only on how they are told, but on who is doing the telling. In other words, to judge a story, one must first judge the storyteller. That personage, inci-
Nevertheless, Nat feels he has ' 'some kind of a talent" for appreciating other colors or races of humanity, especially African Americans. "If I wasn't white," he says, "my first choice would be black." Notice that he classifies himself by skin color, as a white, a member of the dominant race, rather than by religion or culture—as a Jew. Readers can assume from the fact that Nat is eating a ham sandwich in the opening paragraph that he is not a strictly observant Jew, though he is observant enough to sit shivah when his mother dies. What's interesting is that, just as he does not directly refer to Charity Quietness's race, neither does he directly refer to his own Jewishness. While Malamud has beautifully crafted Nat's speech patterns and turns of phrase to make the fact of his Jewishness plain, just as Charity's race is implicit in her name, it is still a significant omission on Nat's part. Nat often refers to his "bald spot," but he has an even larger blind spot.
Nat owns and operates a profitable liquor store in Harlem. Despite the fact that ' 'black is still my favorite color," he has no close African-American friends (or, as far as readers can tell, any white ones, either), though he is quick to note that the fault isn't necessarily mine. If they knew what was in my heart toward them, but how can you tell that to anybody nowadays? I've tried more than once but the language of the heart either is a dead language or else nobody understands it the way you speak it.
Continuing his story, Nat remarks that "[w]here Charity Quietness eats her eggs"—in other words, the bathroom, or, as he refers to it throughout the story, "the toilet"—reminds him of a boyhood acquaintance named Buster Wilson. It seems strange, to say the least, that a toilet should remind someone of a person. Readers cannot help but wonder why. Nat does not explain himself, but if readers are reading attentively, they will notice the implicit riddle in his choice of words and attempt to solve it. And Malamud, as a conscientious writer, supplies the clues readers need. Presented with the image of an African-American woman eating in the toilet, Nat thinks of a black boy he once knew. Why? One possibility is that "blackness" carries an uncon-
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scious association for Nat of a function far more common in bathrooms than eating: namely, excreting. Could the association of toilets with excreting and excrement, in addition to Charity's presence there, be what brings Buster to mind? Perhaps this association, which slips out in Nat's prose without conscious thought or reflection, reveals a lot about his attitudes toward black people, attitudes that he keeps hidden from himself . . . but not from them. But is there proof that this is, in fact, what has taken place in Nat's mind?
his blind spot. Charity and Buster have snubbed Nat's sincere, if clumsy, offers of friendship, yet Nat is incapable of seeing the extent to which he bears some part of the responsibility for those snubs. What may be worse, he is also incapable of appreciating the weight of history that lies behind not only the snubs but his own overtures as well. "His naivete compounds the usual conflicts between blacks and Jews in America," writes Kathleen G. Ochshorn in The Heart's Essential Landscape: Bernard Malamud's Hero.
When Nat was a boy, Buster lived in the black neighborhood next door to Nat's own "not-so-hot white neighborhood" in the Williamsburg section of Brooklyn. Young Nat was fascinated by the lives of his black neighbors, which seemed exotic, frightening, and, above all, alive. "I think I thought, Brother, if there can be like this, what can't there be? I mean I caught an early idea what life was about." Newly moved from Manhattan, and with no white or Jewish friends of his own, Nat determines to make friends with Buster, a black kid who, like him, spends much of his time alone. Stealing money from his mother's purse, Nat treats Buster to movies, candy, and books. It never strikes Nat that Buster may resent these overtures, interpreting them as charity or, worse, attempts to buy the friendship that is Buster's right to give or n o t . . . never strikes him, that is, until Buster does, punching him in the mouth one day without warning. When Nat, fighting back tears, asks why Buster has hit him, the boy replies, with a venomous crudity that comes as unexpectedly as Buster's fist: "Because you a Jew bastard. Take your Jew movies and your Jew candy and shove them up your Jew [a ]."
Now readers come to the heart of the story as Nat's mind leads him circuitously—from Charity's quiet, peaceful snub, through the toilet and what takes place there, to Buster's violent, anti-Semitic snub—back to the woman mentioned fleetingly in the opening paragraph: Ornita. Or, as she is now introduced, Mrs. Ornita Harris
This is the first moment that the word "Jew" appears in the story (no less than four times in two sentences), and it is also the first time that Nat is explicitly identified as a Jew—an identification that, significantly, comes as an insult from a black person rather than from his own lips. The hateful language that the African-American boy, Buster, employs, and the action he invites Nat to perform involving food and the part of the body used for excreting, sets up the unconscious mental link that, years later, results in the seemingly baffling, but actually quite logical, association the adult Nat makes between the toilet in which a black woman is eating her lunch and Buster. Without rubbing our noses in it, Malamud has given readers an example, if readers are alert enough to spot it, of how Nat's unconscious mind works, a glimpse, as it were, into
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a slim woman, dark, but not the most dark, about thirty years I would say, also well built, with a combination nice legs and a good-size bosom that 1 like. Her face was pretty, with big eyes and high cheekbones, but lips a little thick and nose a little broad.
In other words, Ornita is an attractive AfricanAmerican woman, though in respect to certain physical features, as the unconscious racism of Nat's language reveals, a little too black. Ornita is a widow who works as a manicurist in Times Square but lives in Harlem not far from Nat's liquor store. In an echo of his behavior with Buster, Nat gives Ornita a discount on the liquor she buys in order to win her friendship. Over time, as they talk, she tells him of her husband, a window cleaner who fell fifteen stories to his death after his safety harness broke, and he tells her of his mother, with whom he lives and who is dying of cancer. Finally, they go on a date. By doing so, Ornita and Nat are acting in open defiance not just of the prejudices of their own groups, but of the larger (and whiter) American society. Even in cosmopolitan New York City, for a black woman and a Jewish man to go on a date in the early 1960s took guts; indeed, the combination could have provoked violent responses in some neighborhoods of the city even forty years later. Yet, without deprecating the bravery involved, it must be noted that their social rebellion is carefully circumscribed: Nat takes Ornita to the bohemian Greenwich Village, where "[n]obody was surprised when they saw us, nobody looked at us like we were against the law."
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They go out again a month later. This time, Nat has rented a room, and they sleep together. The striptease of racial signifiers in Nat's description of this scene is noteworthy: Under her purple dress she wore a black slip, and when she took that off she had white underwear. When she took off the white underwear she was black again. But I know where the next white was, if you want to call it white.
To fall in love with Ornita, which he genuinely does, Nat has to see her as both African American and white, that is, as exotic and familiar, forbidden and permitted. Not only that, but by possessing Ornita, Nat seeks to achieve his own unconscious fantasy, which is to enjoy the vibrant emotional life he has myopically and naively associated with blacks ever since the days of Buster Wilson while still retaining the social and economic advantages of being white: "If I wasn't white, my first choice would be black." This seems too easy for him to say, being a white man. Nat's simplistic fantasy cannot withstand reality. The first intrusion of reality occurs when two black men rob Nat's liquor store, putting him in the hospital for two weeks. His mother succumbs to cancer while he is there. The robbery, and his mother's death, are symbolic warnings that Nat chooses to ignore. When he leaves the hospital, he asks Ornita to marry him: "We're both honest people and if you love me like I love you it won't be such a bad time." Ornita is hesitant, but, little by little, Nat wins her over. Then reality intrudes a second time, more violently still. While Nat is walking Ornita home one night in Harlem, three black men—"maybe they were boys," Nat says, linking them by his use of the word to Buster Wilson—block their way. What follows is predictable and grotesque. When Nat tries to defuse the situation by insisting that all men are brothers and identifying himself "as a reliable merchant in the neighborhood," the response is an angry one: "You talk like a Jew landlord." Nat denies it, providing the address of his liquor store and adding that he pays his two black clerks "good wages as well as I give discounts to certain customers." The mix of romantic naivete, ignorance, unthinking arrogance, and unconscious racism behind Nat's illusions about black people has never been so clearly on display. He cannot see that, to the black men, he is an agent of white oppression who sells them liquor at a discount in order to keep them drunk and downtrodden; he does not grasp that simply by being with Ornita, he is threatening to rob these men
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of the only possession they have left: their manhood. It surprises no one but Nat when they strike Ornita. She screams, he says, "[l]ike her husband was falling fifteen stories." When he defends her, he is beaten and robbed. Ornita's scream is not from physical pain alone but is linked explicitly to her husband's death. In striking her, the men have forced her to relive that death; in a sense, they have accused her of being unfaithful to him . . . and to her race. They are representatives of black solidarity in the face of white oppression, and Ornita's scream is one of anguished recognition that, through love, she has betrayed both husband and race. The next day, she tells Nat that she cannot marry him even though she loves him. When Nat goes to Harlem to try and convince her to change her mind, she has already left for a long visit to relatives in the South. To Nat, Ornita's decision is the culmination of a long line of snubs and punches. Readers realize that he feels considerable bitterness toward her and all blacks. This is demonstrated by the way Nat ends his story. He relates an incident in which he takes the arm of a blind black man on the street.' 'I can tell you're white," the black man says, and then Nat is pushed roughly aside by a black woman who helps the man in his stead. Nat's offer of charity has been spurned yet again.' 'That's how it is," he complains bitterly. "I give my heart and they kick me in my teeth." But is this realistic? Or has Malamud brought a small seasoning of fantasy into his story? While it may be possible for a blind man to tell a person's race or color by touch alone, or perhaps smell, there is a sense of the uncanny about this incident, as if God has interceded to demonstrate the utter hopelessness of blacks and Jews, the Biblical sons of Ham and sons of Shem, ever knowing the peace, quietness or confidence that comes of charity. However, there is more. In the very last line of the story, Nat yells for Charity Quietness to "come out of that [g d ] toilet!" The story has come full circle, returned to its beginning, with one important difference. At the outset of the story, Nat is resigned to Charity eating in the bathroom while he eats in the kitchen, but by the end, readers see that the anger he feels toward black people for what he perceives as a history of unprovoked meanness and snubs, stoked by the betrayals of Buster and, finally, Ornita, is now directed at Charity. If anyone is to suffer retribution for those perceived injuries, it will be she—and, by extension, other African Americans—just as Nat has suffered real injuries at
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the hands of African Americans because he is Jewish. Blacks and Jews locked in a cycle of intensifying misunderstanding, of good intentions gone bad and bad intentions gone worse: that is the pessimistic prophecy of Nat's story. Yet there is still one more element to be considered, and it renders the prophecy infinitely grimmer. In the first paragraph of the story, Nat mentions that Charity has ' 'a quiet face that the light shines out of, and Mama had such eyes before she died." Malamud is setting up the possibility that Charity Quietness is more than a cleaning lady, more even than a human being. Charity speaks a single line in the story, and it is this:'' 'Peace,' she says to me. 'Father reached on down and took me right up in Heaven.'" How does one make sense of this statement? On a realistic level, one could interpret it to mean a reference to the church through which Nat employs her services, Father Divine. Yet that is not satisfying. Clearly, Malamud means more. The tone of Charity's single line is that of angelic annunciation. She is associated with Nat's dead mother by virtue of her eyes, and the statement that Father, or God, reached down and took her up into Heaven seems to indicate that she, too, might be dead. By an interesting coincidence, readers are also given a single line of dialogue from Nat's mother, which he recalls as he is mourning her death: ' 'Nathan, she said, if you ever forget you are a Jew a goy will remind you." The word "goy" is a Yiddish term for Gentile or nonJew, sometimes used by Jews in a disparaging sense. Technically, African American are goys, and certainly, in this story, it is African Americans who remind Nat again and again that he is a Jew. "Mama," Nat responds as though addressing her spirit, "rest in peace on this subject. But if I do something you don't like, remember, on earth it's harder than where you are." Has Nat done something that his mother, in heaven, does not like? And has she returned to Earth as an angel, a black woman named Charity Quietness, to set him straight? In 1955, Malamud wrote a story called ' 'Angel Levine'' about a black angel sent to a white Jewish man. There the Jew comes to accept that an angel can be black, and the story ends on an optimistically humane (if rather condescending) note with a black feather from the angel turning white. But returning to this fantastic conceit eight years later in ' 'Black Is My Favorite Color," Malamud does not allow himself such a hopeful and trite conclusion; indeed, it is as if he has returned to the theme to set the record straight. If one accepts that Charity Quietness is an angel, and is Nat's mother returned from Heaven,
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one must conclude that the situation portrayed between blacks and Jews has the divine stamp of approval, and that in attempting to forge friendships, and more, with blacks throughout his life, Nat has gone against both the ways of man and God. While some transcendent reconciliation may be possible in Heaven, as the blackness of Charity Quietness seems to suggest, on earth that will not occur, and it is a kind of blasphemy even to wish it. Though he may be foolish, and though Nat's attraction to African Americans is tinged with unacknowledged racism, there is something admirable and poignant in Nat's persistence in trying to break through to a genuine connection based on "the language of the heart," even in the face of repeated and, because it is against God's unfathomable will, inevitable failure. If there is a such a thing as Jewish existentialism, this is it. In the next novel that Malamud wrote on the subject of American blacks and Jews, The Tenant (1971), there would be less to admire in the struggles of his characters. In the book, a black writer and a Jewish writer, representing all blacks and Jews, resolve their differences with an axe to the brain and a knife to the genitals in an apocalyptic confrontation whose sole witness is left crying out the word "mercy" over and over again to an indifferent earth and a silent Heaven. Source: Paul Witcover, Critical Essay on "Black Is My Favorite Color," in Short Stories for Students, The Gale Group, 2002.
Iska Alter In the following essay excerpt, Alter explores the racial pessimism present in ' 'Black Is My Favorite Color," focusing on the story's "ironic discrepancy between desire and reality.'' When we examine "Black Is My Favorite Color," we can see the further disintegration of traditional egalitarianism in the face of history. The idealism concerning the possibilities of racial harmony that dominates the surface of ' 'Angel Levine" is the motive force behind the civil rights movement of the early nineteen sixties. Blacks and whites together ("We shall not be moved" ) integrated lunch counters, picketed Woolworth's, rode freedom buses South, desegregated schools, were bombed, hosed, bitten by dogs, jailed, beaten, sometimes murdered. Under pressure exerted by both races, the institutions of government and society seemed increasingly responsive to the demands for justice, ready to redeem the pledges of the American Revolution owed to its black citizens. On
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i He is a Jewish liquor dealer feeding off the need to dream, the desire to escape, a man who gives discounts to his better customers, thereby keeping them sedated and desensitized."
a hot, steamy day in August, 1963, Martin Luther King told a rainbow gathering of honorable, optimistic people massed before the Lincoln Memorial of a dream as old as hope. And "We Shall Overcome" became the nation's new anthem. Given this atmosphere, the pessimism of "Black Is My Favorite Color'' strikes with the uncommon force of prophecy. It is the story of the sweet-sour existence of the aptly named Nat Lime as he unsuccessfully attempts to counter through love the deepening hostility of blacks to all manifestations of white domination. He is a man who inhabits a black society in which the most preliminary human overtures are often seen as a purposeful extension of the white man's power. However, this unhappy portrait may be regarded as an overt extension of the underlying pressures noted in "Angel Levine." It is also worth observing at this point that while "Angel Levine" is a fantasy whose very form accentuates the implausible but humane conclusion, ' 'Black Is My Favorite Color" is quintessential realism, thereby reinforcing the truth of its unhappy ending. The title itself does not seem to imply the unconscious sense of Jewish moral superiority of ' 'Angel Levine,'' but rather a capacity to accept and love human difference. "I got an eye for color. I appreciate. Who wants," says Nat Lime, "everybody to be the same?" But "Black Is My Favorite Color'' as a title serves, in fact, to emphasize the ironic discrepancy between desire and reality that so dominates a story which opens in an environment of willed isolation and deliberately blurred identities: ' 'Charity Sweetness sits in the toilet eating her two hardboiled eggs while I'm having my ham sandwich and coffee in the kitchen. That's how it goes only don't get the idea of ghettoes. If there's a ghetto I'm the one that's in it." And it is the black
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maid who rejects the idea of community in the ritual act of breaking bread, sensing perhaps not the impulse to equality but the patronizing white employer, for whom she does housework: ' 'The first time Charity Sweetness came in to clean . . . I made the mistake to ask her to sit down at the kitchen table with me and eat her lunch.... So she cooked up her two hardboiled eggs and sat down and took a small bite out of one of them. But after a minute she stopped chewing and she got up and carried the eggs in a cup in the bathroom and since then she eats there." Nat Lime's bewildered readiness to accept "colored people" makes this intentional segregation an understandable gesture. In ' 'Angle Levine,'' the author tries to establish at least the appearance of brotherhood by creating a similarity of class. Nat Lime in "Black Is My Favorite Color'' is clearly an exploitative presence in Harlem, no longer a replica of the white milieu, but hostile territory. He is a Jewish liquor dealer feeding off the need to dream, the desire to escape, a man who gives discounts to his better customers, thereby keeping them sedated and desensitized. In describing the problems caused by the liquor traffic in the ghetto, Lenora Berson says: "Of all the enterprises that have exploited the poor, none has encouraged more atrocious social fallout than the liquor trade, which includes alcoholism, sexual promiscuity, family instability, violence, brutality and the improvident use of limited funds." And though Nat asserts that "personally for me there's only one human color and that's the color of blood," his vocabulary throughout the story reveals a preoccupation with the divisions that race creates. Blackness has always represented for Nat Lime the extremes of experience unavailable to a nice Jewish boy who at the age of forty was still dutifully living with his mother, and who can innocently claim ' Tm the kind of man when I think of love I'm thinking of marriage." Black lives, in both social and psychic terms, express the limits to which the human spirit can be stretched and still survive: Any Negro who wishes to live must live with danger from his first day, and no experience can ever be casual to him . . . knowing in the cells of his existence that life was war, nothing but war, . .. could rarely afford the sophisticated inhibitions of civilization and so he kept for his survival the art of the primitive, he lived in the enormous present. . . . Hated from the outside and therefore hating himself, the Negro was forced into exploring all those moral wildernesses of
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civilized life. . . . The Negro chose to move instead in that other direction where all situations are equally valid, and in the worst of perversion, promiscuity, pimpery, drug addiction, rape, razor-slash, bottlebreak . . . the Negro discovered and elaborated a morality of the bottom.
Although this is surely Norman Mailer's fantasy about black existence, as James Baldwin points out, it is nonetheless significant that it is precisely this rhetorical stance that becomes part of revolutionary black nationalism as it evolves in the late sixties and early seventies. Eldridge Cleaver put it succinctly: "The term outlaw appealed to m e . . . . I was an 'outlaw.' I had stepped outside of the white man's law, which I repudiated with scorn and selfsatisfaction, I became a law unto m y s e l f . . . . " As a child, Nat Lime was poor in a marginal white neighborhood, but the blacks were poorer still, their environment a perpetual reminder of the constancy of death: "the Negro houses looked to me like they had been born and died there, dead not long after the beginning of the world." And Nat is fully aware of the edge his whiteness confers, feeling a prick of conscience that must eventually be acknowledged: "In those days though I had little myself I was old enough to know who was better off, and the whole block of colored houses made me feel bad in the daylight." Black existence defines the complexity of human experience, providing for Nat a sense of what life is really like: "brother, if there can be like this, what can't there be?" This assumption naively and unwittingly exhibits that inherited sense of superiority to their poverty, coupled with a fear of the excesses of that black world. But Nat is also admitting an attraction to a world pulsating with vitality, a confession, perhaps, of an absent element in his own personality, a revelation seen by one of life's voyeurs: "Sometimes I was afraid to walk by the houses when they were dark and quiet.... I liked it better when they had parties at night and everybody had a good time. The musicians played their banjos and saxophones and the houses shook with the music and laughing." Violence, so integral to the black milieu he observes and an inevitable component of behavior under conditions of internal and external stress, horrifies Nat to the point of denying its necessary presence: "I was frightened by the blood and wanted to pour it back in the man who was bleeding.... I personally couldn't stand it, I was scared of the human race." Yet for the young Nat Lime, it is Buster Wilson's self-containment, his ability to
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confront his world of blood and to remain apparently untouched by its pain, that is an ineluctable part of his fascination: "but I remember Buster watching without any expression in his eyes." Blackness also represents the seductiveness of open sensuality, "the young girls, with their pretty dresses and ribbons . . . caught me in my throat when I saw them through the windows." It is therefore not surprising that it is only a black woman who excites Nat, saying of Ornita Harris' obvious sexual attractiveness and exoticism: "She was a slim woman, dark but not the most dark, about thirty years . .. also well built, with a combination nice legs and a good-size bosom that I like. Her face was pretty, with big eyes and high cheek bones, but lips a little thick.... That was the night she wore a purple dress and I thought to myself, my God, what colors. Who paints that picture paints a masterpiece. Everybody looked at us but I had pleasure.'' Yet the physical presence of her sexuality is described as white: "Under her purple dress she wore a black slip, and when she took that off she had white underwear. When she took off the white underwear she was black again. But I know where the next white was ..." Given Nat Lime's complex but ambiguous responses, it is not surprising that his efforts to establish actual relationships with blacks fail, leaving the human contract unfulfilled. His putative friendship with Buster is part envy, part guilt, an effort that barely recognizes Buster as a human being. He envies Buster's independence, "I liked his type. Buster did everything alone." Nat Lime's underlying attitudes at this point, and through the entire story, resemble those which Norman Podhoretz described in his famous essay, "My Negro Problem—And Ours'': What counted for me about Negro kids of my own age was that they were "bad boys." There were plenty of bad boys among the whites . . . but the Negroes were really bad, bad in a way that beckoned to one, and made one feel inadequate. We all went home every day for a lunch of spinach-and-potatoes; they roamed around during lunch hour, munching on candy bars.... We rarely played hookey, or got into serious trouble in school, for all our streetcorner bravado; they were defiant, forever staying out (to do what delicious things?), forever making disturbances in class and in the halls, forever being sent to the principal and returning uncowed. But most important of all, they were tough; beautifully, enviably tough, not giving a damn for anyone or anything.... To hell with the whole of the adult world that held us in its grip and that we never had the courage to rebel against. .. .
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This is what I saw and envied and feared in the Negro....
Nat is ashamed of his whiteness, the sign of his responsibility for the conditions which determine the contours of Buster's life. But when Buster invites him into his home, Nat only wishes to escape the impoverished reality of what he sees there, ' 'it smelled so heavy, so impossible, I died till I got out of there. What I saw in the way of furniture I won't mention—the best was falling apart in pieces." So Nat mitigates his guilt by giving Buster those fragments of whiteness he can afford to part with, assuming, of course, that Buster wants those emblems of conscience: "I stole an extra fifteen cents from my mother's pocketbook and I ran back and asked Buster if he wanted to go to the movies . . . which includes my invitations to go with me, my (poor mother's) movie money, Hershey chocolate bars, watermelon slices, even my best Nick Carter and Merriwell books that I spent hours picking up in junk shops, and that he never gave me back." His affair with Ornita Harris, however, seems an honest attempt to accept her blackness and to love at last. Yet strain and ambivalence are always present. His initial rebellion is a pallid one, minimizing risk and courting safety. On their first date, he takes her to Greenwich Village, a bohemian environment which willingly tolerates interracialism. He will not take her home to meet his dying mother— that is too great a chance to take. They have their first sexual encounter in a rented room. Only when his mother and the tradition she embodies ("Nathan," she said,' 'if you ever forget you are a Jew a goy will remind you") is dead, can his rebellion become more overt and seek society: he sells his mother's bed; he invites Ornita into his home; he takes her to meet carefully chosen, liberal friends; he proposes marriage. But this time it is the black community that will not sanction such a union because it is a relationship that seems to reenact the sexual pattern of slavery: the black woman considered only as an object to be manipulated by the white man's lust, no matter how strong are Nat's protestations of love and affection. Significantly, it is at this juncture that the young black men, serving as the active agents of community disapproval, choose to remind Nat of his position as economic exploiter: "You talk like a Jew landlord," said the green hat. "Fifty a week for a single room." "No charge fo' the rats," said the half-inch brim.
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In this atmosphere, shaped by overt hostility, unspoken anger, and unconscious ambivalence, the reassuring notion that love can solve all problems seems unworkable. Nat is incapable of understanding the continued refusals his giving impulse has met with, because he is trapped by the complicated ambiguities of his own responses. He cannot see that to be defined solely in terms of the experiences inaccessible to the white man, to be wanted only as the complement to an incomplete self, is sufficient cause for rejection. Nor is he conscious of his social and political situation in an environment that regards him as the enemy, where even a blind man senses his whiteness and spurns his help. Nat Lime is finally left in his bewilderment to confront a locked door behind which Charity Sweetness sits in splendid isolation. Indeed the world has become a series of locked doors through which love cannot enter, for ' 'the language of the heart either is a dead language or else nobody understands the way you speak it." Source: Iska Alter, "The Broader Canvas: Malamud, the Blacks, and the Jews,'' in The Good Man's Dilemma: Social Criticism in the Fiction of Bernard Malamud, AMS Press, Inc., 1981, pp. 62-82.
Sources Abramson, Edward A., Bernard Malamud Revisited, Twayne Publishers, 1993, p. 90. Alter, Iska, "The Broader Canvas: Malamud, the Blacks, and the Jews," in The Good Man's Dilemma: Social Criticism in the Fiction of Bernard Malamud, AMS Press, Inc., 1981, p. 68. Alter, Robert, "Ordinary Anguish," in the New York Times Book Review, October 16, 1983, pp. 1, 35-6. Bellman, Samuel Irving, "Women, Children, and Idiots First: Transformation Psychology," in Bernard Malamud and the Critics, New York University Press, 1970, pp. 19-20. Boaz, Amy, Review of The Complete Stories, in Library Journal, July 1997, p. 129. Field, Leslie A., and Joyce W. Field, "An Interview with Bernard Malamud," in Bernard Malamud: A Collection of Critical Essays, edited by Leslie A. Field and Joyce W. Field, Prentice-Hall, Inc., 1975, p. 11. , "Introduction—Malamud, Mercy, and Menschlechtkeit," in Bernard Malamud: A Collection of Critical Essays, edited by Leslie A. Field and Joyce W. Field, Prentice-Hall, Inc., 1975, p. 7. Fuchs, Marcia G., Review of The Stories of Bernard Malamud, in Library Journal, December 1, 1983, p. 2262.
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Oilman, Richard, "Malamud's Grace: Humanism with and without Tears," in the New Republic, Vol. 194, No. 19, May 12, 1986, pp. 40-1. Gray, Paul, "Heroism without Sentiment," in Time, October 17, 1983, p. 92. Helterman, Jeffrey, "Bernard Malamud," in Dictionary of Literary Biography, Vol. 2: American Novelists Since World War II, edited by Jeffrey Helterman and Richard Layman, Gale Research, 1978, pp. 291-303. Lyons, Gene, "A Chosen People," in Newsweek, October 17, 1983, pp. 86-87. Malamud, Bernard, "Black Is My Favorite Color," in The Complete Stories, edited by Robert Giroux, Noonday Press, 1997, pp. 331-39. Ochshorn, Kathleen G., "Idiots First: Shared Suffering on a Sinking Ship," in The Heart's Essential Landscape: Bernard Malamud's Hero, Peter Lang, 1990, p. 124. Richman, Sidney, Bernard Malamud, Twayne Publishers, Inc., 1966, p. 134-35,138. Solotaroff, Robert, "Bernard Malamud," in American Writers, Supp. 1, Vol. 2, Charles Scribner's Sons, 1979, pp. 427-53.
Further Reading Avery, Evelyn, ed., The Magic Worlds of Bernard Malamud, SUNY Series in Modern Jewish Literature and Culture, State University of New York Press, 2001.
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Evelyn Avery, an important scholar on Malamud, has collected essays on the author's fiction by various literary scholars. The book covers a wide range of subjects, from Zen Buddhism to Yiddish archetypes. Bloom, Harold, ed., Bernard Malamud, Modern Critical Views, Chelsea House Publications, 2000. This book is a collection of critical selections about Bernard Malamud, which includes an introductory essay by Bloom, editor's notes on each of the individual analyses, bibliographies on Malamud, notes about each of the contributing critics, and chronologies. Levine, Rhonda F., Class, Networks, and Identity, Rowman & Littlefield Publishing, 2001. This book details how a group of Jewish refugees who emigrated to America from Nazi Germany began to dominate cattle-dealing in South Central New York, while trying to maintain their Jewish identity in the predominantly Christian communities. Levine examines the unique role Jewish women played in managing this transition to the United States by helping their husbands accumulate capital within their new country and working to recreate a German Jewish Community. Sio-Castineira, Begona, The Short Stories of Bernard Malamud: In Search of Jewish Post-Immigrant Identity, Peter Lang Publishing, 1998. The author examines ten of the short stories found in Malamud's 1983 collection, The Short Stories of Bernard Malamud, paying particular attention to the spiritual situation of the modern Jewish American and focusing on the complex structure of the selected tales.
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Dharma Vikram Chandra
1994
Vikram Chandra's story ' 'Dharma'' is set in Bombay, India, and revolves around Major General Jago Antia, a senior officer in the Indian Army. Jago Antia has built up a legendary career in the military and he is universally admired and respected by the junior officers. But when he resigns from the army because of an incurable ' 'phantom'' pain in his leg that had been amputated twenty years earlier, he returns to his empty family home in Bombay. There he discovers that he faces a test quite different from those he is used to encountering in army life: the house is haunted, and Jago Antia must somehow face up to the ghosts of his past. Chandra uses this premise to tell a modern ghost story while at the same time providing an intriguing twist to the venerable ghost story genre. "Dharma" is a story not only about ghosts. It is also about duty (which is roughly what the title "Dharma," an Indian word, means), acceptance, and the peculiar ways in which past and present interact in the mind of a single individual. First published in Paris Review in 1994 and included as one of five stories in Chandra's collection, Love and Longing in Bombay (1997), "Dharma" is an unusual contribution to the growing body of Indian literature written in English that has been published over the last two decades.
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Author Biography Vikram Chandra was born on July 23, 1961, in New Delhi, India, the son of Navin (a company president) and Kamna (a screenwriter, playwright, and author) Chandra. He received most of his secondary education at Mayo College, a boarding school in Ajmer, Rajasthan, where his work was published in the school's literary magazine. After attending St. Xavier's College in Bombay for a short period, Chandra came to the United States as an undergraduate student in the early 1980s. In 1984, he graduated from Pomona College in Claremont, near Los Angeles, with a Bachelor of Arts degree (magna cum laude) in English, with a concentration in creative writing. Chandra then attended the Film School at Columbia University in New York, dropping out halfway through the program in order to begin work on a novel. He enrolled in a Master of Arts degree program at Johns Hopkins University, where he studied with John Barth. He also founded Letters and Light, a computer programming and consulting firm. His clients included oil companies, nonprofit organizations, and the Houston Zoo. Chandra graduated from Johns Hopkins University in 1987 and, at the suggestion of Barth, went to study under Donald Barthelme, who was head of the writing program at the University of Houston in Texas. Chandra regards Barthelme as his most important teacher. Chandra became an adjunct professor at the University of Houston, from 1987 to 1993, and he also received a master of fine arts degree from that university in 1992. He was a visiting writer at George Washington University, Washington, D.C., from 1994 to 1995, and it was during this period that his short story "Dharma" was published in the Paris Review and won that journal's Discovery Prize. Chandra's first novel, Red Earth and Pouring Rain: A Novel, which took him six years to write, was published in 1995. It won the David Higham Prize in Fiction from the Book Trust, London, England, in 1995 and the Commonwealth Writers Prize: Best First Book in 1996. Chandra commented that the form of the story was inspired by the stories he had grown up with from the long Indian epics and popular Indian movies. Two volumes of short stories followed in quick succession: Tales of Love and Longing (1996), and Love and Longing in Bombay: Stories (1997). Love
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and Longing in Bombay was short-listed for the Guardian Fiction Prize and was included in ' 'Notable Books of 1997" by the New York Times Book Review. Chandra was also author of the television series ' 'City of Gold'' produced in Bombay in 1996. Chandra currently divides his time between Bombay and Washington, D.C., where he teaches creative writing at George Washington University.
Plot Summary ' 'Dharma'' begins in a bar in Bombay, India, called the Fisherman's Rest. The young narrator, who works for a software company, describes a thin, white-haired old man named Subramaniam, who is often to be seen at the bar. Subramaniam had been joint secretary of the Ministry of Defence, where he had worked for forty-one years, and was now retired. Ramani introduces the narrator to Subramaniam. Ramani is telling the group about an old house in the city that cannot be sold because people believe it is haunted. The narrator pours scorn on this idea and laments the fact that educated men and women can believe in such things. But then Subramaniam speaks up in a small, whispery voice
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and says he knew a man once who met a ghost. He then tells the story. Subramaniam's story begins with fifty-yearold Major General Jago Antia, who is in charge of fighting an insurgency. (Jago is a nickname given to him early in his military career; his real name is Jehangir.) Jago Antia has had a distinguished military career which has made him famous, and he is revered by the men under his command. The day of his fiftieth birthday, Jago Antia feels an ache in his missing leg, which had been amputated twenty years earlier. The pain does not go away and he is unable to sleep. Reluctantly, he takes medication but the pain only gets worse. Feeling that he can no longer function at the high standard he expects of himself, he resigns his command. He then travels back from Calcutta to his family home in Bombay. It is an old house, now lived in only by the old housekeeper, Amir Khan. Jago Antia's parents are dead and since he has no intention of living in the house for long, he tells Amir Khan that he plans to sell it. That night as Jago Antia tries to sleep, he hears a voice. At first he thinks it belongs to Amir Khan, but he nonetheless gets out of bed and goes to investigate. He walks to the hallway and then climbs the staircase. He hears the voice again and realizes it is too young to be Amir Khan. Then he senses something moving and hears the swish of feet on the ground. On the floor he sees the shape of shoes, which are making footprints as they approach him. Initially he freezes, but then convinces himself that what he saw was a trick of the light. He continues to ascend the staircase but he feels an icy chill, hears the voice again and then collapses and slides down the stairs. He reaches the bottom and sits there, frightened, until dawn. For three days he paces up and down at the bottom of the stairs. Meanwhile his longtime batman, Thapa, arrives at the house. Jago Antia inquires about selling the house but his lawyer, Tody walla, says it is impossible because there is "something" there. Thapa suggests bringing in an exorcist who can remove it. Jago Antia tries to convince himself that this is all nonsense, but that night he hears the voice again. He and the terrified Thapa ascend the stairs to investigate. Jago Antia reaches the balcony, and the voice comes from around a corner, saying, with a sob, "Where shall I go?" Jago Antia backs away and falls. The narrative then flashes back to the time when Jago Antia loses his leg. He parachutes down
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with his Indian forces to the town of Sylhet where they are opposed by Pakistani troops. (The war is most likely the one that was fought in 1971, when India supported what was then East Pakistan, now Bangladesh, in its struggle for independence from West Pakistan. Sylhet is located in Bangladesh.) As Jago Antia and his men move into the burning city, he steps on a mine that explodes. His men carry him into a house, and, as he forces himself to sit up, he sees that his right leg is destroyed below the knee. He orders the nursing assistant to cut it off, but the man tells him that there is no instrument available to carry out his command. Jago Antia's radioman, Jung, will not do it either, so Jago Antia asks him for his kukri (knife), and cuts off his leg himself. Then he takes command of the battle once more, giving instructions over the radio. Returning to the story's present, Jago Antia wakes and, for a while, does not know where he is. Then a doctor comes and tells him there are no injuries following his fall. Two days later, the exorcist, a man named Thakker, comes and performs a ceremony. He reports that the strange entity is very strong and immovable—it is a child that is looking for something. He says that he cannot remove it. Only someone who knows it and is from its family can help it. That person must go naked and alone and meet it and ask it what it wants. That night, Jago Antia ascends the stairs. He knows who it is who waits for him. As he reaches the balcony he peers into his mother's room, and memories of his childhood begin to return. He remembers walking down the stairs with his mother and father to where his family is gathered. His dead brother Sohrab, whom he always called Soli, has been laid out and draped in a white sheet. Jago Antia moves down the corridor, feeling the presence of the ghost all around him. He reaches the room that used to be both his and Soli's room. He goes in and sits on the bed. More memories of childhood flood in—of how he and Soli had once fought; of how he, Jehangir, had lost; and of how Soli was fearless and a leader. Then he remembers a Sunday afternoon in which they were visited by his favorite uncle, the soldier, Burjor Mama. Trembling, Jago Antia ascends another flight of stairs, following the ghost. Obeying the injunction to be naked, he removes his plastic leg. Memories of Burjor Mama buying the boys a kite come. They run to the roof with it.
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As Jago Antia continues to ascend, he recalls a terrible incident. As the boys quarrel about who is to fly the kite, Soli falls three feet to the lower level of the roof and is killed. Jago Antia hears the ghostly voice again and asks, "What do you want?" More memories of the accident rush into his mind. At dawn, Jago Antia again asks the ghost what it wants. He sees a boy, who turns to face him. The boy is wearing a uniform of olive green and asks again,' 'Where shall I go?'' Jago Antia then remembers his seventh birthday party, his first since Soli died. His parents wanted to give him a present, but he did not want anything. Then he said that he wanted a uniform. Jago Antia looks at the boy as he approaches and sees the letters above the pocket: J. ANTIA. It is himself. Then he sees the boy clearly, and he also sees the whole course of his own life. He tells the boy that he is already at home, implying that he does not need to go anywhere. Coming up the stairs, Thapa and Amir Khan approach Jago Antia. Jago Antia says that the ghost has gone and when they ask who it was, he says, "Someone I didn't know before." He leans on their shoulders and descends the stairs. He feels free and happy. The story ends with the three men sitting on the porch drinking tea.
Characters Major General Jago Antia Major General Jago Antia, whose given name was Jehangir, is the principal character in the story. He is a man of iron self-discipline and strong will power, but he is also lonely. Following the death of his brother, Soli, he decides, when still a young boy, that he wants to go into the military. He excels at military academy, winning a gold medal for best cadet and goes on to an extremely successful career in the army. He wins many medals and becomes famous for his tactical skills. But when he is about thirty, he leads an attack by the Indian Army on the town of Sylhet, which is held by Pakistani forces, and his leg is shattered by a mine. He amputates the leg below the knee himself. His handicap does not impair his military career, however, and the loss of his leg becomes part of the legend that surrounds him. Even at the age of fifty, he is able to shame men twenty years younger than he by his ability to traverse jungle terrain.
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When Jago Antia is troubled by a persistent pain in his missing leg, he realizes that it is impairing his efficiency at his job. Fearing that he will soon make a mistake that will get some of his young soldiers killed, he resigns from his command. After his resignation and his return to his family home in Bombay, Jago Antia faces what might be seen as his toughest test. He must come to terms with his boyhood self, which returns in the form of a ghost, and with the course his adult life took. As with all the other challenges Jago Antia has faced in his life, he rises to the task, and after encountering the ghost of his youthful self, he finds the peace that had formerly eluded him.
Jung Jung is the nineteen-year-old radioman in the Indian Para Brigade under Jago Antia's command. When Jago Antia is wounded at the battle for the city of Sylhet, Jung cannot bring himself to obey Jago Antia's command to amputate his commander's leg, but he hands over his knife so that Jago Antia can do the job himself.
Amir Khan Amir Khan is the old housekeeper at Jago Antia's family home. He has a thin neck, with a white beard "that gave him the appearance of a heron."
Burjor Mama Burjor Mama is Jago Antia's uncle, his mother's younger brother. Jago Antia remembers him from his boyhood. Burjor Mama is a soldier and the favorite uncle of Jehangir and Soli. He is a man of unceasing energy who takes the boys out on many trips. He also buys them a kite, and it is while playing with the kite that Soli meets with his fatal accident.
The Narrator The narrator is the unnamed man at the beginning of the story who describes his meeting with Subramaniam at the Fisherman's Rest. The narrator works for a software company and prides himself on being very modern in his outlook. When he hears the ghost story that Subramaniam tells, it contradicts his entire way of seeing the world.
Sohrab See Soli
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Soli Soli is Jago Antia's older brother. He is a born leader, a boy who would always win in fights against the neighborhood boys. He is also a promising young cricketer. He dies while still a young boy after falling from a roof while flying a kite.
Subramaniam Subramaniam is a thin, old man with white hair who spends much of his time in a bar called the Fisherman's Rest. He is retired from the Ministry of Defence, where he worked for over forty years. He speaks in a small, whispery voice, and it is he who tells the story of Jago Antia and the ghost.
Thakker Thakker is a middle-aged sales manager from a large electronics company. He also serves as an exorcist and performs a religious ceremony aimed at removing the ghost from Jago Antia's house. He informs Jago Antia that the ghost is that of a child and cannot be moved, except by a member of its own family.
Thapa Thapa is a small, round man who is Jago Antia's batman, or servant. The two men have known each other for thirty years and their relationship is a close one. It is Thapa who arranges for the exorcist to come to the house and try to remove the ghost.
Todywalla Todywalla is the attorney consulted by Jago Antia about the sale of the haunted house. Todywalla says that the house cannot be sold because there is "something" in it and no one will buy it.
Themes Duty and Acceptance The title of the story is a Sanskrit word that means literally "right action." It is commonly translated into English as "duty" and also "righteousness," but both these are narrower concepts than implied by the Sanskrit term. According to Indian philosopher Radhakrishnan, in The Hindu View of Life, the word dharma comes from the root dhr, to hold. Dharma means "that which holds a thing and maintains it in being."
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Every form of life, every person and every group, has its dharma. In practical terms, dharma refers to a mode of activity that maintains life on the path of spiritual evolution and righteousness. For example, if a man has great musical talent and becomes a violinist, he is pursuing his dharma—the mode of activity that best suits his specific abilities. If he were to ignore his real calling and pursue some other profession or occupation, he would not be following his dharma. However, not every person understands clearly his or her dharma, the activity that fulfills the criterion of' 'right action'' in their specific situation in life. And even when a person is living in accordance with his dharma, he may still have some regrets or misgivings about other paths in life not taken. In this lies the key to understanding the subtleties of the story ' 'Dharma." It is a story about the mysterious ways through which a person becomes who he is and chooses his life purpose. It is also about acceptance of one's duty and one's destiny, whatever that may be. The theme becomes apparent in the climactic moment when Jago Antia finally comes face to face with the ghost of his childhood self. After this encounter, he acquires knowledge and acceptance. What Jago Antia sees in the child that is, or was, himself are the seeds of all the qualities that he later expressed in his life:' 'his vicious and ravenous strength, his courage and his devotion, his silence and his pain, his whole misshapen and magnificent life." This life began to take the shape that it did when Jago Antia was a seven-year-old boy, and was still called by his given name, Jehangir. The crucial moment is his seventh birthday party, his first since the death of his brother, Soli. When pressed by his parents to say what gift he wishes for, Jehangir can at first think of nothing to say. Then he suddenly asks for a uniform. Obviously he is remembering the uniform that his favorite uncle, Burjor Mama, wore. The young Jehangir had lain on the bed beside the uniform and absorbed its peculiar smell. The name B. MEHTA (his uncle's name) was sewn into his uniform above the breast pocket, just as J. ANTIA appears on the pocket of the uniform that the child-ghost is wearing. From that point on, Jehangir's future was determined—he wore a uniform with all it implies— even though at the time he could hardly have realized the implications of his request. Sure enough, as soon as he was old enough, he joined the Indian military. Why did he ask for a uniform? Perhaps as a
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Topics for Further Study • In "Dharma," Jago Antia leads Indian forces against those of Pakistan during the war between India and Pakistan in 1971. Research this war. What was the cause? What was the outcome? Why did India support East Pakistan, now Bangladesh? Why is there continuing hostility between India and Pakistan today? • Read a ghost story by another author and compare it to "Dharma." Which is the more successful as a ghost story and why? • One of the reasons Chandra writes stories is to express a variety of, what he called, ' 'visions of
child he absorbed from his uncle a dim sense of dharma, that it was his duty to follow the uncle he loved into uniform. In this sense, he was following a family dharma. It is this realization that gives Jago Antia the sense of peace and acceptance with which the story ends: in spite of all the difficulties he experienced in life, he knows that he was following his duty or dharma throughout his long and successful military career, and in that he can be happy. But this explanation does not do full justice to the subtlety of the theme, since there is an ambiguous quality to Jago Antia's final realizations about "his whole misshapen and magnificent life." The words "misshapen" and "magnificent" do not sit well together, and the keyword here may well be "misshapen." It suggests that something about this "magnificent" life was not quite right, and it is certainly an odd word to use if Jago Antia's final realization was solely that his life had been lived in accordance with his dharma. If that was so, how could it be described as misshapen? Of course, the word "misshapen" might apply to any human life, since it is rare for anyone to live a life that entirely conforms in every respect to the person's desires and goals. But the use of the word may imply more than this, that Jago Antia's life was misshapen in some more fundamental regard, mag-
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the world." What vision of the world is conveyed by "Dharma?" What worldview is implied by a belief in ghosts? Is a belief in ghosts and other supernatural phenomena incompatible with a scientific worldview? • Watch a video of the 2000 movie The Kid, in which the adult character, played by Bruce Willis, encounters his childhood self. Are there any parallels in this movie to the story told in "Dharma?" If you were able to encounter your seven-year-old self, as Jago Antia does in the story, what do you think he or she might say to you? And what would you say to him or her?
nificent though it might have been in many respects. The image conjured up by "misshapen" is in stark contrast to the way, as a child, Jehangir stands up straight as he looks at his parents and asks for a uniform. Something, somewhere, went wrong with his life. Certainly, Jago Antia is not a man who exhibits much joy in life. He is highly self-disciplined and deeply respected by his men, but perhaps this came at the cost of his personal enjoyment of things. He is a lonely figure, an austere individual exhibiting a high degree of control over his emotions and his responses to events in his life. His comment at the end of the story, after he has recognized the ghost as his child-self, suggests that he now realizes that the life he has lived, and is still living, is somehow offcourse, but it cannot be changed now. ' 'He knew he was still and forever Jago Antia, that for him it was too late for anything but a kind of solitude." Perhaps Jago Antia became the sort of man he did—of stern character, unyielding in the demands he made of himself—because of feelings of guilt over the death of his brother Soli. Or perhaps it was from a desire to please his parents by excelling at whatever he did, just as Soli had done. Whatever was the cause, the implication is that since every choice made in life closes off other possibilities,
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when seven-year-old Jehangir chose a uniform, he cut himself off from an aspect of his own nature— that part of himself that might have done many things other than serve in the military. He might have expressed many different qualities than those that found an outlet in the life he did in fact live. To use the jargon of popular psychology, Jago Antia leaves his "inner child" behind. This lost ghostchild has remained quite unknown to Jago Antia, a fact that is conveyed by the difference in their names: the boy is called Jehangir, but the adult is known only by the nickname Jago, which was bestowed on him in the military academy. When Jago Antia finally encounters his childhood self, he realizes the paradoxical nature of his life, at once "misshapen" and "magnificent," and he accepts it. Knowledge and acceptance exorcise the ghost and change the man, which is why the final scene is a contented one. Jago Antia is shown enjoying fellowship with those who are technically his social inferiors; he is able to laugh and to enjoy the simple pleasure of drinking a cup of tea—a scene that one suspects has not happened very often in his life.
For example, this is the incident in which Jaga Antia steps on a mine: He started off confidently across the street, and then all the sound in the world vanished, leaving a smooth silence, he had no recollection of being thrown, but now he was falling through the air, down, he felt distinctly the impact of the ground, but again there was nothing, no sound.
This technique is used again frequently when Jago Antia encounters the ghost: And then he was at the bottom of a flight of stairs, he knew he had to go up, because it had gone before him, and now he stumbled because the pain came, and it was full of fear, he went up, one two three, and then leaned over, choking.
Using run-on sentences in this way is appropriate for the situation as it expresses the idea of thoughts rushing quickly through a frightened mind. It is also appropriate that the thoughts belong to Jago Antia, who is normally such a controlled, selfdisciplined individual. It shows that he is being taken out of his normal orderly forms of thinking and acting.
Styl<
Frame-Story and Flashback
Language
A frame-story is a narrative within which a character tells a story. Thus in ' 'Dharma," the main story, that of Jago Antia, is introduced by another narrative in which the narrator tells of his first meeting with Subramaniam. The narrator complains about the backwardness of people in Bombay who believe in superstitions like ghosts. This remark creates the link to the main story.
Modern Indian authors writing in English often use words from Indian languages in their work. This accurately reflects the way people in India express themselves when they are speaking English. For example, in ' 'Dharma," words that are not found in any English dictionary are used frequently, usually italicized but with no explanation of what they mean. The reader is left to deduce the meaning from the context. These terms include kutri, a knife used by warriors; sahayak, a batman, which is a servant to an officer in the British army—the term appears to have been adopted for officers in the Indian army too; dal, a dish made of lentils; dhoti, a loincloth worn by Hindus; and thali, a dish. The words sadra, manjha, and diya are also used.
Run-on Sentences At times, when the story describes moments of great excitement or stress, the author alters the grammatical syntax (sentence structure) to incorporate run-on sentences, combining multiple indepen-
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dent clauses into a single sentence, joined only by commas, not semicolons, as correct grammar would dictate.
The structure of the story employs two techniques: the frame-story and the flashback.
The story told by Subramaniam jumps back and forth in time. It begins when Jago Antia is fifty years old, and then flashes back to twenty years earlier when he amputated his own leg. Then the narrative returns to the present, but when Jago Antia encounters the ghost, his mind flashes back to several incidents in his childhood, and, at times, past and present become almost indistinguishable before the narrative returns to the present at the end of the story.
Foreshadowing Using the technique of foreshadowing, an author can hint at events or themes that only become
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fully developed or known later in the narrative. The technique can prepare the reader for what happens later. There are several examples of foreshadowing in "Dharma," a story that revolves around a memory of the past. When Jago Antia resigns his command and travels home to Bombay, he remembers his fifth grade classroom and other things from his childhood. He resents the memory because it seems useless to him. (There is also an irony here because he will later find that understanding childhood memories is vital to his wellbeing.) As he alights from the train he feels covered in an ' 'oily film of recollection." Then a remark by Thapa has him thinking back to when he was a boy: "For a moment Jago Antia felt time slipping around him like a dark wave, but then he shook away the feeling and stood up." This expresses the fact that Jago Antia is being pulled back into the uncomfortable memories of the past quite well, but the significance of this will not be known until later. Foreshadowing also occurs during the flashback, as Jago Antia commands his troops in the assault on Sylhet. He looks at a decades-old radio, to which he is listening to a news broadcast, and something about it makes him uneasy: [A] shiver came from low on his back into his heart, a whisper of something so tiny that he could not name it, and yet it broke his concentration and took him away from his body and this room with its drapes of cloth to somewhere else, a flickering vision of a room, curtains blowing in a gusting wind, a feeling of confusion.
The reader learns later that this is a suppressed memory of his childhood, when his brother Soli possesses a radio that Jehangir was not allowed to touch but which fascinated him. The foreshadowing shows how much memories from the past affected Jago Antia twenty years earlier, and lays the foundation for the later scene in which he is forced to confront these memories directly.
Symbolism Jago Antia's amputated leg and its plastic replacement serve as a visible symbol of the fact that, at the psychic level, he is severed from a part of himself (his wandering child-self). Something real has been lost, and something false has attached itself to him. The phantom ache that he feels in the amputated leg symbolizes the fact that this psychic wound is
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still present. The sudden and persistent presence of the ache also suggests that the time for healing is at hand. When Jago Antia encounters the ghost, his instruction is to do so naked, meaning that he must not present any false appearances, but only his true self. He also realizes that this includes removing the false leg, a moment which is strongly emphasized in the narrative as Jago Antia says, '"All right you bastard, naked, naked,' and he tore at the straps, and then the leg rolled down the stairs to the bottom." At the end of the story he is able to strap the leg on once more, and it is fair to assume that he will no longer feel the ache.
Historical Context Indian Literature in English Love and Longing in Bombay (1997), the collection of stories in which "Dharma" appeared, was published at a time when literature written by Indians in English was enjoying unprecedented growth and critical acclaim. This development began in the 1980s with the publication of Salman Rushdie's Midnight's Children (1981). The success of this novel convinced publishers in the West that there was a commercial market for Indian fiction. Since then, many other Indian authors, writing in English, have made their mark outside their native land. In addition to Rushdie, these include Rohinton Mistry (Such a Long Journey and A Fine Balance); Arundhati Roy (The God of Small Things, which won Britain's prestigious Booker Prize), Anita Desai (Clear Light of Day and In Custody), Amit Chaudhuri (Freedom Song), Vikram Seth (A Suitable Boy), and Amitav Ghosh (Shadow Lines). Although these writers are all from the Indian urban middle- and upper-middle classes, they do not form a single literary movement or school. However, what they do have in common is that their work is set in India, they use the English language in a distinctively Indian way, and many of them employ the techniques of "magical realism" (the inclusion of supernatural or fantastic elements in the narrative). Many of them live outside India (Chandra, for example, divides his time between Washington,
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D.C. and Bombay). One reason for this is that it is easier for them to make a living as a writer in the United States than it is in India. In recent years, British and American publishers have sought out emerging Indian writers and offered them large advances for their work. This explosion of English-language creativity on the part of Indian writers, which shows no sign of diminishing, could not have been predicted a generation ago. Although in the 1930s and 1940s, Indian writers such as Mulk Raj Anand and R. K. Narayan produced notable works written in English, the future of English-language Indian fiction did not look promising. In the 1960s, thirteen years after India achieved its independence from Britain, the national government had decided to establish Hindi as the official language. But English continued to grow as a world language, and as Indian and Pakistani writers living in the West continued to write in English, so did others still in India. Since Rushdie's groundbreaking Midnight's Children, English-language Indian fiction has, in the opinion of some experts, produced a body of work superior in quality to anything written in any of the eighteen other languages of India (these are known as India's "vernacular" languages, and include Urdu, Hindi, Bengali, Gujarati, and Marathi). Rushdie himself, writing in The New Yorker in 1997, said, "The true Indian literature of the first postcolonial half century has been made in the language the British left behind." Not all Indians would accept this, however, and there is, according to Rushdie (and Chandra as well), a belief amongst some Indian critics and scholars that Indians who write in English and have won prominence in Western literary circles are too cosmopolitan, too concerned with writing for the West, to be authentically Indian. Chandra reports in "The Cult of Authenticity: India's Cultural Commissars Worship 'Indianness' Instead of Art," that he was once accused by an Indian academic of choosing the titles of his stories such as "Dharma," "Shakti," and "Shanti" from Sanskrit words for the sole reason of signaling to Western readers, for commercial reasons, that the work had Indian content, since no Indian writing in an Indian language would use these terms (a statement that Chandra vigorously challenged and refuted by finding many such words in the titles of Indian literature written in Hindi and Bengali, and in films made by Indians).
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In reply to Indian critics who believe there is something intrinsically un-Indian about writing in English, Rushdie pointed out in his New Yorker article that English has been spoken long enough in India to have become the equivalent of an indigenous language, not merely the language of the colonial power. He also pointed out that Urdu, which is considered a language indigenous to India, was originally brought to India by Muslim conquerors. This issue of whether a formerly colonized people should use the language of the colonizer (thereby reaching a wider international audience but excluding many groups in the former colony) is part of a wider debate that surrounds what scholars call postcolonial literature. This term refers to literature written mostly by African and Asian authors in the period following their nations' independence from the colonizing European powers. Chandra's novel Red Earth and Pouring Rain (1995) is considered a good example of postcolonial literature, since it ranges over both Indian and Western culture, revealing the interaction between them. There is also a hint in "Dharma" of what postcolonial studies describe as "neocolonialism": the process by which formerly colonized countries engage in Western-driven modernization and economic globalization. The hint is in the first two pages, in which two very different Bombays are presented. One is the corporate world of a modernizing city, with its air-conditioned, streamlined office buildings in which computer technology firms flourish; the other is an older, premodern Bombay in which folk beliefs and superstitions hold up the transaction of business in areas of prime real estate.
Critical Overview First published in the literary magazine Paris Review in 1994, "Dharma" was reprinted as one of the five stories in Chandra's collection, Love and Longing in Bombay. The collection as a whole was received with enthusiasm. "A brilliant work," declared Kirkus Reviews, and the reviewer also commented that' 'Each [story] recounts a quest of some kind, and all are distinguished by unusually detailed and persuasive characterizations."
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Indian troops during the India-Pakistan war in 1971
Shashi Tharoor, in the New York Times, declared that Love and Longing in Bombay "stands out as a considerable accomplishment, one in which the author marries his storytelling prowess to a profound understanding of India's ageless and everchanging society." Publishers Weekly offered the following general assessment, which certainly can be applied to "Dharma": "Impeccably controlled, intelligent, sensuous and sometimes grim, Chandra's timeless and timely book is remarkably life-affirming, considering the dark areas of the heart he explores." The verdict of Aamer Hussein, in London's Times Literary Supplement, was that the stories exhibit "a lazy charm which defies the constraints of the traditional, well-made story, meandering and flowing through the rhythms of city life to their destination." Hussein also noted that there are parallels with other Indian writers, including Salman Rushdie, Rohinton Mistry, and Shobha De, in Chandra's choice of Bombay as a setting. In his depiction of Bombay, Chandra is clearly an "insider." Francis King, writing in The Spectator, described Chandra as ' 'that rare thing, a writer who is
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simultaneously a master story-teller and a master stylist." King did have reservations, however, about the device of dual narrators, which Chandra used in all five stories: "This device .. . seems clumsy in comparison with the adroitness of each story itself."
Criticism Bryan Aubrey Aubrey holds a Ph.D. in English and has published many articles on twentieth-century literature. In this essay, Aubrey shows that while ' 'Dharma'' has many elements that are traditional ghost story fare, it also contains innovations that make it an unusual and original contribution to the genre.
In a 1998 interview with Kevin Mahoney for the online literary magazine Genre, Chandra said that the origin of his book Love and Longing in Bombay lay in his love of ghost stories, especially listening to ghost stories told about empty houses in Bombay:
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What Do I Read Next? • Red Earth and Pouring Rain(l995) is Chandra's epic and magical realist first novel, set not only in India but also in the United States. It contains many stories-within-stories of passion, fate, love, and war, told by a monkey in whom dwells the soul of a poet named Sanjay. • The Haunted Looking Glass: Ghost Stories (2001), edited by Edward Gorey, is a reprint of a classic collection first published in 1959. It features twelve stories from the Victorian and Edwardian period, including work by Charles Dickens, Wilkie Collins, Bram Stoker, R. H. Maiden, and Robert Louis Stevenson. • The Oxford Book of Twentieth-Century Ghost Stories (1996), edited by Michael Cox, contains thirty-three ghost stories, including works by such well known authors as Edith Wharton, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Muriel Spark, and William Trevor. • Midnight's Children (1981), by Salman Rushdie, won Britain's Booker Prize and is the novel that sparked the current interest in Indian fiction. The title refers to the thousand people who were born at midnight on August 15,1947, the moment that the independent countries of India and Pakistan were born. The novel shows how their fate over the next thirty years is bound up with that of their country.
"I thought I'd try and do a ghost story, to feel out the contours of that very ancient and venerable form, and to push at its edges, and interrogate it." The result was "Dharma." In choosing to write a ghost story, Chandra was, as he points out, using a genre that has ancient roots. Ghost stories are found as far back as the literature of classical Rome, for example, and the genre flourished from about 1850 to 1914 in Victorian and Edwardian England. One reason for the popularity of the ghost story during that period may
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• The God of Small Things (1998), Arundhati Roy's critically acclaimed first novel, traces the decline of a once-distinguished South Indian family over the course of three decades from the 1960s to the 1990s. • One of Chandra's favorite novelists is Amitav Ghosh. His novel The Glass Palace (2001) is a saga set in Burma, India, and Malaysia over a period of more than a century. Family life and love are depicted in the context of the political conflicts of the regions. • The Nigerian writer Chinua Achebe is one of the foremost writers of postcolonialism. His Girls at War, And Other Stories (1991) contains twelve stories that cover a twenty-year period of his writing. • Bombay, the setting of ' 'Dharma'' and of much Indian fiction written in English, is India's most modern city. Bombay—Mosaic of Arts and Letters (1996), edited by Sujata Patel and Alice Thorner, examines present-day conditions in the city from an inter-disciplinary perspective. It includes chapters on various aspects of the history of Bombay as well as sections on Bombay in literature and poetry; Bombay's architecture; and on the art, theater, film, and music of the city.
be that it represented a backlash against the prevailing scientific and materialistic worldview. The ghost story reminded readers that there were still things beyond man's ken, strange happenings that could not be explained by science or rationalism. The popularity of the genre formed one aspect of the tension between science and religion (or supernaturalism) that characterized the Victorian age. "Dharma" echoes this tension in a more modern setting. The story begins by setting up an opposition between scientific progress in a high-
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tech world and the persistence of traditional superstitions. The narrator offers a rational explanation for why a particular old house in Bombay is empty (he says it must be because of a dispute between relatives) before Subramaniam counters him by telling of another house that was empty because it was haunted. The opposition of worldviews is also present in the main story, since Jago Antia is a rationalist who does not believe in supernatural phenomena. As he develops his ghost story, Chandra intermingles many of the traditional elements found in the classics of the genre with more novel approaches. The old house that is haunted could hardly be more traditional; it is a cliche of the form. But when Subramaniam says, as he is about to tell the story, "Some people meet their ghosts, and some don't. But we're all haunted by them," there is a hint that this particular story may have a psychological rather than merely supernatural significance. One of the masters of the twentieth-century ghost story, M. R. James, described the model structure of a successful ghost story (quoted in Jack Sullivan's Elegant Nightmares: The English Ghost Story From Le Fanu To Blackwood): Let us then, be introduced to the actors in a placid way; let us see them going about their ordinary business, undisturbed by forebodings, pleased with their surroundings; and into this calm environment let the ominous thing put out its head, unobtrusively at first, and then more insistently, until it holds the stage.
The structure of "Dharma" follows, more or less, this model, although Jago Antia's going about his ' 'ordinary business'' and the first occurrences of the "ominous thing" are presented simultaneously rather than sequentially. At the beginning, Jago Antia is a respected army officer on active duty at the height of his career. The military world is the one he has known all his adult life, and he is entirely comfortable in it. But into that ordered world there enters something strange—the phantom pain in his missing leg. This is the first sign of the "ominous thing." Something unusual is beginning to happen, something that has no rational explanation (since before this the leg had been gone for twenty years with not even a twinge) and no apparent cure. Like a ghost, the phantom pain accompanies Jago Antia wherever he goes; although he tries to ignore it, it forces him to pay attention to it. The phantom pain is a harbinger of the crisis that is beginning to well up from the depths of Jago Antia's unconscious mind.
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Instead of being an evil visitor from a dark, unknown realm that threatens to overwhelm the good (as in many ghost stories), the ghost in 'Dharma 1 is an agent of positive transformation on the part of the protagonist, Jago Antia."
Then follow three visitations of the ghost, each one, as James suggests, more "insistent" than the previous one. Chandra is not averse to including elements that were a staple of the classic Victorian ghost story but might today be considered hackneyed or overused. For example, the first ghostly visitation in "Dharma" is at night, during a thunderstorm. The rain pounds against the windows, there are flashes of lightning, and it is windy. "Atmosphere is the all-important thing," wrote H. P. Lovecraft in his essay ' 'Supernatural Horror in Literature" (quoted in Sullivan) and Chandra is clearly trying to create a vaguely Gothic atmosphere in order to help the reader suspend disbelief and prepare for what follows. Victorian ghosts were apprehended largely by sight. Chandra's ghost, however, makes its first appearance through the sense of hearing, in the form of a voice in the distance. On its first appearance, the ghost is not seen physically. Jago Antia senses a rush of motion, hears the swishing of feet on the ground—not definite enough to be called footsteps— and then sees the shape of shoes illumined by a flash of lightning. Then he sees footprints coming toward him. As Sullivan points out,' 'Supernatural horror is usually more convincing when suggested or evoked than when explicitly documented." The subtlety of Chandra's description is in sharp contrast to the more explicit kind of ghostly appearance, as shown in this quotation from Edgar Wallace's story, "The Ghost of Down Hill," (1929) in which the apparition is dressed in a monk's habit: It stood there motionless, its hands concealed in its wide sleeves, its head bent as in thought. Then slowly the head turned and the moonlight fell upon the bony
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face, the hollow sockets of its eyes, the white gleam of its fleshless teeth.
There is none of this horrifying appearance in Chandra's ghost; he is suggested rather than seen. There is, however, an element in Jago Antia's experience that is typical of many ghost stories: the atmosphere becomes extremely cold. Ghosts are simply not the warmest of things to have around. So Jago Antia feels a breath of cold air wrapping itself around his ankles and he begins to shiver: ' 'It was a freezing chill that spread up his thighs and into his groin, and it caught him so suddenly that he let his teeth chatter for a moment." It becomes so cold that Jago Antia's fingers ache. Both during and after the apparitions, Chandra continues to encourage the reader to suspend disbelief by making Jago Antia question what he has heard and seen and seek rational explanations for it. This enables the reader to more easily identify with Jago Antia's experience, since the character is reacting the way any normal person might in such a situation. Jago Antia, for example, at first thinks that the voice he hears may just be a trick of the wind. Then, after the first apparition, he tries to convince himself that it was just a trick of the light on the rain water. When he comes out of his threeday stupor, he attributes it to exhaustion and convinces himself that there is nothing unusual in the house. He even denies to the lawyer Tody walla that he heard anything ghostly. The initial attempt by the person who sees the ghost to explain it away is a common strategy in ghost stories. As Sullivan notes, it is used in every one of the tales by Sheridan Le Fanu, one of the masters of the Victorian ghost story. Another element that "Dharma" shares with many ghost stories is the basic reason for the ghost's return: it wants or needs something from the world of the living. The protagonist must find out what that is and supply him with it, so the ghost can finally rest in peace. In ' 'Dharma,'' for example, the ghost says, "Where shall I go?"; he needs to find a home. But although Chandra has included many elements that are part of the traditions of the ghost story, he also introduces several innovations that make ' 'Dharma'' an unusual and original contribution to the genre. Perhaps the main innovation that Chandra makes as he "pushes at the edges" of the genre is that the ghost itself turns out not to be a dead person at all (or
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at least, dead only in the metaphoric sense). It might be better described as a projected memory on the part of Jago Antia, since what he is in fact perceiving is his lost childhood self. Before this becomes apparent, however, Chandra makes every effort to convince the reader that the apparition is indeed a real ghost. He accomplishes this with a trick borrowed not from the ghost story genre but from the mystery or detective novel: he throws up a red herring to lead the reader astray. Just as in a detective novel, where the author will often provide fake clues to fool the reader into thinking that the guilty person is someone other than the real culprit, so during the third appearance of the ghost, Chandra leads the reader to believe that the ghost is that of Soli, Jago Antia's brother, who was killed in an accident when he was a young boy. But that would make a far less interesting story than the one Chandra does tell, as the author well knows, since he suggests it only for the purpose of setting up the final surprise. This final surprise—that the ghost is Jago Antia's childhood self—inevitably leads Chandra into another departure from the norms of the genre. There is nothing evil about this innocent child-ghost, quite unlike the' 'actively loathsome, menacing quality of modern ghosts" that Sullivan identifies as being typical. Flowing from this is Chandra's final innovation: a happy ending. Instead of being an evil visitor from a dark, unknown realm that threatens to overwhelm the good (as in many ghost stories), the ghost in "Dharma" is an agent of positive transformation on the part of the protagonist, Jago Antia. In this sense, Chandra has taken the genre and stood it on its head. The ghost is the harbinger not of chaos and evil but of healing, not of the rending of an order, but the restoration of it. He brings not fear but wisdom. Source: Bryan Aubrey, Critical Essay on "Dharma," in Short Stones for Students, The Gale Group, 2002.
David Kelly Kelly is an instructor of creative writing and literature at Oakton Community College in Illinois. In this essay, Kelly examines the relationship between the main story told in Chandra's story and the brief section that precedes it. Vikram Chandra's short story "Dharma," the first piece in his collection Love and Longing in Bombay, links two separate and distinct situations. The main story is the long tale of Major General Jago
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Antia, who is preoccupied with identifying and then removing a ghost that haunts his childhood home. Jago Antia's life is explained at length, starting with his first awareness of a problem on his fiftieth birthday, proceeding through his acceptance of the fact that there might be supernatural forces at work in his life, and then ending when he comes to peace with the past that haunts him. In the process, the narrative flashes back to various points in his life, showing important moments that led him to be the grown man he is at the start of the story. The other situation that Chandra describes in this story comes in the preface to Jago Antia's tale. This section, only three pages long, concerns characters who have no direct contact with any of the characters who appear in the twenty-eight pages that are to follow. The introductory segment concerns an unnamed narrator who has recently come to Bombay to work for a computer software company, making the acquaintance of Subramaniam, a former civil servant who has retired from the Ministry of Defence after forty-one years. It is Subramaniam who, once the subject of haunted houses has been raised among friends at a bar, tells the story of Jago Antia. After Antia's story is begun, the situation presented in the beginning is never mentioned again. Most stories told from the first person point of view, as this one is in the introductory section, are about the person who is telling it to the audience. They follow the narrator's growth, showing readers what, if anything, the events they describe mean to that particular person. In "Dharma," it is not the narrator, but Jago Antia, who is affected by the action. Readers would be right to question the method that Chandra has chosen to use. The beginning scene with the narrator and Subramaniam is interesting and it sets a mood, but it is not an integral part of the story. What it does add to the tale of Jago Antia is an artistic matter worth critical attention. There is a simple way to rationalize the relationship between the story of Jago Antia and the story that introduces it, but the simple explanation fails to appreciate Chandra's skill. In the larger context of Love and Longing in Bombay, readers see that Subramaniam and the computer programming narrator appear at the beginnings of all five of the book's stories. It is possible to explain the introduction of ' 'Dharma'' as a piece of a large puzzle, one that is more significant to the other scenes containing Subramaniam than it is to the particular story in which it resides. It is true that the chain of introduc-
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Much more is told about Jago Antia than there is about the narrator, but the shorthand version of this modern lifestyle, given in the brief introduction, can serve as an outline for the main story."
tions helps tie the works presented in this book together into one unit, making it more of a complete work than just a series of short stories. Still, the bond created in this way is not enough, in and of itself, to justify a break in narrative continuity between the introduction and the main story. The collected introductions do tell a continuous story; as they progress, the computer programmer becomes increasingly understanding of the earthy worldview that he once scoffed at, drawn into Subramaniam's view of the world. Readers join the narrator in learning to love the magic of good oldfashioned story telling. The relationship that develops between the two men over time is not based on their personalities so much their mutual fascination with Subramaniam's stories, each of them carefully balanced to hold the young man's interest and to teach him about the wonders of humanity that computers cannot calculate. By the end of the collection, the narrator calls Bombay, which he originally considers a backward and unsophisticated place, "my city," showing a love for its simple charms grown from the hypnotic spell of the old man's tales. Love and Longing in Bombay is really about Subramaniam's effect on the narrator, about what his love of a well-wrought story has to teach someone whose mind has been formed in the contemporary world of global information flow. What happens to Jago Antia just happens to be the first story in the book, and the vignette that precedes it happens to be the first meeting of the book's two main characters. Viewing the story's introduction this way might satisfy some readers about its function, but it does not answer the important question of whether it
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helps "Dharma" as an independent story. Readers can accept its status as a part of the larger story told throughout the book, but that does not explain the relationship between Subramaniam and Jago Antia. There is no reason to leave it unexamined, simply saying that this introduction does enough by tying ' 'Dharma'' to the other four stories of the book if it can be interpreted as more than that. To be considered a legitimate, functional short story, all of the pieces of "Dharma" should have a useful relationship to each other, regardless of what else is in the collection where it ended up being printed. The most persuasive argument that the stories about Subramaniam and Jago Antia belong together stems from the fact that Jago Antia's journey toward self-awareness parallels the narrator's overall growth throughout Lave and Longing in Bombay. The point is made in his story, quite emphatically, that Antia believes himself to be a man of reason, who has done all that he could throughout life to combat superstition, suppress imagination, and dismiss intuition. From childhood on, he has repressed the sort of lightheartedness that once drove him to reach for a colorful kite, knocking his brother off the edge of a roof to his death. Antia's comfort in the false structure of militarism, which started with his first uniform as a boy and reached its apex with his denying pain to amputate his own leg, gives way, at the end of the story, to an awareness of the human emotions that have been so long suppressed. His struggle for selfcontainment mirrors the attitude that readers recognize as the narrator's, hinted at in his brief scene in the beginning.' 'I spoke at length then,'' the narrator explains about his reaction to the idea of ghosts, ' 'about superstition and ignorance and the state of our benighted nation, in which educated men and women believe in banshees and ghouls." His skepticism and Jago Antia's are similar, and Jago Antia's skepticism is broken down over the course of his story until he gives up his defenses. The story does not tell readers the narrator's fate, but the very fact that he has chosen to relate this tale can be taken as some sort of indication that the story of Jago Antia means something significant to him. The parallel between these two characters is clear, but their similarity is only significant if readers can learn about each from the other. For instance, there would be no real reason to draw the connection between them if Jago Antia's faith in the military were fundamentally different than the narrator's faith in the information age. But the two do
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fit together nicely, at least in this story. In a larger context, they might be considered different things— military discipline means to suppress individual curiosity, while the flow of available information serves to stimulate it. But in the context of this particular story, they both serve the same purpose, offering the characters a chance to deny the faithbased world that surrounds them. The apparent differences between these two world views only help Chandra clarify the point that they share the same essential nature, reducing the quests for both information and self-discipline to methods of denying reality. Throughout "Dharma," the two stories seem unbalanced, with one dwarfing the other in length. Much more is told about Jago Antia than there is about the narrator, but the shorthand version of this modern lifestyle, given in the brief introduction, can serve as an outline for the main story. One reason that the introduction is able to have an impact nearly equal to that of the main story, despite the huge differences in lengths, is the presence of Subramaniam. He is the focus of the introductory pages, the subject of the very first paragraph. In some way, he is as much the manifestation of the situation at the Fisherman's Rest, where old men gather to tell tales and to muse, as any ghost. He is clearly the story's star. In just a few pages, his personality enchants the narrator and the story's readers. Subramaniam's personality leaves readers with a strong enough impression to counterbalance all of the many details given about Jago Antia's life, which is, in itself, one reason why the introduction to "Dharma" does not seem out of place, even when the story is not read within the context of Love and Longing in Bombay. The narrator builds him up to be such a special character that readers remember him. But the main question is why there is a narrator at all. This unnamed person is even more vague to readers than Jago Antia's servant, Thepa, who at least shows some individual personality by taking a familiar tone with his superior. The narrator's function is to view the situation at the Fisherman's Rest bar with the same curiosity that readers would have if they went in there. He is openly skeptical in the beginning, but the story never shows if his skepticism is diminished by the end. The answer is ... probably. The story leaves this matter unresolved, but it would not take much to guess how it would be settled if Subramaniam and the narrator came back at the end. If most readers feel quite certain that the
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narrator would, like Jago Antia, become more open to the unseen world and thus more open to the strange, superstitious old men that surround him, then there really is no need for Chandra to provide such an ending. If most readers were left uncertain about how Antia's story will affect the narrator, then the two parts of' 'Dharma'' are disconnected pieces that happen to be packaged together. Chandra has gained more from trusting readers to draw the necessary connections in his story than he would have gained by oversimplifying. Nothing assures readers that two separate situations mentioned in the same story will relate to one another, other than the faith that they have in the writer. Without faith, readers would be left unconvinced, feeling that there is no relationship between the parts or, even worse, that the author has left the relationship mysterious because he does not understand it himself. This story does work as a single artistic piece, but it does so by asking one to look beyond that which is conventional and logical; appropriately, that also happens to be the story's message. Source: David Kelly, Critical Essay on "Dharma," in Short Stories for Students, The Gale Group, 2002.
Erik France France is a librarian and college counselor, and he also teaches at University Liggett School and Macomb Community College near Detroit, Michigan. In the following essay, France discusses both historical context and evidence of post traumatic stress disorder in Chandra's story. Vikram Chandra's "Dharma" revolves around the character Jehangir ' 'Jago'' Antia and his coming to terms with the loss of his brother, his parents, his childhood, and one of his legs. These are all traumas that Jago can only deal with once he is released, because of his phantom pain, from Dharma, or duty. In Jago's case, specifically, this duty is the total dedication he gave to the duties of a soldier that kept him from attending to his inner self. What Jago discovers is that his memory and release from Dharma permits him to come to terms, for the first time in his life, with a traumatic past and with himself. To better understand Jago's life, though, the reader might first consider his background within a historical framework. Chandra provides many internal details that enable the engaged reader to discern the historical and geographical context of the story. This context
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.Feeling guilt and shock, Jago pursues a life of duty that gives him a way to endure, although, in pursuing this highly disciplined way of life, he also becomes distanced from acknowledging and addressing his pain."
will be more familiar to Indian and British readers than to most American readers, making it perhaps useful to provide some background information for the latter. The story is narrated in Bombay, India, sometime in the 1990s, but most of the detailed events occur, in reverse order, in 1991, 1971, and 1947, in Bombay and Bangladesh (formerly East Pakistan). This timeline can be pieced together because Jago Antia is thirty years old when his leg is mangled by an exploding land mine during street fighting in the city of Sylhet. Jago commands a battalion of paratroopers at the time, in 1971 when (historically) India invaded Bangladesh to drive the Pakistani Army out of the region. From this single event, one can go chronologically forward and backward using basic arithmetic, for Jago's "phantom pain" (he feels a pain where his real leg no longer exists) begins on his fiftieth birthday (in 1991) and his brother died when he was six (in 1947). In 1947, Hindu majority India and Muslim majority Pakistan became independent from the British Empire. The 1971 war ended with the termination of East Pakistan (separated from West Pakistan by India) and the creation of Bangladesh. This background provides a context with which to better understand Jago. But why did he become a soldier? This question also can be answered from internal details in the story. Through memory and flashback, one learns that when Jago was six years old, he and his brother Soli adored their uncle Burjor Mama, a soldier: ' 'They knew his arrival meant at least two weeks of unexpected pleasures, excursions to Juju, sailing trips, films, shows, and sizzling forbidden pavement foods." Jago recalls his fond feelings for his uncle once he returns to Bombay with the intention
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of selling his recently deceased parents' house. He has not seen the house since he left for the military academy to become a soldier himself. One of his first memories, on the way back to Bombay by train, is of seeing two fighter planes flying in the sky when he was a child. Later on, Jago recalls Burjor Mama's role as an inspiration to him. Most importantly, though, it is Burjor Mama who gives him and Soli the kite that leads to Soli's freakish accident while playing with Jago. While the boys are playing with the kite, Soli falls a mere three feet, but far enough and at such an angle that he is killed. In shock and fear from Soli's death, part of Jago dies and remains forever a six-year old child, while the rest of him grows to embrace Dharma as a soldier like his uncle. Jago can only come to terms with his losses when he goes upstairs in his parents' home and faces the ghost of himself. An earlier detail in the story gives the reader advance notice that Jago will have this encounter. A retired military officer, Subramaniam, tells the narrator that '"Some people meet their ghosts, and some don't. But we're all haunted by them.'" A related way of examining the story is through the concept of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD). When one experiences a shocking episode or series of such episodes—trauma such as rape, assault, combat, wounding, accident—a person comes under such stress that he or she may become overwhelmed and unable to absorb the shock directly; instead, part of the traumatized person's mind emotionally splits off or shuts down and tries to block out the shock and pain. This is a physical and psychological mechanism that enables people to survive, but at a tremendous cost. Until recognized and treated, PTSD victims may endure for years with the traumatic memories seemingly suppressed, though usually certain reminders such as noises, movements, or other sensory cues will trigger anxieties, flashbacks, and fears that can never be completely overcome. Mental health professionals recommend extensive therapy over time combined with support groups to help people suffering from PTSD, but even with such help and much hard work, a sadness usually remains. In "Dharma," Jago's primary trauma occurs at the death of his brother, Soli. He cannot absorb the shock of Soli's death, and his proximity to it, without a major alteration to his psyche. In this case, Jago changes from the happy-go-lucky boy he has been when playing with his brother into a distant and serious only son. Feeling guilt and shock, he pursues a life of duty that gives him a way to endure, although, in
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pursuing this highly disciplined way of life, he also becomes distanced from acknowledging and addressing his pain. Unfortunately for Jago, he endures yet more trauma during his lifetime. In his case, though, Jago's later traumas eventually provide the jolts for remembering his brother's death and enable him to come to terms with it. One may infer from the text o f ' 'Dharma'' that it is the death of Jago's parents that sets the train of memory in motion that eventually allows Jago to deal with his PTSD in a productive way. Jago's fiftieth birthday comes not long after both his parents die, and it is at his birthday that he begins experiencing the phantom pain that sharply brings back memories of the day he amputated his own combat-mangled leg. Jago begins to experience some classic symptoms of PTSD. He begins to recall the two major traumas of his life, first the day of the parachute drop in 1971, when he lost his leg, and then the day in 1947 when his brother fell while Jago chased him to grab the kite he was holding. The 1987 edition of The Merck Manual of Diagnosis and Recovery, edited by Robert Berkow and Andrew Fletcher, notes that when a person recalls major trauma, she or he may reexperience it "against a background of chronic anxiety, hyperalertness, and insomnia,'' things that happen to Jago from the time he turns fifty until he faces his own childhood ghost at his parental home during the climax of the plot. Images of falling abound throughout the story, skillfully interconnecting Soli's tragic fall when Jago is a child, Jago's paratrooper jumps, his fall when the landmine explodes in the streets of Sylhet, his recurrent falling in dreams and nightmares, and his fall down the stairs when he first tries to face up to his childhood ghost. He has broken out of another phase of PTSD that apparently affected him during his long military career, one of suppression. As The Merck Manual notes, a frequent characteristic of PTSD is "a numbing of their responsiveness to people, objects, and events in the world around them." From the time he is six until he turns fifty, Jago subsumes himself so completely in his military Dharma that he lives in precisely that way. This makes him an excellent professional officer but a highly damaged and unhealed human being for most of his life. Jago comes to terms with the traumas of his life in a way that would probably not normally be prescribed by psychotherapists. It is his way of doing so that makes "Dharma" unique, tied as it is to Bombay and Indian culture. For this is a story of dealing with PTSD in traditional Bombay terms, set
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in a clear historical context that underscores the survivability of old traditions, something the narrator is skeptical of before Subramaniam tells Jago's story. "Even in the information age," the narrator had lamented, "we will never be free" of what he had assumed was superstition. But the reader discovers that what seems superstition has deeper and real meaning. Slowly but surely, Jago lets go of modern cures and resorts to what works for him. After realizing that there is indeed a ghost in his parents' house and that modern rationalism will not drive it out, Jago brings in Thakker, the exorcist who, after realizing that only Jago can release the lost ghost, guides Jago in what to do. Jago's case of PTSD is so extreme, he has been so ' 'lost'' since the death of Soli, that part of him has died and has haunted him, not knowing where to go. Once Jago speaks to the ghost of his split childhood self, he can find "a kind of solitude." Once he has found that, he can sell his parents' house, continue to see friends and acquaintances (what therapists might call an informal support group), and live out the remainder of his life in relative peace. Even if he may not become entirely happy again (after all, the happy-go-lucky part of him died at six along with Soli), he feels "free." Thus, the denouement of "Dharma" is upbeat but philosophical, and the reader is left to ponder his or her own life and wonder at the mysteriousness of existence, the relevance of rational thinking, and our time on Earth. Source: Erik France, Critical Essay on "Dharma," in Short Stories for Students, The Gale Group, 2002.
Sources Berkow, Robert, and Andrew J. Fletcher, eds., The Merck Manual of Diagnosis and Therapy, 15th ed., Merck Sharp & Dohme Research Laboratories, 1987, pp. 1507-08. Chandra, Vikram, "The Cult of Authenticity: India's Cultural Commissars Worship 'Indianness' instead of Art," in Boston Review, February-March 2000. Hussein, Aamer, "Bombay Music," in the Times Literary Supplement, March 28, 1987, p. 21. King, Francis, "An Acknowledged Expert," in the Spectator, March 22, 1997, p. 41. Mahoney, Kevin, "Interview with Vikram Chandra," in Genre, Summer 1998, available at http://www.geocities. com/SoHo/Nook/1082/vikram-chandra.html (last accessed April 2, 2002). Radhakrishan, The Hindu View of Life, Unwin, 1965, p. 56. Review of "Dharma," in Kirkus Reviews, January 1, 1997.
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Review of "Dharma," in Publishers Weekly, January 21, 1997. Rushdie, Salman, "Damme, This is the Oriental Scene for You!" in the New Yorker, June 23-30, 1997, pp. 50-61. Sullivan, Jack, Elegant Nightmares: The English Ghost Story from Le Fanu to Blackwood, Ohio University Press, 1978. Tharoor, Shashi, "The New India," in the New York Times, May 18, 1997. Wallace, Edgar, "The Ghost of Down Hill," in the Mammoth Book of Twentieth Century Ghost Stories, edited by Peter Haining, Carroll & Graf Publishers, 1998, pp. 88-130.
Further Reading Agarwal, Ramlal, Review of Love and Longing in Bombay, in World Literature Today, Vol. 72, No. 1, Winter 1998, p. 206. This review presents a rather negative appraisal of the stories in the book, which, according to the reviewer, meander on for too long. Ashcroft, Bill, Gareth Griffiths, and Helen Tiffin, eds., The Empire Writes Back: Theory and Practice in Post-Colonial Literatures, Routledge Kegan & Paul, 1990. Ashcroft, Griffiths, Tiffin provide a seminal study of postcolonial writing in cultures as diverse as India, Australia, the West Indies, Africa, and Canada. Dharwadker, Vinay, "Indian Writing Today: A View from 1994," in World Literature Today, Vol. 68, No. 2, Spring 1994, pp. 237-41. This is a review of the main themes of Indian literature since the 1970s. Dharwadker identifies death, dismemberment, and dislocation as common themes, used as a response to colonialism. Antirealism, in the form of allegories and magic realism, also became common. Gandhi, Leela, Postcolonial Theory, Cambridge University Press, 1998. This is a survey that covers current debates about the scope and content of postcolonialist studies. Gupta, R. K., "Trends in Modern Indian Fiction," in World Literature Today, Vol. 68, No. 2, Spring 1994, pp. 299-308. Gupta argues that, although modern Indian fiction is rich and creative, it is limited because Indian writers show little concern for social responsibility, lack depth in presenting India's political and social problems, and write on only a limited number of themes.
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The Diamond Mine Willa Gather
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Willa Gather's short story "The Diamond Mine" was first published in McClure 's magazine in 1916, although it almost was not published at all. The story was a blatant, fictionalized account of the life of Lillian Nordica, an American soprano, and publishers feared a lawsuit. The story was reprinted four years later in the collection Youth and the Bright Medusa, which featured other stories about the lives of artists in the early twentieth century. At the time the story was written, the worldwide popularity of opera singers and other artists was increasing, and many stars, including women, were becoming rich and celebrated. However, as Gather illustrates with her opera singer, Cressida Garnet in "The Diamond Mine," the money and success can inspire envy and hatred in an artist's family and friends. This, along with the emotional toil inherent in a publicized art career, can drain a person. Critics have interpreted the story as a reinforcement of Gather's belief that art should be done for art's sake, and not for fame or money. This art theme is prevalent in many of Gather's other works, including three other stories in Youth and the Bright Medusa:' 'A Gold Slipper," "Scandal," and "Coming, Aphrodite!" In addition, "The Diamond Mine" is often compared to Gather's novel, The Song of the Lark (1915), which also concerns an opera singer. Although many critics have praised her stories that deal with artists, Gather is best-known for her
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stories about life on the Nebraska prairie, including her 1913 novel, O Pioneers! and One of Ours (1922), the latter of which earned the Pulitzer Prize. A current copy of "The Diamond Mine" can be found in Gather's Collected Stories, published by Vintage Classics in 1992.
Author Biography Willa Gather was born on December 7, 1873 in Back Creek Valley, Virginia. Her family resided in this state for the first decade of her life, then relocated to Red Cloud, Nebraska. It was not until her family's move that Gather began attending school regularly. At this time in her life, she showed a keen interest in science and accompanied a local doctor on his house calls, eventually assisting him with his patients. Gather intended to become a physician when she grew up. During this time, she also made some decisive choices about her identity and adopted a masculine appearance and manner. She was also known to sign her name as "William Gather, Jr.," or "William Gather M.D." In addition to her science and medical interests, Gather also displayed a talent for acting and writing. She often wrote plays and recitations to perform for her family's entertainment. She also acted in amateur theatricals that were performed at the Red Cloud Opera House. Throughout Gather's life, she would show an interest in all aspects of the arts. In 1891, Gather began attending the University of Nebraska, where she excelled in language and literature. By her junior year, she took on editorship of the school's literary journal. It was here that she began publishing some of her own short stories, and by the time she graduated, she had also become a full-time reporter and critic for the Nebraska State Journal. Shortly after graduating, Gather moved to Pittsburgh to become the editor of Home Monthly, a short-lived women's magazine. She then moved to New York City and took over the managing editorship for McClure's magazine, where she worked until 1912, and where she increased her literary reputation. Even after she left McClure 's, she maintained her relationship with the magazine and continued to publish her stories. In 1916, the magazine printed "The Diamond Mine," the last story that she published in McClure's. Four years later, in 1920, Gather included this story in the collection Youth and the Bright Medusa, which highlighted her interest in the arts.
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Willa Gather
In 1922, Gather received a Pulitzer Prize for fiction for her novel One of Ours. Besides her works that dealt with the lives of popular artists, Gather is acknowledged for her prairie tales like O, Pioneers! (1913) and My Antonia (1918), both of which drew upon her background in rural Nebraska. Gather died of a cerebral hemorrhage on April 24, 1947, in New York City.
Plot S u m i The Voyage "The Diamond Mine" begins when the narrator, Caroline, an old friend of the famous opera singer, Cressida Garnet, recounts the voyage where Cressida announced her fourth marriage, to Jerome Brown. When Cressida makes her first appearance, she displays the characteristic energy and attention to detail that have made her one of the most soughtafter opera stars. Caroline notes the presence of Miss Julia Garnet, Cressida's fifty-year-old sister, and Cressida's son, Horace, a bored young man of twenty-two. Caroline sees Miletus Poppas, Cressida's Greek accompanist, and strikes up a conversation with
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him. Caroline and Poppas walk over to the deck chairs where Cressida is lounging, and she jumps up to greet Caroline. The two women walk to a different part of the ship, where they talk about her recent engagement to Jerome Brown. Cressida says that with the exception of her son—who Caroline secretly notes can be easily bought—nobody else is supporting the marriage.
Cressida's Family Caroline notes Poppas, Miss Julia, and Horace sitting in the deck chairs, and speculates how the latter two would hurt Cressida—the financial and emotional hand that feeds them—if they had the chance. Caroline thinks about the other Garnets in Cressida's family, and how they try to capitalize on Cressida's fame by putting on airs in their native Columbus, Ohio. Caroline also notices how their constant notes requesting money from Cressida strain the singer very much, and how their envy for her is so much that they want to be Cressida. One evening on the voyage, Cressida talks to Caroline in more detail about Jerome Brown. At this point, Caroline briefly remembers Cressida's first husband, Charley Wilton, an organist who died from tuberculosis. Wilton was Horace's father and Caroline's cousin. Cressida says that she's marrying Brown because she has always been able to count on him, and he has never pushed her, unlike others have. They talk about Cressida's family, who are jealous that the singer is the only talented one.
Cressida's First Two Husbands Caroline remembers meeting Cressida when they were both girls in Ohio, and starts thinking about Cressida's past husbands, beginning with Wilton, who was her first music teacher. Her second husband, Ransome McChord, did not approve of Cressida's close friendship with Poppas and forced her to choose between them; she chose Poppas. Their association has been mutually beneficial, as Poppas has helped her to develop her singing skill, while she has made Poppas a rich man in the process. This is a constant worry to the rest of the Garnets, who feel that Poppas is getting money that should be theirs.
Blasius Bouchalka Caroline notes that it is Cressida's stability and professionalism that win singing jobs, often over
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others who are more talented but difficult to deal with. Cressida only strayed from this strength of character once with Blasius Bouchalka. Caroline remembers back to the evening that she and Cressida first met Bouchalka, a Bohemian, when the two women were walking around New York and decided to stop for dinner at a restaurant. Bouchalka, the violinist and director of the restaurant's orchestra, notices Cressida. He gives the orchestra a new, unusual composition to play and Cressida leaves him a card, thanking him for the wonderful performance. The next week, Caroline visits Cressida and sees that Bouchalka has sent Cressida some of his music. Cressida invites Bouchalka over the following Sunday to one of her weekly gatherings, where he talks about his life of poverty. He eats some of Cressida's muffins and cakes, and is surprised to find out that Cressida's cook is from Bohemia as well. Bouchalka talks to Caroline about his music, but says that the publishers are biased and do not want Bohemian songs. Cressida pulls Bouchalka aside and talks with him at length, until he realizes that he is late for work at the restaurant, and rushes out. Several weeks later, after they have heard nothing from Bouchalka, the two women go back to the restaurant, where they find out that he was fired for being late. The two women are able to track him down, and after this, Cressida starts promoting his work at her concerts and to publishers. Bouchalka gets sick, and Cressida and Caroline go check on him, finding him in a rundown boardinghouse, where Cressida comforts him. After he gets better, he starts seeing Cressida more frequently. He idolizes the singer, and for the first time in her life, she feels truly appreciated, and starts to want something more than the life of servitude that she has with her family. Cressida and Bouchalka are married later that year, and when they return from their honeymoon and her concerts abroad, Cressida is refreshed. She begins to lighten up a little and become a little more careless, although Caroline notes that this is good for her. Bouchalka becomes enamored of the rich lifestyle he has married into, and people start to notice that he has lost his wildness and that his domestication has affected his artistic output. He is content to sit in the house, where he eats the various creations from Ruzenka, and puts on weight. He refuses to go on tour with Cressida, and it starts to take its toll on her.
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In an attempt to spark some life into their marriage, Cressida cancels a rehearsal for her Chicago concert and goes home to surprise Bouchalka. It is a surprise, as she finds him in bed with Ruzenka, the Bohemian chef, who is sent away the next morning. Bouchalka is not too far behind. When Cressida returns from her Chicago engagement, she stays in a hotel while the divorce papers are drawn up. Meanwhile, Bouchalka goes to see Cressida, miserable. He had been drunk the night he slept with Ruzenka, and he says that he wishes Cressida could forgive him, as he would her if she ever slept with Poppas while on the road. At this point, Caroline cuts him off, and he admits that he knows Cressida would never betray him that way.
Cressida's Death Caroline finally remembers Cressida's last husband, Jerome Brown, who did the most damage to the singer. Brown is a financier who insists on investing Cressida's money in a number of unsuccessful ventures. Although Cressida tries to inquire about these investments, Brown does not give her any details, and the strain starts to take its toll on the singer, who is distraught when she finds out that she needs to put a mortgage on her house. Cressida had never worried about earning money before, but at this point decides to go to England for a special money-raising tour. She returns on the ill-fated maiden voyage of the Titanic but, unlike past voyages, her lodgings on the ship are modest, and located in the lower decks. Caroline notes that Cressida was ill and apparently never left her cabin as the ship was going down. Following Cressida's death, Caroline and Cressida's lawyer, Henry Gilbert, are named the executors of the singer's will. Since Brown has invested most of the fortune away, there is not much left to divide. Still, Poppas gets a third of the money, which Jerome Brown and the Garnets contest, unsuccessfully. Caroline notes by the letters from Brown and Cressida's relatives that none of them realized that the fortune they had enjoyed had come from one woman, instead treating her like a natural diamond mine that would continually provide them with wealth. Caroline further notes how Cressida's family went through the singer's house floor by floor, squabbling over who should get the smallest item, and that this squabbling continued long after Cressida's death. Caroline writes to Poppas, who has retired in Asia, of these horrors.
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Characters Blasius Bouchalka Blasius Bouchalka is Cressida's third husband, who cheats on her with Cressida's chef, Ruzenka. A poor Bohemian musician, Cressida is drawn to his wildness when she first sees him in a restaurant leading an orchestra. Bouchalka grew up in a monastery in Bohemia and has been poor for most of his life, eking out a living with his music wherever he can. He has only been in New York for a year when he meets Cressida, with whom he becomes enamored. For her part, Cressida is also interested and helps to nurse him when he is sick. She supports him financially and professionally when he is well. After Bouchalka and Cressida get married, he starts to become complacent and loses the wildness that drew Cressida to him. He prefers to sit in Cressida's house, eating all of the luscious Bohemian creations that Ruzenka whips up for him. As a result, he starts to put on weight and loses his motivation to publish his music. In addition, he does not like to travel so Cressida ends up going on most of her tours alone. In the middle of one tour, however, she makes a surprise visit home to see Bouchalka, where she finds him drunk and in bed with Ruzenka. Cressida files for divorce shortly thereafter, although she does provide Bouchalka with a settlement to help him survive. Bouchalka comes to see Carrie, and tells her that it was only a matter of time because he was born to be miserable. After the divorce is final, he leaves to go home to his native Bohemia.
Jerome Brown Jerome Brown is Cressida Garnet's fourth and final husband, and the one who ages her the most. At the beginning of the story, Cressida is about to marry Brown, who she says has always been there for support, and who has never asked her for anything. This aspect changes after they are married. Brown, a financier, proceeds to make several bad investments and drains the Garnet fortune. It is because of this that Cressida schedules the fateful money-raising tour in England, where she dies on returning when her ship, the Titanic, sinks. Jerome joins the Garnets in contesting Cressida's will and squabbles over her possessions.
Caroline Caroline is the narrator, and one of Cressida's few trusted friends. Caroline, or' 'Carrie," as Cressida
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refers to her, tells Cressida's story mostly through flashback, starting with a voyage just before Cressida's marriage to Jerome Brown, then discussing all of the singer's past husbands, and finally coming back to the marriage to Brown. Caroline is distraught to hear about the marriage to Brown, since she has seen how Cressida's family and even some of her marriages have drained the singer of financial and emotional resources. Caroline met Cressida when they were kids in school in their native Columbus, Ohio. Cressida's first husband, Charley Wilton, was Caroline's cousin. Caroline is one of the few people who tries to warn Cressida about the draining effect that her family is having on the singer. She speculates in her narration that some of the family are so envious of Cressida that they would rejoice over her death and notes that the only person who supports her various marriages is Cressida's son, Horace, whose affections can be easily bought. During the story, Caroline is the one who is most often with Cressida on her days when she is not singing. Caroline is present at a number of the important events in Cressida's life, such as when she meets Blasius Bouchalka. The Garnet family is not all that fond of Caroline and are even less fond of her when she is appointed as one of the co-executors of Cressida's will and defeats the family's challenge to it.
close friendship with Miletus Poppas, her accompanist and confidant, and so Cressida is forced to choose between them. She chooses Poppas, who has also helped to make Cressida into the star she is. Of course, with the huge fees that she pays Poppas, it has been a mutually beneficial relationship. Cressida's third marriage, to Blasius Bouchalka, a poor Bohemian musician, starts out well. He is a passionate artist, and she is drawn to his wildness. However, after he realizes he does not have to fight for his food anymore, he becomes complacent and stops creating, choosing instead to sit and eat the food of the Bohemian chef, Ruzenka. After Cressida finds the two in bed, both are sent away. Cressida's final marriage, to a financier named Jerome Brown, is the most draining. He gambles away most of her fortune on bad investments, which also drains her emotionally. Although she has never worried about money in the past, she does now, and decides to stage a special money-raising tour in England. However, she chooses to return to the United States on the maiden voyage of the Titanic, and does not survive when the ship sinks. After she is dead, Brown and her family fight over her inheritance and try to block her wish to give Poppas a third of her remaining fortune. With the help of Henry Gilbert, another of Cressida's childhood friends, Caroline is able to defeat this challenge.
Carrie See Caroline
Cressy See Cressida Garnet
Cressida Garnet Cressida Garnet is a famous concert singer— known for her seemingly inexhaustible energy and professionalism—who spends her entire life providing for others and eventually dies on the Titanic. As a girl in Columbus, Ohio, she befriends Caroline, who narrates Cressida's story and who is one of Cressida's only friends. Caroline tries to warn Cressida about her destructively needy family. Cressida's first husband, Charley Wilton, is a frail but passionate organist who is also Caroline's cousin. Wilton dies from tuberculosis after they are married a year, but not before he and Cressida have a son, Horace. None of Cressida's other three marriages, which compose the bulk of Caroline's tale, brings her much more comfort. Her second husband, Ransome McChord, cannot tolerate Cressida's
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Miss Georgie Garnet Miss Georgie Garnet is one of Cressida's two sisters, who is aggressive and intrusive; when Cressida dies, she and Julia fight over Cressida's jewels and gowns.
Horace Garnet Horace Garnet is Cressida's only son, from her first marriage to Charley Wilton. Horace is twentytwo, bored, and like all the Garnets, envies his mother's seemingly inexhaustible energy. As Caroline notes, Horace's affections can be bought, and as such, he is the only one who supports her last marriage to Jerome Brown. However, he is one of the many Garnets who fights over Cressida's possessions after she is dead.
Miss Julia Garnet Miss Julia Garnet is one of Cressida's two sisters, who does not appreciate the wealth that ' 'Cressy'' provides the family; when Cressida dies, she and Julia fight over Cressida's jewels and gowns.
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Henry Gilbert Henry Gilbert is Cressida's lawyer and a trusted friend from her youth who acts as co-executor of Cressida's will, along with Caroline. He successfully fights Jerome Brown and the Garnets when they contest the will.
Ransome McChord Ransome McChord is Cressida's second husband, a wealthy businessman who does not approve of her close friendship with Poppas; when he forces Cressida to make a choice, she chooses Poppas.
Miletus Poppas Miletus Poppas is the Greek accompanist and right-hand man of Cressida Garnet. He has helped transform Cressida into an accomplished artist and, as such, is frequently by her side. This intimate relationship makes Cressida's second husband, Ransome McChord, jealous, and he forces Cressida to choose between them. She chooses Poppas, who is her confidant in both professional and personal matters. Poppas becomes rich from the retaining fee and percentage of Cressida's salary that he receives. This arrangement is a constant concern to the other Garnets, who feel that Poppas is cutting into their money. They also use the fact that Poppas caused the break between McChord and Cressida as a manipulative tool, saying that it has put a stain on the family's reputation. Still, as much as they dislike the man, they realize that he is an asset to Cressida's career, and as such have made an uneasy peace with him. Poppas suffers from a facial neuralgia, a type of nervous disorder that flares up in certain damp climates, and he talks in the beginning of the story about moving to the drier climate of Asia when he retires—which he does at the end of the story after Cressida dies.
Ruzenka Ruzenka, whose name means "little Rose," is Cressida's Bohemian chef, whom Cressida catches sleeping with her husband, Blasius Bouchalka; Ruzenka is sent away the next morning.
Charley Wilton Charley Wilton was Cressida's first music teacher in Columbus, Ohio, her first husband, and the father of Horace. Wilton, who has studied music abroad, is a passionate organist with a weak constitution, which manifests itself in his fatal case of
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tuberculosis. Out of all of Cressida's husbands, she loved him the most, but they were only married for a year before he died.
Themes High Art In many of her works, Gather explored what it meant to be an artist in the twentieth century. In works like' The Diamond Mine,'' Gather expresses one of her main views, that "high art," art that is done for the art's sake and not for money or fame, was the only type of art that could lead to a happy success. Throughout this story, the author plays with that idea. Cressida Garnet is a rich and famous artist, but she is also miserable. At the beginning of the story, she has ' 'just announced her intention of marrying a fourth time," since none of her previous marriages have worked out. Cressida is not meant to find love that lasts, because when it comes down to it, most of her relationships are with people who do not love her; they love the idea of her fame or money, or they love having access to these resources. Her last marriage gives Cressida "the worst" of her husbands. Jerome Brown, a financier who uses Cressida's money to make a number of bad investments and forces the opera singer to grow ' 'rapidly older." In the end, this marriage is fatal, as Cressida tries to fix her husband's financial woes by doing a special concert. Gather places Cressida on the Titanic, where she is one of the many casualties. ' 'She had been ill,'' says the narrator, and when the ship went down she apparently "never left her cabin." The strain of trying to pursue a career as a world-renowned opera singer has been increased by the extra strain that her husband puts on Cressida's finances and vitality. In the end, Gather suggests that an artist must pursue art for its own sake, or else face a potentially tragic end.
Vitality Until the strain of trying to undo Jerome Brown's mistakes saps her strength, Cressida is known as somebody with ' 'a seemingly exhaustless vitality,'' which, along with her "certain 'squareness' of
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Topics for Further Study • Research the life of a modern celebrity whom you admire or have admired in the past, and compare this person's experiences with those of Cressida Garnet from the story. Imagine that Cressida has the opportunity to travel to our time, to spend a day observing modern culture. Assume the identity of your modern-day celebrity and write a time-traveling letter to Cressida, apprising her of how the roles and lifestyles of celebrities have changed in the last century. • Pick a field—artistic or otherwise—in which you would like to be "celebrated." Research what it takes to become famous in this field and read several interviews with representative celebrities. Use your findings to craft your own hypothetical interview for a major newspaper or magazine, in which the interviewer details your various successes and prompts you to tell his or her readers how you got there.
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how it fits into modern opera, and what you like or dislike about opera in general. • In the story, Cressida extols the virtues of advertising, which was a relatively new field at the time. Research the types of advertising that were used in the 1900s or 1910s. Choose one representative medium and style and use them to create an advertisement for a modern-day product or service. • In an attempt to save money, Cressida books a modest room on the Titanic, even though she has traveled in style on all of her other journeys. Research the Titanic's layout and design and discuss what it meant to travel' 'in style'' on the maiden voyage, including a description of the accommodations, the types of food, and any other amenities that upper-class passengers received.
• In the early twentieth century, opera stars like Lillian Nordica, the real-life inspiration for Cressida Garnet, achieved international fame. Research the status of opera today, then read a modern opera of your choosing. Write a threepage paper discussing what the opera is about,
• Cressida has many ill-fated marriages in the story. Based on the character's gender and social status, research social and cultural trends of the time and discuss how society would have viewed this aspect of her life. Using your findings, write a short obituary for Cressida—focusing on her marriages and any other aspects you feel are relevant.
character as well as of mind," gives her higher than normal earning powers. As the narrator notes, it is Cressida's vitality that gives her the strength to be the ultimate professional, and which has led to her success. "Managers chose her over the heads of singers much more gifted, because she was so sane, so conscientious, and above all, because she was so sure."
there is nothing else to do. Cressida, who has so much vitality that she is never bored, tries to motivate her son:' 'If I were twenty-two, and a boy, with some one to back me—'' Her son does not want to hear it, however, because, as he tells her, "Oh, I've not your energy, Mother dear. We make no secret of that." The "we" refers to Cressida's family, which is one of the biggest drains on her vitality.
Her vitality is something that no other members of her family have. When Cressida is talking with her son, Horace, "about his losses at bridge," and ' 'begging him to keep away from the cardroom," he responds by letting her know that he is bored and
Family Relations Cressida's success has not come easily, even though she does have a lot of spirit.' 'Everything but her driving power Cressida had to get from the outside," says the narrator, when describing how
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the singer started her career. She has had to work hard to make it in a tough industry, and she has received very little support from her family in the process. In fact, all of the family members expect Cressida to support them. As Cressida notes, they "feel that I carried off the family success, just as I might have carried off the family silver." Because of this view, the whole family depends on Cressida. In fact, when the narrator first introduces two of Cressida's family members, she calls them "two of the factors in Cressida's destiny." The family depends on Cressida for both money and vitality. For the money, the family is constantly requesting that Cressida send them funds. As a result, she has to devote some of her energies to sending letters addressing these requests. As the narrator notes,' 'Such letters they were! The writing of a tired, over-driven woman; promising money, sending money herewith, asking for an acknowledgment of the draft sent last month, etc." The family bombards her with these requests because, as the narrator notes after Cressida's death, "It never seemed to occur to them that this golden stream, whether it rushed or whether it trickled, came out of the industry, out of the mortal body of a woman." The family is also dependent upon Cressida for their own vitality. "They were waiting, in constrained immobility, for Cressida to descend and reanimate them,—will them to do or to be something," says the narrator, of some of the family members on the ship. The narrator tries to get Cressida to see that her family is a drain, at one point, citing that Cressida's depression on one voyage might be from her sister, Julia, instead of the "sea air," as Cressida assumes. To this, Cressida responds, "But it was Julia's turn. I can't come alone, and they've grown to expect it. They haven't, either of them, much else to expect." And yet, even though the family has come to depend upon Cressida as a lifeline for both money and energy, they also hate Cressida for having the qualities and success they do not, and may secretly wish for her downfall. As the narrator notes, "If they could have their will, what would they do with the generous, credulous creature who nourished them, I wondered? How deep a humiliation would each egotism exact?'' The narrator notes that they would not try to harm her physically, but that if they were somehow giving access to "the fire at which she warmed herself. . . which kept her going" they would most likely stamp it out, "with the whole Garnet pack behind them to make extinction sure."
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Style Metaphor When a reader picks up Gather's story, he or she might expect that it is about an actual diamond mine. However, as the narrator illustrates, the title is a metaphor, a figure of speech that is used to represent something else. This metaphor is explained a few paragraphs into the story, when the narrator overhears someone say of the opera singer, "That woman's a diamond mine." The narrator, who is "an old friend of Cressida Garnet," is "sorry to hear that mining operations were to be begun again." When the narrator says this, she further explains what the metaphor means, illustrating that in the mind of the public and Cressida's own family, the opera singer is not a woman. Instead, she is an object, which can and will be "mined," stripping away Cressida's energy, money, and ultimately her life itself. This is not the only metaphor used to describe the opera singer. When the narrator is talking about Poppas, she says that he was the only one of the group "who understood the sources of her fortune," a fact that Cressida's family knows, so consequently, he is the only one who is able "to proclaim sanctuary for the goose that laid the golden eggs."
Flashback "The Diamond Mine" is a little confusing, because it does not follow a straight chronological pattern. The story starts out on a ship, when the narrator notes, ' 'I first became aware that Cressida Garnet was on board when I saw young men with cameras going up to the boat deck." This opening immediately gives the setting of the story, or so the reader believes. But after the first paragraph, the narrator jumps back to "a few days before, when I was lunching with some friends at Sherry's." The narrator refers to this lunch so that she can get the "diamond mine" reference in there that she has overheard, but then she wanders in her thoughts about Jerome Brown. In the next paragraph, she says,' 'I had been away from New York and had not seen Cressida for a year; now I paused on the gangplank." The "now" and "gangplank" put the action back on the boat, but the style that the narrator has used thus far, jumping back and forth in time within a few paragraphs, mimics the pattern she uses to narrate the rest of the tale. However, as the narrator gets into the main portion of the story, when she is talking about each
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of Cressida's husbands in turn, the tale takes on a roughly chronological pattern. Even so, the jumpiness that the narrator uses in the beginning part of the tale has served an important function—it helps to underscore for the reader the manic pace of Cressida's life in the high-pressured and high-profile world of opera music. If the narrator were to go simply from beginning to end, the story would not have as much narrative tension. Also, disorienting the reader a little in the beginning helps to hide the surprise at the end of the story, when Cressida goes down on the Titanic.
about to jump into the past again to talk about Blasius Bouchalka, Cressida's third and most recent husband. However, the narrator also slips in the phrase ' 'last voyage.'' These two words have a very ominous sound to them, and indeed, they do foreshadow the fact that Cressida is going to die. But this message gets buried somewhat, when the narrator suddenly starts talking about Cressida's marriage to Bouchalka.
At this point, the narrator has been discussing Cressida's fourth husband, Jerome Brown, and how his bad business deals have forced Cressida to do a special concert in England, "where she could always raise money from a faithful public." As the narrator continues, the reader does not suspect what is about to happen because the story is still roughly chronological, and the reader has gotten used to the pattern by now. The next line, however, catapults the story into the future: "When she sailed, her friends knew that her husband's affairs were in a bad way; but we did not know how bad until after Cressida's death." One minute, Cressida is preparing for her journey, then suddenly, the narrative is looking back "after her death." The next line clarifies what happened. "Cressida Garnet, as all the world knows, was lost on the Titanic." The narrator once again springs a time change on the reader, but this time, it is the ultimate payoff.
Historical Context Music in the Early Twentieth Century In the first decade of the twentieth century in the United States, music was an expanding industry. Popular music came in many different forms, including ballads, ragtime, the blues, and show tunes, and Americans from all walks of life experienced it. Companies producing sheet music, instruments, phonographs, and other types of musical accessories found a huge demand for their products. Classical music was also finding an audience with Americans, due to the increasing number of symphony orchestras nationwide and the growth of the recording industry. At the same time, popular singers, like Lillian Nordica, were becoming international stars as a result of their performances.
Lillian Nordica Foreshadowing When an author employs a fluid framework for a story, in which the narrative frequently jumps around in time, passages that foreshadow or hint at the future are often not noticed by the reader's consciousness. For example, in the first part of the story, the narrator is talking to Cressida on a ship, but as she talks to her, the narrator gives a lot of background detail for the reader, going back in time to talk about other events, when necessary. After the narrator has finished telling the reader about Cressida's first marriage and giving background on Poppas and his role in the singer's career, the narrator brings the action back to the present, when she says, "It was of Bouchalka that we talked upon that last voyage I ever made with Cressida Garnet, and not of Jerome Brown." The story has started off on the ship, discussing the upcoming marriage to Jerome Brown. Now, as the two women talk, the narrator lets the reader know that she is
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As James Woodress noted in Willa Gather: A Literary Life, "The Diamond Mine" "is based on the life of Lillian Nordica, whose last husband, George Young, is very thinly disguised in the story as the unscrupulous, mercenary character Jerome Brown." Everybody knew this fact, and Young threatened to sue, but' 'never followed through," as Woodress noted. Like Cressida Garnet in the story, Lillian Nordica, was known both for her strong voice and her engaging performances. Nordica studied at the New England Conservatory of Music and also in Milan. Nordica spent an extended time— from 1895 to 1909—singing at the Metropolitan Opera, just as Cressida spent several years there. The Metropolitan Opera Association was the leading opera company in the United States in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, during the company's "Golden Age." While Nordica died after her 1913 farewell tour, from complications of pneumonia, in the story, Cressida dies when the Titanic goes down in 1912.
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Compare ft Contrast • 1910s: The music industry continues to grow, as an increasing number of Americans buy record players and listen to recorded music from their favorite musical stars.
on August 31,1997. One of the alleged causes of the accident is the paparazzi—who apparently chased Princess Diana's car on motorbikes in an attempt to get some pictures.
Today: The music recording and publishing industry is threatened by the new MP3 file format, which stores music in a digital form. MP3 files can be downloaded from the Internet and played on various types of players. The Recording Industry Association of America, a music industry trade group, tries unsuccessfully to ban the use of some MP3 players.
• 1910s: The luxury liner Titanic hits an iceberg on its maiden voyage, causing it to sink into the ocean a little more than two hours later, taking 1,500 people with it.
• 1910s: The lives of American celebrities like Lillian Nordica become increasingly more in the spotlight. Some stars appreciate the free publicity, as it helps to boost their star power. Today: Many public figures feel harrassed by paparazzi, a group of reporters who try to get pictures of celebrities by following them around everywhere. Diana, Princess of Wales, one of the world's biggest celebrities, is killed in a car crash
Titanic The largest ship of its time, the Titanic was 882.5 feet long and 92.5 feet wide with a total carrying capacity of 46,329 tons. The Titanic's maiden voyage departed from England on April 10, 1912, and was scheduled to arrive in New York. Gather's choice to place Cressida on the Titanic is historically believable, since many famous and prominent people from Europe, Britain, and the United States were on board for the maiden voyage. Just a few minutes before midnight on April 14, the ship struck a partially submerged iceberg in the North Atlantic waters. Immediately after the incident, the Titanic began broadcasting distress signals. After a short period of time, crewmen of the ship also begin firing rockets in hopes of attracting the attention of any nearby ships for assistance. However, the closest ship, the Californian, did not receive the distress signals. The next closest ship,
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Today: Frequently millions of dollars are spent on the production of a motion picture, including the cost of research, set design and construction, and special effects. At the time of release, James Cameron's internationally successful film Titanic (1997) is the most expensive film ever made, with a cost of approximately $200 million. It incorporates the latest information about how the ship actually sank. The film uses the excavation of the ship as a narrative framework for telling the tragic, fictional tale of Rose, an aristocratic woman about to be married, and Jack, a poor artist with whom she falls in love.
the Carpathia, did catch Titanic's distress signal but was fifty-six miles away. It took over three hours for the ship to reach the Titanic and give assistance. By the time the Carpathia reached the sinking ship, it had become too late for many. Around 1,500, of the more than 2,000 passengers and ship personnel, died. Due to the hype of the ship itself, its maiden voyage, and the notable passengers on board, the disaster received worldwide attention, and remains one of the most famous disasters in the twentieth century.
Critical Overview Gather's story, "The Diamond Mine," almost did not see publication. In his book, Willa Gather: A
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Literary Life, published in 1987, James Woodress noted that the author's agent "had a little trouble selling it." H. L. Mencken, one of the influential figures in American letters at the time, had considered the story for publication in his collection, The Smart Set, but' 'he was afraid that the story, which is based on the career of Lillian Nordica, American soprano, would open him to a libel suit," Woodress said. Other publishers had the same concern. The story was eventually published in McClure 's magazine in 1916, where, Woodress noted, it was "her last appearance in the magazine she once had edited." However, many critics did not review the story until 1920 when it was reprinted in Gather's story collection, Youth and the Bright Medusa. At this point, reviewers generally favored the collection, starting with Mencken himself, who said that' 'one finds in every line of her writing a sure-footed and civilized culture; it gives her an odd air of foreignness, particularly when she discusses music, which is often." The overwhelming majority of critics have followed Mencken's lead in discussing the artistic theme of the story. In the same year, Blanche Colton Williams noted that' 'the tales are the work of an artist sensitive to the rhythm of prose; significantly . . . they are about musicians." The New York Times Book Review noted of "The Diamond Mine" specifically, that with her "word portraits," Gather has the ability to "bottle up in a paragraph the essence of a character." In fact, one of the few negative reviews from 1920 was that of Orlo Williams, who reviewed Youth and the Bright Medusa in Athenaeum, and noted that ' 'her longest story, "The Diamond Mine,' is a truly fine idea, but quite inadequately carried out." Orlo Williams was not the only one who commented on the story's length. Blanche Colton Williams called the story, "a condensed novel." In the next two years, 1921 and 1922, critics continued to praise both Youth and the Bright Medusa and "The Diamond Mine." Sinclair Lewis called the collection a "golden book," while Francis Hackett of the New Republic noted how, in the story, ' 'the ironies of the artistic temperament are scrutinized ... in Blasius Bouchelka, Cressida's wild-eyed husband who becomes tame and fat in prosperity." Dorothy Canfield Fisher, in the Yale Review, focused on Cressida Garnet's plight of being the successful sister who is envied and hated by the family, and noted that this was a relatively new topic, "since the woman successful and prosperous by her own efforts is rather new to the
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world." She also remarked that this subject is ' 'full of pathos" and that the story "is deeply pathetic from the beginning to the end." Since the 1920s, both the collection and the short story have stood the test of time, with mainly positive reviews. However, in 1951, in his The Modern Novel in America, 1900-1950, Frederick J. Hoffman stated that the story collection ' 'has cost Miss Gather too much effort to summon her people from the void," and that "they appear less like human beings . . . than like pale unfeatured silhouettes." This is by far the minority viewpoint, since most critics in the last half of the twentieth century loved the collection and the short story. In her 1970 essay, "Reflections on Willa Gather," Katherine Ann Porter noted that both of Gather's short story collections "live still with morning freshness in my memory," while Woodress called it "an excellent work." The art theme is still present in modern criticism about both the book and the story. As R. M. Robertson noted in 1990 in his essay in Criticism, ' 'This book, like all her books, comes out in favor of high Art as the best means of countering the moneygrubbing and the pointless taylorism that rules the modern world Willa Gather saw." In 2000, Janis P. Stout, in her book, Willa Gather: The Writer and Her World, discussed the "woman artist's relation to her family and the emotionally draining nature of her work." Stout considered "the bitterness with which the issue is presented" in the story, and wondered "to what extent [Gather] felt herself estranged from or even used by her own family." Stout also noted Cressida's hard work and determination in "The Diamond Mine," and said that "it is a powerful statement of what is entailed by a sense of artistic vocation."
Criticism Ryan D. Poquette Poquette has a bachelor's degree in English and specializes in writing about literature. In the following essay, Poquette discusses Cressida Garnet's inability to have a successful marriage in Gather's story. In his 1990 essay, "Disinterring the 'Scandal' of Willa Gather: Youth and the Bright Medusa," in Criticism, R. M. Robertson noted that Gather's
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short story collection, "like all her books, comes out in favor of high Art as the best means of countering the money-grubbing . . . that rules the modern world Willa Gather saw." To Gather, art should be practiced for art's sake alone, not for money or fame. In stories where the author did depict rich and successful artists, events rarely turn out well. In the case of "The Diamond Mine," Cressida Garnet, a successful opera singer, dies on the Titanic. Up until her death, Cressida's life is not much more rosy. Her family is totally dependent upon her for both money and vitality. The situation is not much better in Cressida's many marriages, where her status as a successful artist, and the sacrifices she must make to maintain this status, get in the way of her attempts to have a happy marriage. In the end, it is Cressida's attempts to pursue both marriage and art that lead to her ill-fated demise in "The Diamond Mine." Cressida Garnet has some real bad luck when it comes to her marriages. Her first marriage, to Charley Wilton, ends badly when he dies from tuberculosis. Sadly, the "one beautifully happy year" they had together before he died is one of the only happy years she had in any of her four marriages. As James Woodress noted of Gather's fiction in 1987 in his Willa Gather: A Literary Life, "happy marriages in her fiction are rare." In the particular case of "The Diamond Mine," Woodress says the author makes it clear that' 'marriage and art do not mix.'' This is a fact that Cressida unfortunately never learns. In fact, she fails to realize that the reason she was happy with Charley Wilton during their year of marriage was because she had yet to achieve her success as an artist. When Cressida remembers their year together and says how happy she was, she qualifies it by saying, "though we were poor." She believes that she was happy with Charley in spite of being poor, but as her later marriages show, she was happy because of being poor—and because she was not a successful artist. Cressida's second marriage is to Ransome McChord, ' 'the foreign representative of the great McChord Harvester Company." Not much is mentioned about this husband, other than the fact that he ' 'had so persistently objected to Poppas that she was eventually forced to choose between them." Cressida of course chooses Poppas, who has been her accompanist and assistant for a long time. Cressida recognizes that her current fame is ' 'largely the work of Miletus Poppas," who had helped her to "work her
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' 'The Diamond Mine,'' was originally published in this October 1916 edition of McClures
problem out," when she was a fledgling, untrained singer.'' Poppas was indispensable to her, "says the narrator. He is the one who "knew all the simple things that were so desperately hard for Cressida," and as such is "necessary to her career." In her book, Willa Gather: The Writer and Her World, Janis P. Stout noted ' 'the hard work and determination with which Cressida pursues her career," saying that "it is a powerful statement of what is entailed by a sense of artistic vocation." This drive is so strong in Cressida that when her husband Ransome forces her to choose, she chooses Poppas, who is inextricably linked to her art. Her third husband, Blasius Bouchalka, has no problem with Poppas. In fact, at first glance, the marriage between Bouchalka and Cressida seems a perfect match. Both are artists, and both are passionate. When Cressida and the narrator first meet Bouchalka, the narrator notes that' 'his manner was excited and dramatic," and that he had "wild black eyes." This vibrant artist seems to be the perfect man for Cressida, who herself has "a seemingly exhaustless vitality." Indeed, when the two start getting to know each other, Cressida uses her influence to help Bouchalka
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What Do I Read Next? • The Frenzy of Renown: Fame & Its History, written by Leo Braudy and published by Vintage Books in 1997, examines the long and multifaceted history of fame. From Alexander the Great to Marilyn Monroe, Braudy's survey explores the relationship between celebrities and their audiences, discusses how and why certain people became famous, and examines how the lives of past celebrities have shaped our own current expectations of what it means to be in the limelight. • Gather's The Song of the Lark was first published in 1915, a year before she published "The Diamond Mine." The novel concerns Thea Kronberg, a woman with exceptional musical talent, who was born into poverty in a small town in Nebraska. Thea is unable to achieve her freedom until the man who loves her and desperately wants to marry her sets her free to pursue a career as an opera singer. A reprint edition was published by Houghton Mifflin Company in 1983. • Gather's writing style was influenced heavily by Henry James. James, who was one of America's greatest writers (although he eventually became a citizen of England), died the same year that Gather published "The Diamond Mine." James's novel The American, originally published in 1877, concerns the story of Christopher Newman—a self-made American millionaire who finds a bride in Europe but is treated horribly by the woman's parents, who reject him because of his non-aristocratic background. Newman is given an opportunity to get his revenge, and he must decide whether or not to take it. A reprint edition of the novel, The American: An Authoritative Text, Backgrounds and Sources, Criticism, was published by W. W. Norton & Company in 1981.
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• Twentieth-Century Music: A History of Musical Style in Modern Europe and America, written by Robert P. Morgan and published by W. W. Norton & Company in 1991 as part of the Norton Introduction to Music History series, gives an overview of classical music throughout the majority of the twentieth century. The book is divided into three chronological periods for discussing the various composers and movements during the century. • Fred Plotkin's Opera 101: A Complete Guide to Learning and Loving Opera, is a good primer for anybody interested in learning more about opera. Plotkin, a performance manager for the Metropolitan Opera, walks beginners through the history of opera, how operas are produced, and how to attend an opera without looking like a novice. He also studies all of this background knowledge in context by examining eleven different operas in detail. The book was published by Hyperion in 1994. • The Way to Tin Pan Alley: American Popular Song, 1866-1910 is a representative sampling of popular songs in the United States during the period of time from after the Civil War until the early twentieth century. This book was written by Nicholas E. Tawa and published by Schirmer Books in 1990. • The Story of the Titanic As Told by Its Survivors is a collection of some of the first-published accounts of the tragedy, as told in first-person form. It accurately portrays the social thinking and behavior of the time period and contains photographs and illustrations that evoke the era. Edited by Jack Winocour, the book was published by Dover Publications in 1960.
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get ahead. As the narrator says, she sang Bouchalka's music at the Metropolitan Opera, "she got him a position with the Symphony Orchestra .. . aroused the interest of a publisher in his work, and introduced him to people who were helpful to him." Bouchalka is profoundly grateful for these kindnesses, unlike Cressida's family, who do not appreciate the ways she helps them out. Says the narrator, ' 'she had always liked to make people happy, and he was the first one who had accepted her bounty without sourness." The association with Bouchalka eventually leads to marriage. "She was married in June and sailed immediately with her husband," says the narrator, also noting that' 'Poppas was to join them in Vienna in August, when she would begin to work again." This is an unusually large break for Cressida, who is so committed to her art and has such a good work ethic that she often has jobs lined up year-round, and is sometimes "on the road for several weeks" before she can come home. It is this professionalism that has given her such a good reputation in her field. ' 'Managers chose her over the heads of singers much more gifted, because she was so sane, so conscientious, and above all, because she was so sure," says the narrator. At first glance, the honeymoon appears to do Cressida some good because when they return, she seems to have found a happy medium. "She attacked her work at once with more vigor and more ease; did not drive herself so relentlessly." However, the relationship between Cressida and Bouchalka starts to sour almost immediately. He has been a starving artist his whole life, and when he marries into Cressida's money and comfort, his passion to create is dimmed. Unlike Cressida, who has the strong drive to perform her art even though she is already rich and does not need to, Bouchalka is no longer interested. ' 'During the second winter people began to say that Bouchalka was becoming too thoroughly domesticated," says the narrator. As Francis Hackett of the New Republic noted in 1921 in this story, "the ironies of the artistic temperament are scrutinized . . . in Blasius Bouchalka, Cressida's wild-eyed husband who becomes tame and fat in prosperity." During their third year of marriage, Bouchalka has gotten so comfortable with the rich lifestyle that he never wants to leave home, even to accompany Cressida on her many tours. Although Cressida is distressed that Bouchalka has gotten like this, and misses his "old fire," she still tries to save the marriage, and decides to
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i Her whole life, Cressida has given preference to her art, at the expense of the relationships with different husbands. Unfortunately, her attempts to pursue both a happy marriage and a career in the arts lead to her downfall."
surprise him one night by skipping a rehearsal so they can spend the evening together, a decision that the narrator notes is ' 'against her custom, one might say against her principles." Cressida's work ethic for her art is so strong that she never misses rehearsals. As the narrator notes later, when she and Cressida are thinking back to her relationship with Bouchelka, ' 'she became almost another woman, but not quite. Her 'principles,' or his lack of them, drove those two apart in the end." On her "surprise" visit, Cressida finds Bouchelka in bed with her cook, and ends the marriage. Bouchalka tries to appeal to Cressida, but it is no use. As the narrator says, "it was, on the whole, easier for Cressida to be firm than to be yielding, and she knew herself too well to attempt a readjustment." The same tough professionalism that remains crucial to her success as an opera singer, cannot be turned off, even if it might help save her marriage. "She had never made shabby compromises, and it was too late for her to begin," says the narrator. Cressida's fourth and last husband, Jerome Brown, is "the worst of Cressida's husbands." Unlike McChord or Bouchalka, who asked Cressida for things she could not do—firing Poppas and going against her principles, respectively—Brown asks her for money, something that she has already been giving her whole life to other family—but it is too much. Unfortunately, "he was the most rapacious of the men with whom she had to do," and the kind of money that Brown mines from Cressida ends up depleting her fortune. When she has to "put a mortgage on the Tenth Street house," Cressida begins to panic and out of
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desperation, decides to plan a' 'winter concert tour'' in England, where "she could always raise money from a faithful public." Up until this point in her successful career, Cressida says she has "never cared about money, except to make people happy with it, and it has been the curse of my life. It has spoiled all of my relations with people." Although she has been able to place her art first in the past, even above her marriages, the situation with Brown will not be solved by divorce alone. For the first time in a long time since Cressida first began singing, she has to work for the money to pay Brown's debts, and the strain of this causes Cressida to grow "rapidly older." The narrator notes that, when Cressida got on the Titanic, "she had been ill." When the ship goes down, the narrator hears that "apparently she never left her cabin." Her whole life, Cressida has given preference to her art at the expense of the relationships with different husbands. Unfortunately, her attempts to pursue both a happy marriage and a career in the arts lead to her downfall. Her "seemingly exhaustless vitality" has been depleted and in the end, she goes down in her symbolic death on the Titanic, as Gather's lesson to others who would try to mix marriage and art. Source: Ryan D. Poquette, Critical Essay on "The Diamond Mine,'' in Short Stories for Students, The Gale Group, 2002.
Philip Gerber In the following essay excerpt, Gerber offers a brief overview of ' 'The Diamond Mine,'' focusing on the conflict between an artist's personal and professional lives. All of the four new stories collected in Youth and the Bright Medusa concern the problems of professional musicians—singers—and as a group they develop the theme of the artist as celebrity, the relationship to society resulting from the pressure of popular fame, and the personal cost to the artist exacted by a life devoted to pleasing one's "public." It was a theme that was gaining currency swiftly in Gather's life, as her books became ever more widely sold and openly praised, making demands on her privacy she had not wholly anticipated. It was also a major strand of the new popular culture that was making headway in American society generally, where the notion of celebrity was taking hold with a firm, powerful, and even dictatorial grip.
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Two stories best serve to illustrate this strand of Gather's interest as expressed fictionally in Youth and the Bright Medusa. "Coming, Aphrodite!" contrasts a pair of artists, first glimpsed during the passionate heat of their youth and then observed during their middle years. Don Hedger is a painter toiling in the avant-garde who insists upon following his own star, declining to produce the same thing over and over, no matter how profitable. Eden Bower is a singer whose ambition for a musical career includes the desire to live well in a big city, to be admired by many men, and to achieve the satisfaction of her every material want. Eden urges Don to paint the types of pictures that conform to popular taste; later, after he has become financially successful, there will be time to paint pictures to please himself.' 'You know very well there's only one kind of success that's real," Eden says, meaning that measured by dollars. Following a momentary blaze of romance, doomed by the differences in their characters and sense of values, these two aspirants go their separate ways, to be seen again 18 years later, when both have "succeeded." Don Hedger, the more resolute, has forced the world to recognize his ' 'very modern" canvases; he has not compromised. Eden Bower's name blazes in electric lights above the Lexington Opera House, where she is opening— again—with the Puccini opera she does so well that she rarely dares attempt anything else. She gives the same performance always; her audience can count on its not being different. They get what they expect, what they want, what they pay for. While Don Hedger at 40 is ' 'decidedly an influence'' in the painting world, his name on the lips of every young person aspiring to excellence, Eden Bower has acquired a huge popular following—and a face that, Cather says, is "hard and settled, like a plaster cast." "The Diamond Mine" defines another price the artist may be forced to pay if she responds unduly to the claims people make on her personal life. Cressida Garnet has risen to the top ranks of American opera singers after a long struggle, aided by her determination and physical vitality. All thoughts are on perfecting her art. Unlike Eden Bower, Cressida does not feel the need for possessions. But as she matures she finds herself weighted down nevertheless, not by things but by people. One day, at age 42, Cressida wakes up to the realization that her need to have people around her and close to her has victimized her. The emotional freight she carries has been imposed by a series of rapacious
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husbands and a pack of bilious siblings who regard her somewhat as a natural source, a vein of ore—a "diamond mine"—open for free-wheeling exploitation. It dawns on Cressida at last: the truth that her personal relationships somehow, despite her hopes, have always involved dollars. During the 1920s, and later, Gather, fully occupied with her succession of novels, had comparatively little time to spare for short fiction. From time to time, however, she did try her hand at the short story, and with varying degrees of success. In 1925 and 1929, Gather published two longish stories, both inspired by her years in Pittsburgh. The first, "Uncle Valentine," stems from her feeling for the young composer Ethelbert Nevin, who died at the age of 37 while she was living there, and whom she felt to be the outstanding composer of his generation. The second story, "Double Birthday," evokes memories of Judge Samuel McClung and Isabelle and the George Seibel home where Gather spent so many enjoyable Christmas holidays. Both stories are finely crafted and evocative of Pittsburgh at the turn of the century, but neither furnishes truly serious competitions for Gather's best work. Source: Philip Gerber, "Gather's Shorter Fiction: 1892-1948," in Willa Gather, Twayne Publishers, 1995, pp. 75-87.
Sheryl L. Meyering In the following essay excerpt, Meyering explores themes ' 'The Diamond Mine'' shares with other stories by Gather, most notably "A Gold Slipper" and "Scandal." For her second collection of short stories, Youth and the Bright Medusa (Knopf, 1920), Gather reprinted four of the stories from the earlier collection The Troll Garden:"Paul's Case,""A Wagner Matinee,""The Sculptor's Funeral," and "A Death in the Desert." To these were added four newer works, "Coming, Aphrodite!" "A Gold Slipper," "Scandal," and "The Diamond Mine," the earliest of the four. The title of the collection suggests the theme that binds all eight stories together. As she had done for The Troll Garden, Gather chose a classical image for Youth and the Bright Medusa as a way of tying the stories together thematically. (For a complete explanation of the thematic relationship of the Troll Garden stories to the epigraphs Gather chose for them, see the section "Relationship to Other Gather Works" for the chapters ' 'A Death in the Desert'' and ' 'A Wagner Matinee.") What the image has in common with the
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epigraphs of The Troll Garden is the notion of "life's incompatibility with art. . . The chief difference between the two books is that the incompatibility of life and art is not in 1920 suggested in terms of an opposition between the dangerous sophistication of the metropolis and provincial naivete." Instead, Gather articulates the contrasts between the vibrant energy of youth and the regrets and often the pessimism of age: "Age—not necessarily old age—is a kind of petrifaction in itself even when death does not immediately supervene." The Medusa myth is also used ' 'to explain the hypnotic attraction of the arts for youth," but instead of focusing on the legend itself—about a grotesque monster who is nevertheless also mesmerizingly beautiful—Gather concentrates on the Medusa tale in its "beginning when the Gorgon was a beautiful young woman devoted to and associated with the earth goddesses... In the myth itself lay expression of the conflict Gather observed in the post-war society. The matriarchy had fallen to a masculine possessor, and the demise of beauty was imminent." Thus, all the stories in the collection are related in that they illustrate this view in one way or another. According to Ryder, "The Diamond Mine" is particularly close to "Scandal" and "A Gold Slipper" because in all three stories Gather places a male enemy in a woman's way. Arnold explains the title of the collection as an expression of the conviction that "anyone who looked upon the Medusa, the Gorgon, would be turned to stone. Anyone who pursues art will become its captive." Woodress maintains much the same thing, but Stouck believes that by Medusa Gather means only commercial success. Sometimes the artist is victorious, but at other times, he or she is "at the Medusa's mercy, a victim of the financial bonanza that success brings." Giannone recognizes the correspondences between the four stories reprinted from The Troll Garden and the other four in Youth and the Bright Medusa, which were published after The Song of the Lark: ' 'In both groups the artist confronts possible misunderstanding by the public, exploitation in personal affairs, professional failure, and the inevitability of death. The stories from The Troll Garden stress defeat or death." To some extent the newer stories contain the same element of pessimism, but the agony is somewhat relieved by "the artists' resignation to pain and impermanence. The earlier stories vent outrage and bitterness; the later ones express courage, assurance, and forgiveness" (1968,
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Brown says that in 'The Diamond Mine,' . . . Gather shifted the focus ... to 'the kind of relationships artists have with those who are not artists but are brought into contact with them."'
100). Brown says that in ' 'The Diamond Mine," "A Gold Slipper," and "Scandal," Cather shifted the focus from ' 'the greatness, growth, or decline of a talent" to "the kind of relationships artists have with those who are not artists but are brought into contact with them." Arnold groups the story with others in which Cather depicts a talented woman who sacrifices everything for her art. Such a woman was first portrayed in "Nanette: An Aside," but she reappears in "A Gold Slipper," "Scandal," "Coming, Aphrodite!," and The Song of the Lark (1984,106). Gather's view that marriage and art are utterly incompatible is also evident here, as it is in many other works—"Nanette: An Aside," "A Singer's Romance," and even "Paul's Case," where "the actresses whom Paul admired ... were typically supporting shiftless husbands." Woodress's interpretation is similar: sometimes the heroine does not marry, but usually she does, and she suffers for it. Gather's opinion on this subject was so strong that in one of her short stories, "Uncle Valentine," she borrows details from the marriage of her musician friend Ethelbert Nevin—a perfectly happy union— and turns it into a destructive and sad fictional one. (For a discussion of Gather's friendship with Nevin, see the ' 'Circumstances of Composition, Sources, and Influences" section for the chapter '"A Death in the Desert.'") "The Diamond Mine" shares a few more minor elements with other stories as well. For example, like "Scandal" it contains a portrait of a Jew that, in Robinson's opinion, "can only be described as an outburst of anti-Semitism." Field says that both "The Diamond Mine" and "The Sculptor's Funeral" ' 'strike the note of the tragic humor in the
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Every Day." Bloom and Bloom see similarities between this story and ' 'The Sculptor's Funeral'' in the isolation endured by the fictional artists.
Interpretations and Criticisms This story is seen by some critics as an indication of Cather's maturing views of the artist in society. Brown notes that in "The Sculptor's Funeral'' (1905), Cather made clear her opinion that if an artist's friends and family failed or refused to understand him or her, the result was catastrophic to the artist, but by the time she published "The Diamond Mine" eleven years later, Cather had come to realize her mistake. Having watched artists of many kinds, she came to see that the artist was not as fragile as she had thought: genuine artistic talent survives even when powerful forces are arrayed against it. Thus, although Gather's "tone is ironical and melancholy, [it is] not in the least cynical,'' and the absence of cynicism may be the result of Gather's having outgrown her need to compare the artist's life with the nonartist's life. Ryder would not agree that Gather's view of the artist became optimistic. On the contrary, by 1920 "Cather had come to believe that even the most resolute women of artistic sensibilities would find their dreams thwarted by a mercantile, masculine society." Although they were attracted by the "allure of beauty" as much as the female artists before them were, "the pursuit of the ideal" would transform them into Gorgons, and they would "lose an essential humanity in their efforts to repulse new Poseidons, new possessors of mother earth." The character of Cressida Garnet has elicited various comments from Cather specialists. Arnold maintains that Cressida is not quite the blameless victim she appears to be at first glance. She is, in fact, to some extent guilty of corrupting her family by allowing them to use her. Her portrayal as the innocent victim of exploitation indicates that the narrator herself is "as blind to the singer's faults as Cressida's family is to her virtues." Ryder says that Cressida's struggle for recognition and her failed attempts at successful marriage have made her bitter. The artist herself is aware of this hardness, realizing that' 'her plight is Medusa's—an inability to share herself with other people." Wasserman asserts that in order to understand Cressida, the reader must take a serious look at her Svengali, Miletus Poppas. When he sends Carrie a German verse, the content of which suggests his selfless
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sacrifice to Cressida,' 'the fairy-tale substructure of this story emerges. Poppas is the hidden gnome with the secret, the Rumpelstiltskin who can help the poor man's daughter spin the raw material of straw into the gold of art. He is Cressida's submerged self, in charge (bizarrely) of her very memories." Given his positive role in the story, the reader must necessarily question Gather's motives for making Poppas a Jew and for using stereotypical notions in her portrait of him. She may be evoking "ancientness [and] timeless endurance" by making Poppas appear as '' 'old as Jewry,''' or perhaps she is using the fact that he is a Greek Jew to link the ' 'twin roots of Western myth, the classical and the Hebraic." Her description of him may also be seen as anti-Semitic, ' 'a view that obscures her many hints that Poppas represents the deep psychic levels that must be plumbed—mined, rather—before the diamond of art can be achieved." Some critics give this story shrift, viewing it as one of Gather's poorer efforts. Stouck says that despite the "genuine pathos" of Cressida's search for love, the story is "curiously flat," since the "narrator never enters into the story's imaginative design." Thurin says the story's "burlesque" ending is jarring; it does not fit with the rest of the tale. Williams considers the story a good idea that fails in the telling. Gather has enough material in this piece for a novel, but she falls very far short of having written it. Source: Sheryl L. Meyering, '"The Diamond Mine,'" in A Reader's Guide to the Short Stories ofWilla Gather, G. K. Hall and Co., 1994, pp. 67-72.
Loretta Wasserman In the following essay excerpt, Wasserman explores whether Gather's works contain anti-Semitic overtones and specifically examines Gather's choice of a Jewish character (Poppas) as "the image of the intuitive self' in ' 'The Diamond Mine.'' The question of whether Willa Gather's writings betray an underlying anti-Semitism is not new. James Schroeter developed the accusation at some length in the mid-1960s, and Bernard Baum and John H. Randall III had made it explicit somewhat earlier. They conclude that indeed Gather was antiSemitic in that she slipped into dismissive stereotype—a characteristic she shared with other early modernists, Schroeter adds—stereotypes of the "poolroom" variety that identify Jewishness with
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"commercial exploitation, secularization, and destruction of traditional values." His list of the writers who casually label a character ' 'the Jew'' or picture the Jew as outsider and spoiler includes stellar members of Gather's generation (Anderson, Dreiser) and of the generation succeeding (Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Elliot, Pound). However, Gather is an especially painful case, because she alone had dignified immigrant Swedes, Norwegians, and Bohemians in her fiction, making them, indeed, her heroes and heroines. Such a defiance of literary decorum appears now so mild as to be invisible, but at the time it was a daring position. Hence, for Schroeter, it is doubly disappointing to find that Gather's sympathetic imagination faltered when she confronted the most recent immigrants, the Polish and Russian Jews who arrived in this country in such numbers in the 1890s and early 1900s. In the thirty-some years since Randall and Schroeter were writing, two developments have necessitated another look at Gather's treatment of Jews. First, the wheel of critical attention in general has taken a decided turn. Attitudes toward race, class, and gender are not dismissed as awkward blemishes but are perceived as deeply significant clues both to dominating cultural thought patterns and to individual habits of mind. Texts are combed to note what is mentioned only tangentially, or what is not said at all. Such clues are nowhere more powerfully operative than in signaling how a people in a culture thought about those it blocked from full participation—the "others" who are kept silent, left out, or domesticated. To cite a much-repeated example, Jane Austen can be said to have legitimized West Indian colonialism when in Mansfield Park she makes a plantation the source of Sir Thomas's wealth. A more pertinent example is Gather's implied approval of Tom Outland's efforts to interest the Smithsonian in his Anasazi artifacts, with no expressed regard for Indian ancestral rights, thus legitimizing the gathering of Indian pottery into a museum as a pious act of preservation. In sum, the new rigor in cultural criticism asks to be more alert concerning attitudes toward racial or other minorities and to treat such attitudes more seriously. While this scrutiny is largely directed at the ideological prevalent at a past time, it also highlights the observational power and moral sensitivity of the author. Despite a prevailing assumption that
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The dynamics of 'The Diamond Mine,' then, point away from any anti-Semitic meaning—again, in fact, as in 'Behind the Singer Tower,' what is highlighted is prejudice that blinds. . . ."
the writer as person is never free from a cultural context, we continue, paradoxically, to seek textual evidence that the writer as writer it prescient, however waveringly or unconsciously, about matters that we, in a later time, regard as foundational. Second, during the past thirty years, critical opinion about Gather has taken a dramatic turn, a 180-degree swing. In the sixties she was a minor writer—interesting, but limited by her backwardlooking fixation on the pioneer past. This view was shared by Randall, Schroeter, Leon Edel, even E. K. Brown, Gather's first "official" biographer. Today, a wealth of criticism has shown her to be an artist of sophistication and subtlety, both of method and of theme. A corollary of this new view is a new interest in Gather herself. The hearty, plain-speaking Westerner, a product of Populist midwestern small towns, as Randall describes her, has receded, her place taken by a bookish, self-conscious artist; this new perspective prompts us to question how aware she was of the culture she inhabited. It is no longer sufficient to point out that she describes some Jews as physically ugly (which she does) or as commercially successful (which she also does); in narrative context such portraits may be subverting the very stereotype represented, as Chaucer explodes antifeminism through the Wife of Bath.. . Jews who figure in stories Gather wrote shortly after The Song of the Lark—Miletus Poppas in "The Diamond Mine" (1915) and Siegmund Stein in "Scandal' '(1916)—are central to any discussion of Gather's anti-Semitism. Like Lichtenstein, they appear compounded of unpleasant traits (though they do not resemble each other), but unlike Lichtenstein, they are not humorous walk-ons. To confront these portraits is to confront the story in which each appears.
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After finishing The song of the Lark, Gather had more to say about opera singers. What fascinated her was the difference between performing artists, who must please and charm the public, and artists such as herself—writers or painters—who work in private, or even anonymously. The story of Cressida Garnet, the singer in "The Diamond Mine," is structured around her four marriages, but the narrator, Carrie, a friend from childhood, also describes her career, which Cressida pursued with undaunted energy through disappointments in her personal life. Carrie notes, however, that Cressida's success was owing to the voice coaching she received in Germany from Poppas, who thereafter became her accompanist— omnipresent, to the annoyance of family and husbands. Carrie is aware that Poppas is essential to Cressida's career. While she has vocal talent and ambition, she lacks musical intelligence. Poppas supplies "intuitions, discrimination, imagination, a whole twilight world of intentions and shadowy beginnings which were dark to Cressida." At the same time, Carrie finds Poppas, a Greek Jew, unsavory. There seems to be something demonic in his grayish skin, waxed moustache, and "alarming, deep-set eyes,—very close together. .. and always gleaming with something like defeated fury." "He was vulture of the vulture race, and he had the beak of one." Only at the end of the story does Carrie, looking back, see Poppas's full worth. After Cressida's death on the Titanic, Poppas has retired to the Middle East, his ' 'sainte Asie,'' for his health. From there he sends Carrie a letter that ends with four lines of verse from the closing scene of Wagner's Das Rheingold. In this scene the Rhine maidens sing of the mysterious meaning of the gold: "Traulich und Treu / ist's nur in der Tiefe" (Loyalty, or comfort, and truth are found only in the depth). Finally, Carrie sees the totality of Poppas's devotion to Cressida, to her art, to the whole of art, and she writes the story we have read. The tone of "The Diamond Mine" is reportorial; in fact, events surrounding Cressida's fourth husband so closely follow events of the life and death of the singer Nordica that publishers feared libel action. The figure of Poppas, however, edges toward allegory; he is the artist's deepest level of self, essential but not decipherable. Why did Gather choose a Jew as the image of the intuitive self? It is a romantic—rather, Gothic— portrait. (It perhaps owes something to the mesmer-
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izing voice coach, Svengali, in the novel Trilby, which is mentioned in the story.) When Carrie sees Poppas and others waiting at the White Star Line for news of Titanic survivors, she thinks he looks ' 'old as Jewry"—ageless, timeless. Poppas might be an Old Testament Jew, returning to the Holy Land (his ' 'sainte Asie''). By making him also Greek, Gather may have been trying to suggest the twin roots of Western art and aspiration. She had written, after listening to Zangwill, "The Hebrews, indeed, felt the beauty of holiness, but the Greeks felt the holiness of beauty." The dynamics of "The Diamond Mine," then, point away from any anti-Semitic meaning—again, in fact, as in "Behind the Singer Tower," what is highlighted is prejudice that blinds... It is unlikely that we can glean significant new insights about endemic anti-Semitism in the first decades of the century from Gather's fictional Jews, many and varied though they are. Possibly the sheer intensity of hatred on the part of cultural leaders (Fred Hallet, Pierce Tevis) is revealing. Though there is nothing here to equal the brutal, mindless tormenting of Robert Cohn (The Sun Also Rises), there is a surreal physicality in the way Hallet describes Merryweather and Tevis describes Stein, and in Kitty's sense of suffocation by Stein's guests, that brings home to us the visceral impact of this particular prejudice. An interesting dynamic also appears. Hallet's case against Merryweather is climaxed by his outrage at Merry weather's sufferance ("When you had him, he always crawled"), and Johnson is annoyed at Zablowski's patience with Hallet's teasing (' 'Why don't you ever hit back?''). The comparison to Cohn's persecutors is again apt—they become increasingly maddened by his endurance of abuse. It is significant, I think, that in The Professor's House Gather again dramatizes this forbearance (Marsellus excuses his anti-Semitic brother-in-law, Scott, who has secretly blackballed Marsellus's admission to a club), but this time patient forgiveness (Christian, we might say) is admired. The Professor says,' 'Louie, you are magnanimous and magnificent!" Of more particular interest is whether Gather should continue to be seen as harboring an antiSemitic streak. Those commentators who base their answer on the incidence of "positive role models" in her fiction must say yes. The moral absolutists, too, who find any expressed consciousness of otherness evidence of racism or elitism, will find many instances of distancing, if only in the epithets
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Jew, Jewess, Hebrew. The rest of us must read and ponder. We can at least agree that Gather was aware of Jews as a presence in American life and, more than any other writer of her time, chose to register that presence in fiction. Zablowski, the Nathenmeyers, Poppas, Stein, Becky Tietelbaum, Marsellus, the Rosens—just to list these figures, vivid and memorable—must be convincing. She witnessed, and put in her fiction, the anti-Semitic prejudices of the dominant culture. In her way, she combatted this bias, but hers was not the direct way of the social protest novel, and, clearly, she did not make it an overriding concern. She put the needs of the work first. We can say of Gather as a writer, as Henry James said of Hawthorne, that she ' 'is perpetually looking for images which shall place themselves in picturesque correspondence with the spiritual facts with which [she] is concerned." I think Poppas and Stein, and possibly the dark man of "The Old Beauty," were created for reasons of "picturesque correspondence," never mind that they may also have confirmed pervasive prejudices. At the same time, one of the ' 'spiritual facts'' dearest to Gather was the worth of art and learning, and the Nathanmeyers and the Rosens can be numbered among the many images by which she sought to dramatize her faith. Source: Loretta Wasserman, "Gather's Semitism." in Gather Studies, Vol. 2, 1993, pp. 1-2.
Sources Fisher, Dorothy Canfield, "Among New Books: Some Books of Short Stories," in Willa Gather: The Contemporary Reviews, edited by Margaret Anne O'Connor, Cambridge University Press, pp. 110-11, originally published in Yale Review, Vol. 10, April 1921. pp. 670-71. Hackett, Francis, "Miss Gather's Short Stories," in Willa Gather: The Contemporary Reviews, edited by Margaret Anne O'Connor, Cambridge University Press, pp. 105-107, originally published in New Republic, Vol. 25, January 19, 1921, pp. 233-34. Hoffman, Frederick J., The Modern Novel in America, 1900-1950, Gateway Editions, Ltd., 1951, pp. 39^10. "Latest Works of Fiction: Miss Gather's Stories," in Willa Gather: The Contemporary Reviews, edited by Margaret Anne O'Connor, Cambridge University Press, p. 101, originally published in New York Times Book Review, October 3, 1920, p. 24. Lewis, Sinclair, "A Hamlet of the Plains," in The Man from Main Street: Selected Essays and Other Writings, 1904-1950,
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edited by Harry E. Maule and Melville H. Cane, Random House, 1953, pp. 170-74, originally published in the New York Post, September 22, 1922. Mencken, H. L., "Four Reviews: Youth and the Bright Medusa," in Willa Gather and Her Critics, edited by James Schroeter, Cornell University Press, 1967, pp. 9-10, originally published as a Review of Youth and the Bright Medusa, in The Smart Set, Vol. LXIII, No. 4, December 1920. Porter, Katherine Anne, "Critical Reflections on Willa Gather," in Critical Essays on Willa Gather, edited by John J. Murphy, G. K. Hall & Co., 1984, p. 36. Robertson, R. M., "Disinterring the 'Scandal' of Willa Gather: Youth and the Bright Medusa," in Criticism, Vol. XXXII, No. 4, Fall 1990, p. 489. Stout, Janis P., Willa Gather: The Writer and Her World, University Press of Virginia, 2000, pp. 130-31. Williams, Blanche Colton, "A New Book of Stories," in Willa Gather: The Contemporary Reviews, edited by Margaret Anne O'Connor, Cambridge University Press, pp. 100-101, originally published in Bookman, Vol. 52, October 1920, pp. 169-70. Williams, Orlo, Review of Youth and the Bright Medusa, in Willa Gather: The Contemporary Reviews, edited by Margaret Anne O'Connor, Cambridge University Press, p. 104-105, originally published in Athenaeum, No. 4731, December 31, 1920, p. 890. Woodress, James, Willa Gather: A Literary Life, University of Nebraska Press, 1987, pp. 87, 127, 278-80.
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Further Reading Acocella, Joan Ross, Willa Gather and the Politics of Criticism, Vintage Books, 2002. This book is a controversial argument in favor of Willa Gather and her work. Acocella criticizes previous reviews of other critics—who sometimes focused on Gather's personal life and not her works themselves—and discusses how these undeserved reviews helped to obscure Gather's works. Fiedler, Johanna, Motto Agitato: The Mayhem behind the Music at the Metropolitan Opera, Doubleday, 2001. Fiedler, a press representative at the Metropolitan Opera, "the Met," for fifteen years, gives a thorough history of this massive musical enterprise. The book examines the Opera house from its inception in 1883 until today and discusses both the day-to-day dealings and the behind-the-scenes anecdotes from this famous American institution. Gerber, Philip L., Willa Gather, Twayne Publishers, 1995. This is an overview of Willa Gather's literary career. Her early, middle, and final stage novels are covered, as well as her contributions to short fiction and a collection of past and present biographies and criticism about this author. Wasserman, Loretta, Willa Gather: A Study of the Short Fiction, Twayne Publishers, 1991. This chronological study of Gather's short stories traces the themes and philosophies that she developed throughout her career, and it explores her contributions to early American modernism.
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The Gold of Tomds Vargas Isabel Allende's ' The Gold of Tomas Vargas'' was first published in Barcelona in the story collection, Cuentos de Eva Luna, in 1990. A year later, it was translated into English and published by Atheneum as The Stories of Eva Luna. The collection was inspired by Allende's 1988 novel, Eva Luna, in which the title character is a storyteller and screenwriter who alludes to many stories that she never tells. At the beginning of the short story collection, Eva Luna is responding to the request of her lover from the novel, Rolf Carle, to tell him one of her stories. Instead, she tells him twenty-three. Like the other stories in the collection, "The Gold of Tomas Vargas" takes place in an undetermined time in the fictional village of Agua Santa, which resembles a South American town.
Isabel Allende
1990
The story concerns the buried gold of Tomas Vargas, a wife-beating, adulterous miser who is disliked by everybody in the town. Vargas receives his come-uppance when one of his adulterous affairs comes back to haunt him, and his wife and concubine team up against him. The story, which reads like a moral fable, cautions against greed and promotes a life in which women are respected, not taken advantage of. Although it is less prevalent in this story, many of Allende's other writings are known for their use of magical realism, a technique where fantastical elements combine with realistic elements. This was used to greatest effect in Allende's first novel, 1982's La casa de los espiritus, which was translated as The House of the Spirits in 1985. A
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current copy of "The Gold of Tomas Vargas" is available in the 1992 reprint edition of The Stories of Eva Luna, which was published by Bantam Books.
Plot Summary Tomds Vargas's Buried Gold
Author Biography Allende was born on August 2,1942, in Lima, Peru. Tomas Allende, Allende's father, was a Chilean diplomat. Allende's uncle and godfather was Salvador Allende, the president of Chile. Her mother, Francisca, divorced Tomas two years after Allende's birth and took her to the maternal grandparents' home to be raised. Despite the fact that Allende never kept contact with her father after this point, she still remained very close to the paternal side of the family, especially Salvador Allende. In 1973, Salvador Allende was assassinated as part of a military coup against his socialist government. This changed Allende's life profoundly. She was very close to her uncle, and his death would affect the rest of her life. From that point on, the author felt her life was divided into events that happened before the assassination and events that happened after. Residing in Chile eventually proved to be too dangerous for Allende and her family, and they relocated to Venezuela. It was at this point in her life that she would run into obstacles in her career. While she was a noted journalist in Chile, Allende found it extremely challenging to find work in Venezuela. She ceased writing for several years. Allende's literary drought would continue until receiving word from her one-hundred-year-old grandfather, who was still living in Chile. She decided to begin writing again, and the first thing she did was to begin composing a response to her grandfather that would let him know his memory would always be with her. Allende never sent the response and, shortly afterward, her grandfather died. However, the memories of her family and her country inspired the beginning of her first novel, The House of the Spirits, which she published in 1982. Her only short story collection, Cuentos de Eva Luna (1990), published in English in 1991 as The Stories of Eva Luna, was inspired by another one of Allende's novels, Eva Luna (1988). "The Gold of Tomas Vargas" appears in Cuentos de Eva Luna. Allende currently resides in San Rafael, California. Her latest novel, Portraits in Sepia, was published in 2001 by HarperCollins.
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"The Gold of Tomas Vargas" takes place in the fictional town of Agua Santa, in an unnamed South American country. The story begins with a short history of how the region's people used to bury their gold and silver but stopped this practice when they began to put their money and trust in banks and new paper money. Unfortunately, the paper money loses its value in the long run and as a result, many people lose their savings. Tomas Vargas, however, never trusted the new banks and continued to bury his gold nuggets. While he is rich from this buried gold, he shares none of it with his wife or children who sometimes have to rely on the kindness of others for food, clothes, and schooling. In addition, Vargas borrows money and does not pay it back, gets drunk often, commits adultery, and abuses his family. As a result, he is universally disliked by the town. The only person who is able to calm down Vargas is Riad Halabi, a Turkish storekeeper. Meanwhile, Vargas's wife, Antonia Sierra, a nearly toothless mulatto woman, has become prematurely aged from the many births, miscarriages, beatings, and childrearing duties she has had to endure during her marriage to Vargas. Because Vargas refuses to pay for anything or dip into his buried gold, she also works as a cook to help support the family.
The Arrival of Concha Diaz One day, Concha Diaz, a young, pregnant girl, comes to town. Halabi is the first to see her and although she is distraught and can hardly speak, she manages to tell him that she needs to see Vargas. Halabi sends for Vargas who is at the tavern, and when Vargas arrives, Halabi admonishes him for adultery with a girl young enough to be his granddaughter and says that the townspeople are not going to let him get away with it this time. Halabi offers to let Concha stay in his house until the baby is born, but Concha insists on staying with Vargas.
The Conflict between Concha and Antonia When Antonia Sierra comes home from work and finds her husband's concubine, she snaps. Although she has suffered silently in the marriage to Vargas, this latest transgression by her husband is the last straw and she flies into a blind rage that lasts for a week. She finally calms down, and other
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people try to get her to see that Vargas is to blame, not Concha, but Antonia is unconvinced. She silently curses Concha, who avoids Antonia, and refuses to feed Vargas, a task that now falls onto Concha. The townspeople fear that Antonia will kill Concha from jealousy.
A Friendship Develops However, against her better judgment, Antonia ends up pitying Concha when the girl's pregnancy becomes complicated and almost kills her. Antonia appeals to Halabi, who takes Concha to the hospital for some medicine. Antonia begins to treat the girl like a daughter and her anger and pity turn into protectiveness. In return, Concha begins to pitch in more around the house, cleaning and cooking when she has the energy to do so. When Concha's baby is ready to be born, she has to go back to the hospital for a cesarean section. Upon their return, Antonia helps Concha display the baby, beaming like a grandmother. The baby is named after Halabi, who pays for all of the hospital expenses. Vargas had acted like he was drunk so that he did not have to dig up his gold and pay for the baby. Although Antonia lets him get away with this, she fights back when Vargas tries to sleep with Concha—who has not fully healed from the baby's birth—finally finding the strength necessary to stand up to her husband. All of Agua Santa hears how Antonia has stood up to Vargas, and his reputation as a womanizer is tarnished. He tries to appear in control of the two women when he is bragging in public, but everybody knows that he has been whipped, and they will no longer listen to him.
Tomds Becomes Addicted to Gambling With his reputation shattered and his wife and concubine alienating him, Vargas turns to gambling, something that his greed and fear of losing money had prevented him from doing in the past. In Agua Santa, the one sin the townspeople will not forgive is defaulting on gambling debts, and Vargas's biggest fear is to lose his buried gold. However, as his luck at cards leads to bigger and bigger bets, he begins to get cocky and tries to regain his lost pride through gambling wins. One day, the Lieutenant, another unscrupulous character who the townspeople do not like, challenges Vargas to a game of cards. The Lieutenant loses two hundred pesos, and Vargas brags about his win for two days until the Lieutenant demands another game. This time, the bet is one thousand
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pesos, the largest bet ever in Agua Santa. The Lieutenant posts the title to his house as his collateral, while Vargas pledges his famous buried gold. The whole town, minus Antonia and Concha, shows up to watch the gambling match and Halabi serves as a judge to make sure the game is fair. Vargas loses, and the Lieutenant demands that he dig up his gold. Although he is very distraught, even Vargas knows better than to not pay up. The Lieutenant, Halabi, and the rest of the town follow Vargas to his hidden gold but it is gone; somebody has stolen it. The Lieutenant is enraged and kicks Vargas repeatedly until Halabi breaks up the two men. Vargas becomes very ill and feverish and everybody assumes he will die of grief over his stolen gold. More than a week later, he is well enough to go out and finally ventures his way to the tavern. He does not return that night and his mutilated body is found in the ravine where his gold used to be buried—presumably, he has been murdered by the Lieutenant. His burial is handled without ceremony and nobody mourns him.
On the Road to Prosperity Shortly thereafter, Antonia and Concha start to buy livestock and clothes for the family. Later that year, they repair their house, build an addition, and
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start a cookery business, producing meals that they deliver to the jail, school, and post office. Although it appears to be true that the women had stolen Vargas's buried gold, none of the townspeople objects to the women's sudden fortune.
Riad Vargas Diaz
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Riad Halabi
Conchita See Concha Diaz
Concha Diaz Concha Diaz is a young girl who comes to town and claims that her unborn baby is Vargas's. Although Halabi offers to let her stay with him until her baby is born, she insists on staying with Vargas, which initially turns Vargas's wife, Antonia, against her. For the first part of her stay, Concha avoids Antonia, who refuses to cook for her adulterous husband. As a result, Concha cooks for Vargas but only after Antonia has left for work. Concha is so lonely that she constantly cries, which drives Vargas away from the house. When Concha's pregnancy takes a turn for the worse, Antonia and Halabi take pity on her and take Concha to the hospital for medicine. Concha is horrified by the transformation her body undergoes during her pregnancy. Some days are so bad that she cannot even get out of bed, although on other days she feels well enough to cook and clean. Antonia's pity turns to protectiveness, as she remembers her own pregnancies and begins to treat Concha like a daughter. Not long after the baby is born by cesarean section, Vargas tries to sleep with Concha, who still has not healed from her operation. Antonia and Concha both stand up to Vargas. This ferocious violence scares Vargas away, and from this point on, Concha becomes a new woman, taking care of the children and the house while Antonia is at work. After a while, they are in such need of money that Concha also starts working. When Vargas returns home from his gambling match with the Lieutenant, saying that his gold is gone, neither Concha nor Antonia show any sign of dismay. After Vargas's murder, the two women start providing for the children and even start a cookery business at home, presumably using Vargas's buried gold to do it.
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Riad Vargas Diaz is Concha Diaz's baby, who she has with Tomas Vargas. The baby is the reason that Concha comes to Agua Santa and why she asks to live with Vargas. The baby is christened after Riad Halabi, the local storekeeper, who pays the hospital bills for the birth when Vargas refuses to pay for them.
Riad Halabi, also referred to as ' 'the Turk'' by Vargas, is the only one who Vargas respects, and so is the only one who is able to shame Vargas when he is drunk or violent. Halabi, who owns the town store, is also one of the few people who takes pity on Vargas's estranged family. Along with the schoolteacher Ines, Halabi finds excuses to give Antonia Sierra and her children clothes, food, school supplies, and vitamins. Because his store is a popular stopping point for the National Petroleum trucks, Halabi is the first to hear Concha's story and summon Vargas to account for Concha's child. Halabi is a very giving person and offers to house Concha, although she ends up staying with Vargas. This transgression by Concha makes Antonia snap, and the townspeople fear that she will kill Concha in her rage. As a result, Halabi is one of two people—the schoolteacher Ines being the other—who the townspeople ask to intervene in the Vargas household when they suspect that Antonia will kill Concha. Halabi also drives Antonia and Concha to the hospital when the girl's pregnancy goes bad and she needs medicine. He pays for the girl's hospital bills—since Vargas will not—when the girl needs to have a cesarean section. Because of this kindness, Concha names the baby Riad, after the storekeeper. Also, since he is so honest, Halabi is tapped to serve as judge during the gambling match between Vargas and the Lieutenant and declares the Lieutenant the winner. He helps to support Vargas when the old man is so distraught over his loss that he cannot stand up. In addition, Halabi intervenes when Vargas says the gold is gone and the Lieutenant starts kicking him as a result. Finally, after Vargas is dead and the two women have started their cookery business, they leave any extra money they have widi Halabi, to give to the truck drivers.
Ines Ines is the local schoolteacher, who teaches Antonia Sierra's children for free, when Vargas refuses to pay for their schooling. It is Ines's goal to make sure that no child in town is illiterate. Ines is
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one of two people—Riad Halabi being the other— who the townspeople ask to intervene in the Vargas household when they suspect that Antonia will kill Concha. In£s also watches after Antonia's children for a week, when Antonia is caring for Concha following her baby's birth.
The Lieutenant The Lieutenant is a cocky and violent man who challenges Vargas to the fateful card match in which Vargas loses his gold. However, when the Lieutenant follows Vargas to get the gold, it is gone. The Lieutenant vows that he will get his money and shortly thereafter, Vargas is found murdered, presumably by the Lieutenant. The townspeople dislike the Lieutenant almost as much as they do Vargas because the Lieutenant beats anybody who comes into his jail and gives himself the authority to invent laws.
The Schoolteacher See Ines
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Media Adaptations • The Stories of Eva Luna was released as an audio book in 1991. It was published by Dove Books and read by Margaret Sayers Peden.
nomic situation gets so bad that Concha eventually has to work too, it is not for long. Once Vargas is murdered because his gold was stolen and he cannot pay his gambling debts, Antonia and Concha suddenly come into a lot of money, presumably from Vargas's stolen gold. The two women start providing for the children and even start a cookery business at home.
Antonia Sierra Antonia Sierra is the wife of Tomas Vargas, who eventually stands up to her husband's abusive ways, leading him to turn to his fateful bout with gambling. Antonia is a nearly toothless mulatto who was once beautiful, but whose beauty has faded through the many births, miscarriages, and housekeeping activities that are part of her marriage as well as from her husband's abuse. She is still very proud, however, and never speaks out about Vargas's treatment of her or willingly accepts charity. Her pride is shattered when she comes home from work one day and finds Concha—her husband's pregnant concubine—sleeping in her cot. Although she initially displays such a rage that everybody thinks she will kill Concha, Antonia eventually grows to pity the girl when her pregnancy goes bad, and Antonia remembers her own first pregnancy. Antonia arranges for Concha to be taken to the hospital for medicine, and exhibits a mother's protectiveness when Vargas tries to sleep with the girl when she is still healing from her cesarean section operation. At this point, both Antonia and Concha stand up to Vargas, who is scared away by this ferocious display of violence. From this point on, Vargas avoids the two women, who strike up a friendship and a partnership. While Antonia works, Concha takes care of the children and the household. Although the eco-
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The Truck Driver The National Petroleum truck driver takes pity on Concha by offering her a ride to Agua Santa after he sees her walking down the road, obviously pregnant. In general, the National Petroleum truck drivers stop by Agua Santa to gamble but, going against the city's custom, they never show their money before they gamble. However, they honor the city's unwritten code of ethics that says one should not play if he cannot pay.
The Turk See Riad Halabi
Tomds Vargas Tomas Vargas is a greedy old man who is famous for his buried gold nuggets, which he loses in a card match. However, somebody steals his gold without his knowledge and he is unable to pay his gambling debt and is murdered. Vargas buries his gold because he does not trust the new bank system or paper money, which have ruined others' fortunes. Although he is financially rich, he is morally bankrupt and he is known throughout the town as an adulterous, abusive husband who makes his wife work and his children go without food or clothes while he enjoys the finer things in life. The only person who can shame Vargas over his behavior is
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Riad Halabi, the local storekeeper. Vargas's life changes when one of his adulterous conquests, a young girl named Concha, arrives in town, and demands that he take her in. Vargas's wife, Antonia, is outraged and speaks out for the first time at this unforgivable transgression. Although Antonia eventually accepts responsibility for Concha, Vargas cannot do the same for their baby and when he is called upon to pay for hospital costs, he acts like he is drunk so he does not have to touch his buried gold. Vargas tries to sleep with Concha even before she has healed from her cesarian section, an act that inspires Antonia to stick up for the girl and not let Vargas get his way. Concha also threatens Vargas, by indicating she will kill his newborn baby if Vargas comes near her. Frightened by this violence, Vargas turns to gambling to restore his macho reputation. He becomes addicted to gambling after he starts winning and makes larger and more cocky bets. After winning two hundred pesos from the Lieutenant, he brags about his win for two days. The Lieutenant calls for a second match that weekend, and the two men play for one thousand pesos. Vargas loses, and is forced to go dig up his buried gold to pay his debt. When he gets to the hiding place, however, he finds that his gold has been stolen. The Lieutenant is unsympathetic and Vargas is found murdered shortly thereafter, with nobody to mourn his passing.
Themes Greed The story details the consequences of greed in many ways. In the beginning, Vargas's family has been suffering from his greedy refusal to dig up his gold. As a result, Vargas's "children went hungry and his wife wore rags." Vargas even refuses "to pay the fees for his children's schooling,'' and when his illegitimate child from Concha is born, he pretends that he is "drunker than usual, to keep from digging up his gold." In the end, however, it is Vargas who pays the ultimate consequence for his greed—with his life. After he gets hooked on gambling, "with the hope of getting rich at one lucky stroke,'' Vargas makes larger and larger bets. When he makes his largest bet to the Lieutenant, he lets
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everybody know that if he loses, ' 'I will pay with my buried gold." Although he is completely distraught after he loses the gambling match, when he has recovered, he at least thinks he can count on the buried gold to save his life. However, his greedy actions have come back to haunt him. Somebody—most likely Antonia and/or Concha, as Allende's ending indicates—has stolen the gold without his knowledge, so he cannot pay his gambling debt. Pretty soon, he comes to "the end everyone had known would be his sooner or later," when he is found murdered. "He did not return that night, and two days later someone brought the news that his mutilated body had been found in the very ravine where he had hidden his treasure." It is a cruel irony that the very place that used to hold his treasure becomes the place where the murderer or murderers leave Vargas's body, since Vargas was so greedy that he loved his gold more than life itself.
Ethics Agua Santa is ruled by an interesting set of ethics. Vargas lives in a town where "they could tolerate a man who mistreated his family, a man who was lazy and a troublemaker, who never paid back money he borrowed." For his part, Vargas makes the most of the town's tolerance. When talking about his wife, Allende notes that "there were times that her body was covered with blackand-blue marks; no one had to ask, all Agua Santa knew about the abuse she took from her husband." Also, Vargas ' 'had no decency; he borrowed money with no intention of paying it back." When Concha comes to town carrying Vargas's baby, Riad Halabi, the storekeeper and "the only person capable of shaming the brute," tells Vargas that he is really in trouble this time. He says that Vargas is "old enough to be the girl's grandfather, and if he thought that people were going to forgive him his sins this time, he was mistaken." However, Vargas knows this is an idle threat because he realizes that the only unforgivable offense in the town is not paying back gambling debts, which are "sacred." Not even the "crooked" guards "dared play if they couldn't pay. No one violated that rule." For this reason, he is safe for most of the story because he is so afraid of losing his gold that he does not gamble. However, he goes too far when he tries "to coax Concha Diaz back to his hammock, despite the fact the woman had an unhealed scar and battlefield dressing across her belly." This
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Topics for Further Study • The Stories of Eva Luna is comprised of many short stories that are being told by the main character of the book. Research other authors who have been known to use this style of storytelling and compare one of their works to Allende's collection. • Allende is well known for using the techniques of Latin-American magical realism in her stories, although this story is not a good example. Research the ideas and techniques of magical realism, then create a one-page plot summary for a different version of the story that incorporates these techniques. • Research life in a Latin-American village in the late 1980s, at the time when Allende wrote the story. What are the similarities between this real village and Agua Santa, Allende's fictional town in the story? What are the differences?
highly unethical act inspires Antonia "to keep the old vulture from getting his way," and she and Concha team up to scare Vargas away. This unexpected defense from the two women wounds Vargas's pride, and he turns to gambling to try to regain his strong reputation. In the process, he makes himself vulnerable to the gambling debt that undoes him, and he ends up paying for his past unethical behavior with his life.
Responsibility Although the town's ethically loose rules allow Vargas to shirk his responsibility for himself and others on most occasions, many in the town are good people who do feel responsible for others. Halabi is the strongest example and has a reputation for helping people. When visitors stop in his store, he gives them ' 'a cool pineapple drink," and listens to their "misfortunes," if they have any. He is also the one that offers to let Concha stay with him until her baby is born, which is ' 'what everyone knew he
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• Research the history of feminism in the twentieth century, including the main goals of the feminist movement, and how each of these goals has or has not been met. Create a timeline that plots the major successes of the movement, then discuss where feminism stands today, at the beginning of the twenty-first century. • In this story, familial power passes from Vargas to his wife and concubine when they stand up to his abuse. Research the current dynamics in families in both Latin America and the United States and compare Allende's depiction with your findings. • Gambling is one of the main focuses of this story and helps to define both the culture and morals of Agua Santa's residents. Find another culture that has been profoundly affected by gambling and discuss how the effects have been either good or bad. Use statistics to support your claims.
would say." Halabi is also responsible for keeping Vargas in line, since he is the only one who can control Vargas. And when the town needs somebody who can serve as an impartial judge, Halabi is ' 'appointed to ensure the fairness of the proceedings.'' In the case of Concha, this responsibility is learned. When she comes to town, Concha wants to live with Vargas, not knowing that the man is married. The initial conflict between Antonia and Concha subsides when Antonia, who is already responsible for her children and husband, begins to change her feelings toward the girl. "She felt no anger toward her now, but a secret compassion, and she began to treat her like a daughter who had gone wrong." For her part, Concha appreciates this compassion, and many times, when Antonia returns from work, "exhausted, she found dinner waiting and the house cleaned." When Concha serves Antonia coffee, she stands by the older woman, "waiting for her to drink it, watching Antonia with the moist eyes of a grateful animal." In addition,
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after the baby is born, when money gets really tight, "Concha also had to go out and work," since Vargas still will not part with his gold. At the end of the story, after Vargas is dead and the two women suddenly have money, they use it to take care of the children as well as fix up the house so they can start a "cookery business," which provides the means for them to continue to provide for their children. In addition, when there is any money left, "they left it on the store counter for Riad Halabf to offer to the truckdrivers." It is interesting that Allende has the women do this, since out of all of the characters in the story, one would think they would give the extra money to Halabf himself, to pay him back for all of the times he helped them. But this line from Allende may be the key to solving the mystery of the gold. Although it is assumed that the two women have used the gold to pay for all of the items they have bought recently, Allende never says how the women found the gold. However, since Agua Santa is located off the highway, where the National Petroleum trucks travel—and since Vargas goes ' 'in the direction of the highway" when he leads the town to his hiding place—it is probable that the truckdrivers have seen where Vargas has hidden his gold. They could have either dug up the gold or told the two women where to dig it up. In either case, this would only demonstrate further the profound sense of responsibility that many people—besides Vargas—feel for other people, since the truckdrivers could have easily taken the money for themselves and chose instead to leave the money to the women.
in an attempt to prove himself after being threatened by Antonia and Concha, begins gambling. When he loses the largest bet ever in Agua Santa, "a thousand pesos," Vargas, feeling very beaten and almost sick over the thought of losing his gold, leads "the Lieutenant, the police, the Turk, the schoolteacher Ines, and, behind them, the whole town in a boisterous procession,'' to his secret hiding place to turn over the gold. This alone would be a satisfying conclusion to the story because Vargas would have lost the item most dear to him and learned his lesson. However, Allende throws in a surprise for both the reader and Vargas, who trudges into the underbrush where he has hidden his treasure. "A long minute went by before they heard his howl." As Vargas frantically exclaims to the Lieutenant, "It isn't there, it isn't there!... I swear, Lieutenant, I don't know anything about this; they stole it, they stole my treasure!" although he never says who the "they" might be. Vargas is eventually murdered, presumably for not paying his gambling debt, the one unforgivable offense in Agua Santa, and Antonia and Concha bury him. It is at this point, in the very ending of the story, that Allende gives a strong suggestion where the money went, and it is a revelation for the reader. When talking about Antonia and Concha, she notes, ' 'Not long after the burial they bought hens, rabbits, and pigs; they rode the bus to the city and returned with clothes for all the family.'' Although it is never stated outright, it appears that Antonia, with the help of Concha, has stolen the gold from Vargas, in the process paying back his debt to them, for all of the years of abuse and miserliness.
Characterization
Style Epiphany Like many of the stories in The Stories of Eva Luna, "The Gold of Tomas Vargas" ends on an epiphany, or a sudden revelation. When the story begins, the reader is introduced to "Vargas's gold nuggets," which he refuses to dig up, even when he should to pay for family expenses. Throughout the story, many references to the gold illustrate that Vargas is deathly afraid of having to give it up, to the point where, even though he loves the idea of gambling, "the magnitude of his greed had protected him from temptation." The narrative tension in the story starts to build to its climax after Vargas,
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In the story, Allende divides her characters along some very stark lines. The characters are either despicable, sympathetic, or heroic. The two despicable characters, Vargas and the Lieutenant, are not well liked by the town. During the gambling match between them, the majority of the town turns out to watch the two men, although not because they are rooting for either side. Says Allende, "Neither the Lieutenant nor Tomas Vargas inspired any sympathy, so no one cared who won." Instead, the townspeople are there to speculate ' 'on the agonies of the two players," or to place bets on who will win. The reasons behind Vargas's bad reputation with the town stem from his greediness, his bad treatment of his wife, his drunkenness, and his adultery.
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As for the Lieutenant, ' 'No one in Agua Santa liked him" because they do not appreciate his tendency ' 'to invent laws according to his whim and convenience,'' which has landed many people in his jail who normally would not end up there. His policy of making sure that no one leaves ' 'his jail without a sound beating first," has also helped to inspire fear and loathing for the man. Also, like Vargas, the Lieutenant is a womanizer, who leaves ' 'his jacket unbuttoned so the girls could appreciate his hairy chest and collection of gold chains." On the other end of the spectrum are the sympathetic or heroic characters, both of whom inspire the reader's affection. Concha and Antonia are women who have been taken advantage of. Concha is a young girl who is impregnated by Vargas, and who initially has to deal with the wrath of Antonia, Vargas's scorned wife. Concha is an innocent, and when her pregnancy reaches its later stages, she is horrified by the changes her body is going through, including ' 'the ungovernable swelling, the shame of the constant need to urinate . . . the wishing she could die." Antonia inspires sympathy for different and more profound reasons. At one point Antonia was young, beautiful, and innocent like Concha. Through the marriage to Vargas, and the many pregnancies she's experienced, her body has become ruined and she has had to stand by and watch while her husband has abused her, committed adultery, and spent all of their money on his habits. Luckily for Concha and Antonia, they have heroic characters who give them the help they need. The strongest of these is Halabi, the storekeeper who frequently helps "to set things right in the Vargas household," who takes Concha "in his truck... to the hospital'' when she is sick, and who even pays "all the expenses" for Concha's pregnancy when Vargas refuses to dig up his gold. Halabf is helped on occasion by another heroic character, the schoolteacher Ines, who, along with Halabf, are the only ones who are able to give Antonia charity, by "thinking up excuses to keep from offending her." Ines is also the one who educates Vargas's children for free when he will not pay her fees, since she is determined that' 'no child in her town would go without learning to read.''
Introduction At the beginning of her story, Allende includes a short section that introduces Vargas and the other major characters, including the schoolteacher Ines,
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the Lieutenant, Riad Halabi, and Antonia Sierra. The descriptions act like thumbnail sketches, filling in the reader before Concha Diz arrives, beginning the actual narrative.
Historical Context Although the disappearance of Vargas's gold is the big mystery in the story, the setting of the story is also mysterious. It takes place in the fictional village of Agua Santa, in an indeterminate time. This is how Allende wanted readers to experience the story. Still, the location is not totally ambiguous. Even though the village is not described as being part of any specific country, several cues in the story, starting with the names of some of the characters—Tomas Vargas and Concha Diaz, to name two examples—indicate a Latin-American setting similar to Allende's own background. Other examples that support this idea include the type of currency used in the town, "pesos," the types of food Vargas's family eats, "cornmeal cakes," and the weather, which is described at one point as "humid and oppressive" even though it is "almost sunset." Most critics carefully avoid naming a location, either not discussing it at all or speaking about it general, such as naming the work as an example of "South American fiction," as Daniel Harris did in the Boston Review. However, one critic, Suzanne Ruta, bucked this trend when she stated in her 1991 review that the story is "set in Venezuela, where Allende sought asylum in 1973," and that Allende did this as a ' 'tribute to the country." Furthermore, Ruta cites the fact that' 'the very name Eva Luna is nearly an anagram of Venezuela," as further proof of the story's location. The story's time period is also hard to pinpoint. The story shows signs of modernization, like the "National Petroleum trucks," and "highways," which places the story sometime in the twentieth century. Allende also mentions that "Riad Halabi and the schoolteacher Ines dared to give [Antonia] . . . vitamins for the children." Vitamins are a nutritional advance that also came into use in the early twentieth century. The word vitamin came into use in the 1910s. On a similar note, when Halabi and Antonia take Concha to the hospital for help with her troublesome pregnancy, they return with "a variety of colored pills." Synthetically produced medications, which began being produced in the late nineteenth century, were available in the
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early twentieth century. Other than these modern clues, Allende does not give many other indications of when the story might take place, so it could be anytime in the early twentieth century. In the end, however, the story can take place where and when the reader wants it to.
Critical Overview "The Gold of Tomas Vargas" has received mixed reviews since it was first published in the story collection, Cuentos de Eva Luna, in 1990, and in English as The Stories of Eva Luna in 1991. Since the story was first published as part of a collection, the majority of the criticism covers the entire collection. Even then, many critics, like Donald L. Shaw, did not consider The Stories of Eva Luna an important work in Allende's career, saying that the stories ' 'in general seem marginal to Allende's mainstream development as a writer of fiction and as a representative of the Post-Boom." The "Post-Boom" that Shaw refers to is the group of Latin-American writers who grew up reading and being influenced by "boom" writers such as Gabriel Garcia Marquez. Other negative criticism includes Jane Urquhart's review in Quill and Quire, where she said that the book features a ' 'barrage of multiple situations and characters," and that Allende's writing in the book would benefit from "a moment or two of reflection and a clearer view of the inner lives of her characters." Other reviewers discussed the damage that Allende, who is considered by most critics to be a feminist in her other works, has done with her portrayals in her short stories. Eleanor J. Bader of Belles Lettres, who considers Allende "a master storyteller," nevertheless is concerned by the author's "troubling blind spots." As Bader noted, in both The Stories of Eva Luna and Eva Luna, the novel that inspired the story collection, "several of the stories involve middle-aged men lusting after teenaged girls." Bader said that when these "prepubescent nymphs" express interest in these advances, "it is as if Allende, in one fell swoop, is attempting to wipe out the two decades of important work feminists have done to publicize and condemn" such situations. On a similar note, Suzanne Ruta, in The Women's Review of Books, said she was "less enthusiastic" about The Stories of Eva
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Luna than Allende's other work because "The heroines of these stories are almost never sad, weary, defeated." Not all reviews have been bad. In her Library Journal review, Mary Margaret Benson said that Allende created "a vivid world full of humor, passion, pathos, and color," and said that she "highly recommended'' the book. In addition, Patricia Hart, in her review in the Nation, noted that, ' 'The range of stories is quite broad and demonstrates Allende's ability to move easily from one stratum of the social register to another." Boston Review critic, Daniel Harris, was one of the most complimentary, saying that ' 'The lush and moody pieces collected in The Stories of Eva Luna are some of her finest work to date." Harris thought that Allende was better writing short stories than novels, which he felt suffered from "an irrepressible garrulousness and a narrative style that occasionally tends to be slack and improvisational." Even those who made negative comments about the book occasionally had something good to say, like Urquhart, who noted that "What one takes away from this collection is a sense of the richness of life with all its attendant mysteries, celebrations, and miseries." Like the book itself, the very little criticism that has been written about the story, "The Gold of Tomas Vargas," has been mixed. Ruta compared the story to Alice Walker's The Color Purple, which also featured a "really nasty tightwad and wifebeater" who "gets his come-uppance," and said that she had the "same complaint" with Allende's story as she did with "the last chapters" of Walker's story. The "complaint" is that the women "go from strength to strength," which prevents Allende's female readers from having "role models and success stories." Ruta did note, however, that in "The Gold of Tomas Vargas," the "gradual softening" of Antonia, who has been ' 'angry and tough'' for most of the story,' 'gives the reader something to grapple with." Harris noted of the story that it reads like a "raunchy fabliaux," referencing the types of coarse and usually comic verse tales that were popular in the Middle Ages. And Hart, in her chapter in Multicultural Literatures through Feminist/Poststructuralist Lenses, focused on the fact that the story uses ' 'the mysterious disappearance of the famous fortune" in the story "to condemn prostitution," remarking that the marriage between Antonia and Vargas is reduced ' 'to the level of sex for sale," and saying that since Vargas refuses to
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pay his "debt" for these services, Antonia and Concha collect it after his death, when they "become suddenly prosperous."
Criticism Ryan D. Poquette Poquette has a bachelor's degree in English and specializes in writing about literature. In the following essay, Poquette discusses Allende 's use of a seven deadly sins motif in the modern fable in Allende's story. Allende goes to great lengths to paint Vargas as a despicable character and to do so, she relies on a very old idea, the seven deadly sins—pride, greed, lust, envy, gluttony, anger, and sloth. The seven deadly sins were identified by the first Christian monks and were used to great effect in the European Middle Ages. There, they were incorporated into both church sermons and the arts—including the morality play, an allegorical play in which a moral lesson is taught, and where specific characters represent moral qualities. In "The Gold of Tomas Vargas," however, the title character embodies all of the seven deadly sins. Allende set ' The Gold of Tomas Vargas'' in the fictional village of Agua Santa, which she intended to exist in whatever time or place the reader saw fit. This indeterminate nature of setting gives the story the feeling of a fable, a moral tale that concerns extraordinary events, which are often derived from legend or myth. Indeed, with its moral message, the story reads like a fable. The prized gold of a greedy and adulterous wife-beater is secretly stolen by the man's wife and concubine, leading to the man's murder when he is forced to default on a gambling debt. However, in traditional fables, the moral issue is clearly defined and characters display either distinctly evil or distinctly good characteristics. In "The Gold of Tomas Vargas," however, the entire town of Agua Santa is morally ambiguous. Although Vargas is universally hated for his immoral behavior, nobody makes him stop because the town has only one morally reprehensible offense: "they could tolerate a man who mistreated his family, a man who was lazy and a troublemaker, who never paid back money he borrowed, but gambling debts were sacred."
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"The Gold of Tomas Vargas" was published in 1990 as part of Allende's The Stories of Eva Luna
This lack of a moral enforcement code in the town gives Vargas license to live a very immoral lifestyle without fear of serious retribution. He uses his moral freedom to indulge in many sins and his proclamation that this is a good way to live often subverts the attempts of the town's priest, who preaches a moral lifestyle: ' 'When he was drunk he shouted the joys of bigamy to the four winds, and for several Sundays the priest would have to rebut that sacrilege from the pulpit." The priest is worried that this idea might catch on, causing his ' 'many years of preaching the Christian virtue of monogamy" to be wiped out. The fact that Allende has Vargas struggle against a Christian priest is very symbolic. Vargas is obviously one of the main evil influences on the town, and somebody who is not afraid to indulge in all seven of the sins that Christians have identified as deadly. Greed is the most apparent of Vargas's sins. His gold nuggets, which are "buried in a safe hiding place," corrupt his behavior. He is so terrified of losing his fortune that he keeps the gold buried, even when others start to exchange their ' 'gold and silver coins" for paper money and start to trust the new bank system. As it turns out, Vargas is right for
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What Do I Read Next? • Allende's Eva Luna, which inspired her short story collection, The Stories of Eva Luna, was first published by Plaza & Janes Editores in 1998. The story, a good example of the LatinAmerican magical realism that Allende is known for, concerns the strange life of the title character, a woman who is conceived on her father's deathbed and nearly dies when she is strangled by the umbilical cord in her mother's womb. • Allende's Portrait in Sepia details the life of Aurora del Valle, a daughter in a wealthy and powerful family in Allende's native Chile. She becomes a photographer in order to capture, record, and attempt to untangle the complicated mysteries of her family and life. The author draws on characters from The House of the Spirits and Daughter of Fortune, two of her earlier novels. This book was published by HarperCollins in 2001 and was translated from the Spanish by Margaret Sayers Peden. • Jorge Luis Borges was another notable proponent of the magical realism technique found in
not giving up his gold at this point since the worth of the paper money diminishes and many lose their fortunes. However, as Allende's narration notes, ' 'his good fortune did nothing to mitigate his miserliness or his scrounging." Vargas is wealthy from his buried gold, but instead of digging it up to pay for his expenses, he instead ' 'borrowed money with no intention of paying it back." In addition, his greed forces his children to go hungry and his wife to wear rags, and almost impacts his children's education, since he ' 'refused to pay the fees for his children's schooling." Fortunately, the schoolteacher donates her time to the children for free. Vargas also demonstrates the sin of sloth, or laziness. In addition to his failure to provide for his family from his buried gold or from the money he borrows, Vargas also refuses to work, which prompts Antonia Sierra, his wife, to pick up his slack. For
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much Latin-American literature. His Collected Fictions, translated by Andrew Hurley, is the first volume that combines all of Borges's published works and includes some previously unpublished works as well. This book was published by Penguin USA in 1998. • Allende grew up reading the works of writers like Gabriel Garcia Marquez. In fact, her novel, The House of the Spirits has often been compared to Garcia Marquez's One Hundred Years of Solitude, his wildly popular story that follows one hundred years in the life of Macondo, a fictional village like Allende's Agua Santa. The novel was originally published in 1967. It was translated from the Spanish by Gregory Rabassa, and published by HarperCollins in 1970. • Alice Walker's 1982 The Color Purple won a Pulitzer Prize. The story details an uneducated and abused black woman's struggle for empowerment and freedom. A reprint edition was published by Pocket Books in 1996.
Antonia, the days are long, since "besides caring for her children and looking after the garden and the hens, she earned a few pesos by cooking lunch for the police, taking in washing, and cleaning the school." At one point, after Concha has had her baby,' 'things went from bad to worse, and Concha also had to go out and work." The two women end up supporting Vargas and the children, but he never works. Instead, he spends his time at the tavern or at gambling matches where "he could spend hours observing a game of dominoes." At these gambling matches, Vargas's actions demonstrate the envy that he has for others who have won money gambling. Because he is so afraid of losing his buried gold,' 'Vargas never bet, but he liked to watch the players.... he was the first to pick a spot at the cockfights." In addition to watching actual gambling matches, Vargas is so envious
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of others' winning money that he cannot stop himself from listening "to the announcement of the lottery winners over the radio, even though he never bought a ticket."
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These additional examples of the seven deadly
Vargas is also an angry man, and takes out his wrath on his wife and children frequently. When talking about his wife, Allende notes that "there were times that her body was covered with blackand-blue marks; no one had to ask, all Agua Santa knew about the abuse she took from her husband." Vargas is a violent man, and even though he does not provide for his family either through his gold or through working to make money, he still feels justified in beating his wife. At one point in the story, Vargas and Antonia face off, and Vargas ' 'made a move to whip off his belt to give her the usual thrashing." However, when Antonia counters her husband's wrath with her own "ferocity," he backs down. This does not diminish his feelings of lust. Vargas has had six children with Antonia, and in his old age is still adulterous. In his more drunken moments, he has "broadcast at the top of his lungs the names of all the girls he had seduced and all the bastards who carried his blood." Whether or not his legendary conquests are true—Allende notes that ' 'if he were to be believed, he had sired at least three hundred" children—Vargas does have at least one concubine, Concha. When she comes to town carrying his baby, Antonia is outraged, but Vargas does not pay too much attention because Concha becomes another outlet for his amorous attentions. Even while he sleeps, Vargas is "cuddling the girl." However, when his lust goes too far and he tries to "coax Concha . . . back to his hammock," even before the scars from her cesarean section have healed, both Antonia and Concha stand up to him. When the two women ' 'nipped his manly impulses in the bud," he finds solace with "the girls in the whorehouse." One other consequence of Antonia and Concha standing up to Vargas is that his pride is wounded. Vargas ' 'took great pride in being the most macho macho in the region, as he bellowed in the plaza every time he went off his head with drink." When the two women stand up to him, Vargas makes the mistake of telling the prostitutes about it, and they tell "everyone that Vargas could not cut the mustard anymore and that his bragging about being such a stud was pure swagger." Because of this damage to his reputation, Vargas turns to gambling. In addition to the lure of' 'easy money,'' Vargas hopes
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sins in other characters and in the town itself help to underscore Allende's depiction of Vargas as the ultimate sinner and Agua Santa as the ultimate haven for sin."
that, by "getting rich at one lucky stroke," he can use this "illusory projection of that triumph" to mend his wounded pride. He figures that if he is rich, then people will overlook the treatment he received from the two women and perhaps he can attract other women with his newfound money. Even if he were to win more money, Vargas is prone to gluttony so he would probably waste it. Although his family is poor and suffers, Vargas uses the little money he is able to borrow to buy "Panama hats" and smoke "expensive cigars." However, gluttony mainly manifests itself in Vargas's drinking. Throughout the story, Vargas is depicted as drunk or drinking. This common occurrence often prompts Vargas's neighbors to come to Halabf, the only one who can shame Vargas, "when they suspected that Vargas was drunk and out of control." In fact, Vargas's drinking problem is so pronounced that, when Concha comes into Halabf's store and breaks down, telling him that she wants to see Vargas, Halabf "sent someone to fetch him from the tavern." Even when Vargas is not drunk, he can use his reputation as a drunkard to get out of situations that he does not like, such as when he ' 'turned a deaf ear and pretended he was drunker than usual,'' when he does not want to pay for Concha's hospital bills. In the end, although all of Vargas's sins contribute to his downfall, it is his gluttonous need for alcohol that kills him. After Vargas gets over his delusional fever, he realizes that the Lieutenant will probably kill him for not being able to pay his gambling debt. As a result, "he did not venture out for several days." However, "his habit of dissipation," or excessive drinking, "was stronger than his pru-
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dence, so he took his Panama hat and, still shaky and frightened, went down to the tavern." This proves to be Vargas's fatal mistake, since "he did not return that night," and his "mutilated body" is found two days later. As the above examples show, Vargas embodies all seven of the deadly sins, unlike traditional moral tales, in which a specific character will often embody one moral value, while another specific character will embody a different moral value. However, in a town where gambling debts are the only unforgivable offense, Vargas is not the only one who indulges in the deadly sins. Vargas is murdered, presumably by the Lieutenant who is wrathful over Vargas's defaulting on the debt. Also, Halabf becomes "choked with righteous wrath" every time he hears that Vargas is beating his family. Although it may be righteous, it is still wrath. Vargas's wife, Antonia, has a "ferocious pride that arrested any overture of pity." This pride threatens at times to prevent her children from getting the vitamins and other items they need to remain healthy. Others who visit the town also display sinful qualities, such as the prison guards, who indulge in their lust: "Saturdays the guards from Santa Maria Prison came to town to visit the whorehouse." In fact, the town is so morally ambiguous that Allende even describes the vegetation that surrounds it as "gluttonous." These additional examples of the seven deadly sins in other characters and in the town itself help to underscore Allende's depiction of Vargas as the ultimate sinner and Agua Santa as the ultimate haven for sin. Source: Ryan D. Poquette, Critical Essay on "The Gold of Tomas Vargas," in Short Stories for Students, The Gale Group, 2002.
Joyce Hart Hart has degrees in English literature and creative writing and focuses her writing on literary themes. In this essay, Hart looks at the theme of motherhood by comparing two of Allende's stories, ' 'Clarisa'' and ' 'The Gold of Tomds Vargas.'' Both of Isabel Allende's stories, "Clarisa" and ' 'The Gold of Tomas Vargas," are found in Allende's collection The Stories of Eva Luna and are connected not only by having been published together but by a having a unifying theme. The fictional character of Eva Luna was first created by Allende in her novel whose title bears Eva Luna's name. The name itself reflects the theme of motherhood in that Eva in Spanish refers to life; and Luna, of course,
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refers to the moon. As life is incubated in a mother's body and the moon is a symbol of a mother's procreative cycle, these words, when brought together, represent the power of the matriarchy. In both ' 'Clarisa'' and ' "The Gold of Tomas Vargas," Allende creates women dedicated to their children. Those women are also portrayed as being unselfish, long-suffering, and patient. Both women are married to abusive and arrogant men who give their wives nothing except babies, to whom the men give no time or love. The women, in comparison to their husbands, are saints, at least in reference to most of their actions. However, in both stories, Allende throws in an unexpected twist. The twists, both in the stories as well as in the maternal characters of the women themselves, do not appear until the very end of each story. It is not until the finale that readers gain a full picture of the female characters, who, up until the end of the stories, appear to have submitted to a totally oppressive situation. What might appear as slight flaws in the characters of Allende's mother figures are actually celebrated by the reader at the end of each tale, for it is through the small defects that these women exhibit their full power. The underlying themes of both stories are very similar but each is told through a different focus. ' 'The Gold of Tomas Vargas'' centers, for the most part, on Tomas, with his wife, Antonia Sierra, remaining in the background throughout most of the story. Whereas in "Clarisa," the main character's husband remains literally behind a locked door during the telling, and the narration centers on Clarisa while she wends her way through the years of her life, trying to make up for the lack of support of her husband. These different approaches to the stories is one reason why it is so interesting to read them together, as if the two stories complete each other, giving the reader a full account of Allende's theme, despite the different characters and slightly dissimilar circumstances. Both Clarisa and Antonia Sierra are impoverished. They both struggle to keep their children fed. Although Clarisa's husband is a judge and could earn a decent salary, he has gone somewhat mad due to his inability to accept his children, who were "abnormal." Since the birth of his children, the judge has locked himself in a room where he copies stories from the newspaper and only opens his door to ' 'hand out his chamber pot and to collect the food his wife left for him every day." Tomas Vargas, on the other hand, is almost never home. He is a
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boastful man and a drunk. After a drinking binge, he roams the streets of the small town where he and his family live, shouting out the names of every woman he has gone to bed with and all the children he has sired outside of his marriage. He is no more attached to his children than Clarisa's husband, for Tomas's pride of creating children does not lie in the children themselves but rather in his self-inflated skills as a stud. How Tomas accumulated his gold pieces is not revealed. What is told is that he has buried the gold because he does not trust banks, and he borrows money from other people and never repays them. He is so stingy that he never gives Antonia any money for food or for the children's education. Despite their varying circumstances, Clarisa and Antonia are left with no money in their pockets, no food on their tables, and no clothes for their children except through their own efforts of working menial jobs. With this rendition of hardships, it is not difficult for readers to conclude that the patience and understanding that both women are forced to practice are suitable qualifications to classify them in the realm of saints. Allende, in the story "The Gold of Tomas Vargas," leaves this declaration of saintliness solely in the hands of the readers. She lists the hardships that Antonia suffers, including the fact that she has aged prematurely, has lost her teeth, has experienced several miscarriages, works three jobs, and is often physically beaten by her husband. The narrator never even hints at the fact that Antonia is in any way holy. This theme of saintliness, however, is fully exposed in the story "Clarisa." Allende does not hesitate to inform the reader of her belief. As a matter of fact, she comes right out and states it in the opening paragraphs: "Over the course of a long lifetime she [Clarisa] had come to be considered a saint." Clarisa is not a "cathedral" saint, one sanctioned by the church for her great miracles, but rather she is a more humble saint. She is the kind of saint who performs practical miracles, like curing hangovers,' 'or problems with the draft, or a siege of loneliness," acts that the reader can imagine any good mother performing. Antonia too shows signs of saintliness, if not for the community in general, at least for those who live under her roof. For although Antonia is disgusted at first and tries to dismiss the presence of the new intruder in her household, she comes to embrace and care for Concha Diaz, Tomas Vargas's pregnant concubine. As Concha intrudes into Antonia's life and figuratively holds Antonia hostage, so too does a
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What might appear as slight flaws in the characters of Allende's mother figures are actually celebrated by the reader at the end of each tale, for it is through the small defects that these women exhibit their full power."
thief break into Clarisa's house and hold her at knifepoint, demanding all her money. Clarisa, unlike Antonia, immediately laughs at the intruder and tells him that she will give him all the money that she has. She tells him to put away his knife so that he does not hurt any one; then she sends him home, after serving him tea. Although Antonia is a little slower in inviting Concha into her home and life, when she does open up to her, she gives herself fully over to the young woman. At first, Antonia throws a fit at the girl's arrival, but it is to no avail. Then she tries to ignore the pregnant mistress of her husband. It is not until Concha starts to grow so sick that Antonia fears her death that her heart begins to turn. It is interesting to note, however, that Antonia's first thought is not for the girl, to whom she cannot yet relate, but rather to the mother of Concha. "It's not that I care, none of this is any of my affair,'' Antonia says,' 'but what will I tell her mother if she [Concha] dies on me?" At this point, Antonia does not see Concha as a mother figure. Concha is still the mistress, the other woman. However, motherhood itself binds Antonia to Concha's own mother, even though Antonia has never met the woman. This bond to motherhood is what eventually opens Antonia's heart to Concha, for when Concha gives birth, the entire household environment changes. Of course, motherhood has a strong presence in Clarisa's story, too. Although she gives birth to two children who will never be independent of her, two children who will never fully understand all the elements of life, she "considered them pure souls immune to evil, and all her relations with them were marked by affection." Clarisa, the narrator suggests, was so optimistic about life that she became pregnant twice again. With her third and fourth
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births, she gained two very healthy sons, for which she was grateful merely for the fact that they would be able to take care of their older siblings upon her own demise. The narrator also implies that everything in Clarisa's life, except for the constant scrambling for food, of course, takes a turn for the better upon the births of her second set of sons. Antonia's life also takes a turn as she begins to see Concha less as a threat and more as a woman, a potential mother. "The other woman's misery forced Antonia Sierra to relive portions of her youth, her first pregnancy, and similar outrages she had lived through. In spite of herself, she wanted Concha Diaz's future to be less dismal than her own." This statement marks the beginning of compassion in Antonia's heart for Concha, and from this point, "she began to treat her [Concha] like a daughter who had gone wrong." Through Antonia's benevolence, Concha too learns to give. Antonia often comes home and finds that Concha has cleaned the house and prepared dinner. Shortly after, Antonia finds herself rushing home from work so that she can care for Concha in the final stages of her pregnancy. Upon the birth of Concha's child, Antonia shows the baby off' 'with a grandmother's ebullience." It is also with the birth of the child that Antonia finds her voice and confronts her husband,' 'determined for the first time in her life to keep the old vulture from getting his way." Although she had not been able to find the strength to defend herself for her own children's sake, Antonia is imbued with power upon becoming a surrogate grandmother, the grand matriarch. As the narrator states, "Things changed after that." Tomas Vargas's downfall was mostly his own fault. His pride, false assurance, and greed led him to the circumstances that would begin his descent. His wife and mistress, however, were responsible, although obliquely, for his death. How they knew where he had buried his gold is not revealed. It is not known if Antonia knew all along but did not have to audacity to dig it up and use it for her family. What is known is that once Antonia found her voice, she also found it within her capacity to discover the hidden cache and use it. Did she know that this would lead to her husband's death? The narrator does not answer this question. All that is known is that upon Tomas Vargas's demise, Antonia and Concha apparently live happily ever after. They are easily forgiven for their theft, for the wealth that Tomas hid from them was rightly theirs. Since they did not have a direct hand in his death, they are
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easily cheered for their courageous enterprise. Their courage came to them not merely for themselves but rather as a direct result of being mothers. The twist in Clarisa's story differs slightly, but also hinges on motherhood. Throughout the story Allende exposes hints as to the final outcome, but it is easy for the reader to overlook them as Allende hides them very craftily. The reader is introduced to Clarisa through the narrator's memories of having met Clarisa at the house of a prostitute, where the narrator worked as a housemaid. Clarisa was a healer and often came to the prostitute's home to relieve the pain in her back. While laying her hands on her, Clarisa "would rummage about" in the prostitute's soul "with the hope of turning her life around and leading her along the path of righteousness." With this backdrop, Clarisa once again is painted in the glow of a saint, a healing kind of saint, this time. It is only upon her deathbed that the narrator finds out that quite contrary to this holy image, Clarisa, herself, upon a few occasions, wandered down a path that was not so righteous. Most of Clarisa's paths were very moral. She often went to the homes of the rich and powerful people in her town to convince them to give money to the poor. One such person was Congressman Diego Cienfuegos, known as one of the "incorruptible politicians" in Clarisa's country. After wheedling a donation from him, the narrator comments, "That was the beginning of a discreet friendship that was to cost the politician many sleepless nights and many donations." This is the first hint of Clarisa's other-than-saintly side. The next clue follows, a couple of paragraphs later: "Neither the husband interred in the mausoleum of his room nor the debilitating hours of her daily labors prevented Clarisa's becoming pregnant again." No one questioned the coincidence of Clarisa having borne two sets of children who bore little resemblance to one another. She was, after all, considered a saint. Upon her deathbed, however, she confides in the narrator, telling her that it would come as a great surprise to all her friends if she did not go to heaven, as they expected, but rather went to hell. The narrator cannot imagine what horrible deed Clarisa might have been guilty of to warrant such an afterlife sentence. The answer comes, however, upon the arrival of an unexpected guest on the eve of Clarisa's death. "About ten that morning, a blue automobile with Congressional plates stopped before the house," and out steps an elderly gentleman, whom the
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crowd recognizes as none other than Diego Cienfuegos, who has now become a national hero. When the narrator sees the younger set of Clarisa's sons assist the elder statesman up the stairs, she notices their resemblance. ' 'The three men had the same bearing, the same profile, the same deliberate assurance, the same wise eyes and firm hands." Later, when the narrator confronts the dying Clarisa, asking her if the congressman was indeed the father of her second set of sons, the sin that might be responsible for sending Clarisa to hell, Clarisa responds, ' 'that wasn't a sin, child, just a little boost to help God balance the scales of destiny." In Clarisa's mind, as in Antonia's, the need to balance the scales of destiny in favor of the children, is the motivating force in their lives. Clarisa needed to find benefactors for her older children. She chose the congressman to sire her third and fourth sons for his strength, good heart, and strong will. She could not depend on her husband to leave anything behind of benefit, so she took matters into her own hands. In Allende's other story, Antonia suffered her husband until she finally awoke and gained a clear vision of her life through Concha. She, too, could not depend on her husband for support, so she did what she had to do to find security for the future. For the sake of her children, she stole her husband's gold and ' 'made their way out of poverty and started off down the road to prosperity." Thus, through the combination of these stories, Allende fully develops her concept of motherhood, the strength that is required to raise children as well as the sacrifice that must often be made to maintain them. In her stories, both Clarisa and Antonia find the courage and understanding to make their way through what, at times, appears as insurmountable challenges. The ways of these mothers may not be conventional, but they work. Source: Joyce Hart, Critical Essay on "The Gold of Tomas Vargas," in Short Stories for Students, The Gale Group, 2002.
Sources Allende, Isabel, Conversations with Isabel Allende, edited by John Rodden, University of Texas Press, 1999, pp. 357-58. Bader, Eleanor J., Review of The Stories of Eva Luna, in Belles Lettres: A Review of Books by Women, Vol. 6, No. 3, Spring 1991, p. 60.
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Benson, Mary Margaret, Review of The Stories of Eva Luna, in Library Journal, December 1990, p. 157. Harris, Daniel, Review of The Stories of Eva Luna, in Boston Review, Vol. XVI, No. 2, April 1991, pp. 28-29. Hart, Patricia, "Magic Feminism in Isabel Allende's The Stories of Eva Luna,'' in Multicultural Literatures through Feminist/Poststructuralist Lenses, University of Tennessee Press, 1993, pp. 103-36. , Review of The Stories of Eva Luna, in the Nation, Vol. 252, No. 9, March 11,1991, pp. 314-16. Ruta, Suzanne, "Lovers and Storytellers," in the Women's Review of Books, Vol. VIII, No. 9, June 1991, p. 10. Shaw, Donald L., The Post-Boom in Spanish American Fiction, State University of New York Press, 1998, p. 68. Urquhart, Jane, "Tales from Isabel Allende's Passionate, Magical World," in Quill and Quire, Vol. 56, No. 11, November 1990, p. 25.
Further Reading Heyck, Denis L., Barrios and Borderlands: Cultures of Latinos and Latinos in the United States, Routledge, 1994. This book highlights the diversity of the United States's three major Latino cultures—Mexican, Puerto Rican, and Cuban—and points out their distinctive features. The chapters are organized around the six central issues to these groups, which are family, religion, community, the arts, immigration and exile, and cultural identity. Each chapter includes readings from various genres, including poems, essays, short stories, and novel excerpts. Jackson, Richard, Black Writers and the Hispanic Canon, Twayne's World Author Series, No. 867, Twayne Publishing, 1997. This book is designed to broaden the reader's view of the Hispanic literary canon beyond Jorge Luis Borges and Gabriel Garcia Marquez and discover the realm of Black Hispanic writers such as Manuel Zapata Olivella, Pilar Barrios, Juan Pablo Sojo, and many more. The book gives an overview about these authors from the early nineteenth century until the present day. Marvis, Barbara, and Valerie Menard, Famous People of Hispanic Heritage: Oscar de La Hoya, Isabel Allende, Roy Benavidez, Jackie Guerra, Contemporary American Success Stories series, No. 9, Mitchell Lane Publishers, 1997. This is one of a series of books, each one highlighting four accomplished people of Hispanic origin. Persons covered in the book vary in their country of origin, as well as area of achievement. Tierney-Tello, Mary Beth, Allegories of Transgression and Transformation: Experimental Fiction by Women Writing under Dictatorship, State University of New York Press, 1996. This book examines the experimental fictions of four contemporary female authors whose writings helped to challenge the effects of dictatorship and restrictive
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gender codes in the South American authoritarian regimes in which they lived. The author shows how each writer used feminist, psychoanalytic, and sociopolitical literary theories to illustrate different aspects of the effects from dictatorship as well as finding new ways to define gender.
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He Katherine Anne Porter's short story "He" was first published in the leftist magazine New Masses (1927), and collected and published in the book Flowering Judas in 1930. Porter struggled for a long time to be recognized by one of the large publishing houses, and only after several of her literary friends wrote letters to Harcourt, their publisher, urging the editors there to read her works, did Porter finally succeed. Although Harcourt eventually accepted Porter's work and agreed to publish her, she was humiliated by their lack of confidence in her stories. They chose only six stories to include in the collection, and they printed only six hundred copies, a sign that they did not believe her collection would sell. Little did Porter know that that year, the same publisher had turned down William Faulkner's classic work, The Sound and the Fury, a fact that Porter's biographer, Joan Givner, states would not have, however, impressed Porter, as "she was not an admirer" of Faulkner's writing.
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The short story "He" exposes another type of humiliation for Porter as it covers a brief stretch of time in the life of a poor but proud family, one that mirrors, in many ways, Porter's own early memories. Like Porter, who would later become somewhat obsessed with buying fancy clothes and jewelry to erode the early poverty she experienced and to impress upon the world that she was a success, so too is Mrs. Whipple, the protagonist in the story, focused on appearances. For instance, Mrs. Whipple has her husband kill a suckling pig to convince her
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brother, when he comes to visit, that her family is doing well. Appearances are as important to Mrs. Whipple as they were to Porter. Every one of Mrs. Whipple's actions is determined by what the neighbors will think of her. That is why she is so distraught, so torn up inside, about her son, who is obviously not like other children. The story revolves around Mrs. Whipple's struggle to come to terms with her son, to make him appear as normal as possible, and to find some way to love him. Or, read in a different light, the story might be interpreted as being about Mrs. Whipple trying to find some way to forgive herself for not loving him. Either way, the story fits into a pattern of stories that Porter wrote in which characters cannot speak and are left to the whims of people around them to define them.
Author Biography Katherine Anne Porter was one of those born writers, whose need for telling stories began in childhood when she made up interesting characters to populate her family's lineage. Her vivid imagination allowed her to create a history of early pioneers, Southern gentry, and brave explorers, whose blood, she wanted to believe, coursed through her veins. Porter, however, was not born on a Southern plantation to an aristocratic family, as she often claimed even well into adulthood; rather, she was born in a two-room log cabin in Indian Creek, Texas, on May 15, 1890, to a family that struggled to keep food on the table. Her birth name was Gallic Russell Porter—she adopted the name Katherine Anne later in life. She often claimed to be related to Daniel Boone, her father, Harrison Boone Porter, having fed her these tales; but even after extensive research, Porter never found proof of the family connection. Her mother, Mary Alice Jones Porter, offered little help to the author's need for distinguished lineage, as her maternal grandparents were both orphans. Despite Porter's brief education that ended at age fourteen, she was determined to make a name for herself through some form of artistic expression. At first, she thought she would become an actress, but a long recovery from a serious illness altered her path. During the time she spent in the hospital, Porter met several young, intelligent women, one of whom was a journalist and inspired Porter to think about herself as a writer. According to one of her
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biographers, Joan Givner, in the book Katherine Anne Porter, A Life, Porter declared, after her time in the hospital, that "one day she would write as well as anyone in America." To this end, she traveled extensively throughout the world, gathering impressions of different kinds of people in diverse situations. She was fascinated with people and was an astute observer of the psychology and emotions behind their actions. She also socialized with famous artists of her time, including noted author Robert Penn Warren, who would become a lifelong friend. Porter's first experience with writing was as a reporter on two small Texas newspapers. Later she moved to New York, where she wrote the publicity for a movie company. In the early 1920s, she rewrote several folktales for children, which would become her first published works of fiction. During the 1930s and 1940s, she wrote many short stories. Her first collection was published in 1930 with the title Flowering Judas. This collection was expanded and republished in 1935 and included the short story "He." One of her most acclaimed novellas, Noon Wine was published in another collection called Pale Horse, Pale Rider (1939). It would take her almost thirty years to complete the only full length novel she would ever write, The Ship of Fools (1962), the work by which she is most remembered. Despite her lack of a formal education, Porter taught writing classes at such prominent schools as Stanford, the University of Michigan, the University of Virginia, and Washington and Lee University. During her lifetime, she received many honors for her writing, including, in 1966, the Pulitzer Prize, as well as the National Book Award for The Collected Stories of Katherine Anne Porter. Katherine Anne Porter was married several times—the first time at the age of sixteen—but she never had children. On September 18, 1980, she died of cancer in Silver Springs, Maryland.
Plot Summary Beginning The short story "He" starts with a brief description of the poverty in which the Whipples live. Very quickly, the narrator makes it known that Mr. and Mrs. Whipple have two different ways of deal-
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ing with their lack of material wealth. The narrator implies that Mr. Whipple leans toward the pessimistic side of life, bemoaning his fate and seeing no way out of it. Mrs. Whipple, on the other hand, tends to take ' 'what was sent and calling it good," at least this is her attitude whenever she is in the company of neighbors, or even within "earshot" of them. This clues the reader that Mrs. Whipple is into the appearance of things, working toward the goal of making her family appear to be in the good graces of life, even if she must suffer to do so. Appearances are important to her in part because she cannot "stand to be pitied." Immediately following this description of the mother and father, the narrator declares that Mrs. Whipple loves her second son, even more so than she loves her ' 'other two children put together." At times, Mrs. Whipple is so drawn to making sure that everyone understands how much she loves her son that she would also declare that she loves him more than all her family members put together. Mr. Whipple reminds her that she does not have to make such statements so often, not that anyone would suspect otherwise, but rather that other people might begin to think that he, Mr. Whipple, in contrast, does not love his son at all. The child to whom they are referring is simply called ' 'He.'' The narrator refers to this boy as ' 'the simple-minded one." The neighbors, behind the Whipples' backs, blame the father's bad blood for having produced such a child. To the Whipples' faces, the neighbors encourage the parents, searching for positive comments, such as: ' 'Look how He grows!"
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other children get cold in the winter, Mrs. Whipple takes His blanket off of him and gives it to one of her other children. He never, Mrs. Whipple believes, "seemed to mind the cold."
Mrs. Whipple is uncomfortable talking about her mentally handicapped son. However, whenever anyone comes to the house, the conversation always turns to him. Once the conversation is started, Mrs. Whipple talks about the positive attributes that He has, such as the fact that He never gets hurt. She attributes this feat to something that a preacher once told her about the innocent walking with God. Mrs. Whipple took this to mean that God was sheltering her son. It is through this thought that she can accept her son, be proud of him, at least in her conversations with her neighbors.
Mrs. Whipple does worry about him sometimes, though; especially when neighbors come over and tell her that she should keep him from climbing trees, fearing He might hurt himself because He does not know what He is doing. This angers Mrs. Whipple for two reasons. She is well aware that He could fall, and this does make her feel some concern. However, at the same time, she is also proud that He can climb so well. She even thinks that He is as agile as a monkey. She does not need to have the neighbors remind her to be worried about Him, though, and she particularly does not need to have the neighbors state that He does not know what he is doing. This is an insult that Mrs. Whipple cannot stand. Contradicting her emotions, after the neighbors leave, Mrs. Whipple calls him out of the tree and beats him for acting in such a way in front of the neighbors.
There are other reasons that Mrs. Whipple has created to help her accept her son. He never whines for food like her other children. He works harder and never complains, even when he gets stung by the bees when he gathers their honey. When her
Later, Mr. Whipple makes the statement that the reason that He does not complain when he gets hurt or when he is cold or hungry is because He does not have the sense to complain. Mrs. Whipple, of course, berates Mr. Whipple for having made such a
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statement. What would the neighbors think if they heard him say such things? They might think that Mr. Whipple loves his other children better.
Middle Mrs. Whipple receives a letter from her brother, which states that he, his wife, and two children are planning a visit on the following weekend. In the letter, her brother makes the statement,' 'Put the big pot in the little one," insinuating that she needs to squeeze things together in order to make room for his family. Mrs. Whipple is insulted by this remark and immediately declares that her husband will have to kill one of the suckling pigs. This is, of course, a sign of luxury because if they waited until the pigs were fully grown, they would receive more money for the animal when they took it to the market. Mr. Whipple is indignant. He knows how wasteful it is to kill a pig before its prime and says so. Mrs. Whipple complains that she does not want her brother and his wife going back home and telling everyone that the Whipples did not have enough food to feed them; so Mr. Whipple relents, but he refuses to be the one who kills the piglet. Mrs. Whipple knows that her other son, Adna, is too afraid to snatch the piglet away from its mother, so she tells He to do it. He has no trouble running away from the sow and hands the baby pig to his mother, who promptly slices through its neck. At the sight of blood, He runs away. Mrs. Whipple is not concerned, believing that He will forget all about the slaughter and will enjoy the meal when the piglet is cooked. At this point of the story, Mrs. Whipple reveals some of her real feelings about He. She remarks that He would eat the whole pig if she allowed him and not save any for his brother and sister. He is three times bigger than Adna, his older brother, and Mrs. Whipple suggests that it is a shame He is so large and healthy, while Adna is the one with all the brains. In preparation for her brother, Mrs. Whipple makes sure that her children are clean. However, before her brother arrives, He has already dirtied his clothes, and Mrs. Whipple hits him in his head with her fists.' 'I get tired trying to keep you decent,'' she tells him. Later, when she looks at the expression on his face, she feels bad for having hit him. When the brother and his family arrive and sit down to dinner, He will not come into the dining room. Mrs. Whipple makes excuses for him, stating that He is shy. She then fixes a plate for him, impressing upon her brother that she always makes
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sure that He is fed before the others. Mr. Whipple tries to scold Mrs. Whipple after the brother leaves, reminding her how much that dinner cost them. Mrs. Whipple finds consolation at first by stating that her brother and his family were good people for they had not made one rude comment all night, either about He or about the Whipples poverty. Mr. Whipple says that anyone coming to dinner would have shown as much courtesy, but who is to know what they will say when they get home. Mrs. Whipple loses her composure and says that she wishes she were dead.
End He slips on some ice a few winters later, and when He falls down, He does not get back up. His legs and arms thrash around him because he is having some kind of a fit. The Whipples call the doctor, but eventually the doctor concludes that He will never get any better and suggests that the Whipples put He into a nursing home. Mrs Whipple does not like this suggestion because it means that she is accepting charity. However, Mr. Whipple convinces her that it is the best thing they can do. On the day that He leaves for the sanitarium, Mrs. Whipple dresses in her best clothes. She sits in the back seat of the wagon as a neighbor drives her and her son away. In the midst of the travels, Mrs. Whipple notices that He is rubbing his face and is astonished to discover that He is crying. At first she feels bad about this, realizing that He does have feelings. If He experiences emotions, that means that every time Mrs. Whipple was mean to him, he must have felt bad then, too. Quite quickly, though, Mrs. Whipple dismisses her thoughts and her feelings of guilt. She has the other children to think about. The story ends with Mrs. Whipple thinking "Oh, what a mortal pity He was ever born."
Characters Brother Mrs. Whipple's brother comes to visit with his family, comprised of her brother's wife and "two great roaring hungry boys." Mrs. Whipple wants her brother to believe that her family is doing well financially, so she fixes a grand dinner for him and his family. She appears to have convinced him, or at least he is smart enough to reassure her with the statement: "This looks like prosperity all right," after finishing the meal. The statement is so obvious
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and loaded with irony, however, that the brother may well have been aware that his sister was trying to impress him. Mr. Whipple is not as assured that the brother believed the pretense, but Mrs. Whipple is convinced that her brother could not see their poverty. The scene with Mrs. Whipple's brother is brief, but it is used to show at what length Mrs. Whipple will go to avoid anyone thinking that she is poor or feeling sorry for her.
He does as he is told without vocalizing any complaints. Because of this trait, his mother believes he has no feelings. Despite the fact that he demonstrates his feelings through physical gestures, his mother takes no notice until the final scene in the story when she is taking him to a nursing home to live. It is at the end of the story that his mother becomes fully aware of him as a person, but she quickly dismisses this revelation because she must rationalize not taking care of him anymore.
Adna Whipple Adna is the oldest son of the Whipples. At the end of the story, Adna leaves home to take a job in a grocery store in town, believing that anything would be better than living under the poor conditions at home. Adna is more fearful than his brother, He, and Mrs. Whipple calls Adna an "old fraidy" because he won't go into the pigpen to take the piglet away from the sow. All that is known about Adna other than this is that he is smaller than He and attends school like other normal children. Adna and his sister, Emly, are used in contrast to He, to emphasize the trouble the Whipples have in taking care of him. At one point, Mrs. Whipple makes reference to Adna's intelligence, believing that it is sad that one of her sons is so strong and the other one is so smart, implying that she wished the two sons had been combined into one.
Emly Whipple Emly is the only daughter in the Whipple home. Her age is not divulged but toward the end of the story, her mother comments that she is old enough to take a job in a small cafe in town, although she is still in school. Little is said about Emly in the story accept that she is more like other children around her than her brother, He, and that she sometimes whines for food. It is insinuated that Emly and Adna are sometimes more trouble than He because they have normal emotions.
He Whipple He is the second son of the Whipples. He is mute and mentally disadvantaged. It is not known if the Whipples ever name their son because throughout the story the boy is only referred to as He. He is ten years old at the beginning of the story, is larger than his older brother, and his mother prizes him because he appears to be without fear or any other emotion. Mrs. Whipple takes advantage of this apparent characteristic and makes him do all the hard work around the farm, as well as depriving him of warm clothes and blankets during the winter.
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Mr. Whipple Mr. Whipple is not a quiet man, but he does often acquiesce to his wife after stating his mind. He is more rational than Mrs. Whipple, who seems to live in a dream world. He is also a very practical man, realizing how extravagant it is to kill a suckling pig, as well as knowing when and how his family must economize in order to make ends meet. It is also Mr. Whipple who convinces Mrs. Whipple that the best thing they can do for He, when his health declines, is to send him away to the hospital. Mr. Whipple is not at all concerned about the appearance of things, as is his wife. For instance, when Mrs. Whipple is concerned that sending their son to the sanitarium is the same thing as accepting charity, Mr. Whipple reminds her that they pay taxes just like everyone else in order to use the facilities.
Mrs. Whipple Mrs. Whipple is the protagonist of the story. It is through her eyes that the story is told. Mrs. Whipple is all about appearances. She is constantly concerned about what her neighbors will think about her and her family. She does not put on airs, but she is obsessed with cleanliness and assuring everyone that she loves her children, especially He. Mrs. Whipple believes that her husband always looks at life through very darkly colored glasses. Whenever he brings up the truth about their poverty, she chastises him. She does not want him to ever make mention to any of the other farmers that they are in need, such as when Mr. Whipple barters with a neighbor to have his cow impregnated in exchange for fodder, thus avoiding the exchange of cash, which the Whipples have in short supply. Mrs. Whipple rarely expresses her true emotions. When she does, she seems confused by them and often feels badly about having admitted them.
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For instance, she often beats He out of frustration and then dismisses it because she wants to believe that He has no feelings. There is an undercurrent in everything that Mrs. Whipple says that hints at her dislike of her son and the burden he causes her. She tries desperately to hide this fact from other people around her as well as from herself. It is not until the end of the story that she realizes that He does have emotions. However, by this time, she is taking him to a sanitarium, and although she cradles him in her arms because both He and she are crying, she also feels a burden about to be lifted from her shoulders. In the end, she admits to herself that she wishes he had never been born.
Themes Appearances The story ' 'He'' is narrated through the eyes of Mrs. Whipple, whose main goal in life is to appear as if she and her family are happy and content, without suffering or need, as well as surrounded with love. No matter what is happening in their lives, no matter what emotions they are experiencing, Mrs. Whipple puts all her energies into making it appear that her family fits some kind of image that she has construed inside her head that defines the ideal setting, the ideal family. Toward this image, she is obsessed with keeping her children and their clothing immaculate. She admonishes them if they act in any way that might be considered strange while in the presence of neighbors. She sacrifices her family's meager belongings in order to impress and considers the worst of all possible insults to be forced to accept charity. Mrs. Whipple takes her fanaticism of creating her illusion of perfection to such an extent that she even tries to fool herself. In her attempts to give the appearance of normalcy, she loses touch with her own emotions. As she butchers the suckling pig to show her brother that she is so well off that she can sacrifice the extra money that the pig would have brought to the family had they waited until it was full grown, so too does she try to kill off her own emotions to prove how much she loves her son He, sometimes without regard to the welfare of the rest of her family. Although it is not obviously stated in the narrative of this story, the reader can assume from subtle
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suggestions that in spite of, or maybe because of, Mrs. Whipple's obsession with appearances, most people around her are aware of the family's lack of material wealth and normalcy, and Mrs. Whipple's insistence of the contrary just makes the lack more obvious. The saddest part of this story is Mrs. Whipple's confusion of her own emotions. She tries so hard to convince herself that she loves He as much, if not more, than the other members of her family, but in the end, worn out by her inability to cope with her real emotions, she ends up barely loving him at all. She tries to rationalize her lack of emotions for He by convincing herself that He appears to have no feelings. So just as she tries to fool her neighbors by trying to make things appear normal in her family despite the truth of their desperate conditions, she also tries to fool herself by exaggerating her son's strength, his lack of need for warmth, and his inability to feel pain. She avoids what she does not feel fits in with the image that she wants to portray.
Mother's Love Mrs. Whipple seems to do everything wrong when it comes to exploring the pleasures of a mother's love. Although she believes that she is right in all her actions, the results of those actions prove her wrong. She has three children. Two of them she describes as being smart but whiney, afraid, and easily hurt. Her other child, He, does not attend school and does not speak, but He is described as being fearless, uncomplaining, and giving. She more often praises He than she does her other two children. She even goes so far as to tell neighbors that she loves He more than the other two combined. This eventually wears on Adna and Emly as they want to leave the family as soon as possible, leaving home even before finishing school. He, on the other hand, as soon as he can no longer work, is sent off to a sanitarium. His mother can no longer afford to take care of him. All through the story, Mrs. Whipple tries to prove to her neighbors that she loves He. She does not miss an opportunity to vocalize her feelings. However, once inside the house, away from the eyes of her neighbors, she takes away his blankets when the other children need extra coverings. She makes him do chores that the other children are afraid of doing, and rightly so, because the chores—such as
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Topics for Further Study • Research the history and philosophy of eugenics in the United States. How did this philosophy affect legislation passed during the early part of the twentieth century in regard to people who were mentally challenged? Do you see any relationship between eugenics and contemporary research in genetics? • The Dust Bowl of the 1930s devastated much of the farmlands in the southern Plains. Research all the causes that created the enormous dust storms and soil erosion of that era. How have the lands and the farming practices changed since then? • The Whipples' son He is entirely mute through this short story. Create a diary for him in which he discusses the emotions he experiences throughout the events of this short story, including
taking a suckling pig away from its mother—are dangerous. She praises him for being unafraid, and only Mr. Whipple seems to be aware of the fact that it is not so much that He is unafraid but rather that He is unaware of the dangers. Mrs. Whipple will not accept this remark because that would mean that He does not have normal intelligence, and normalcy is something that is very precious to Mrs. Whipple. So she sacrifices her son's safety and praises him for his bravery, all in the name of love. When He does something that the neighbors do not consider normal Mrs. Whipple beats him, such as when he climbs a tree and swings from branch to branch. This is despite the fact that Mrs. Whipple at first approves and even admires his agility. As soon as the neighbors suggest that He might hurt himself, and therefore insinuate that Mrs. Whipple is not being a good mother, once out of the sight of the neighbors she beats him. Since He does not cry, she dismisses the look of pain and disappointment on his face. It is not until Mrs. Whipple and He are sitting in the back of the wagon as they are driving
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entries that He writes upon watching his mother leave him at the sanitarium. • Katherine Anne Porter, according to her biographers, was obsessed with creating an image for herself. To this extent, she made up a family history and spent most of her money on clothes and jewelry. Read a biography of Porter, then examine how similar she is to the character of Mrs. Whipple. What things about them are the same, other than the obvious that they were both very much into appearances. • Research the difficulties of raising a child who is mentally challenged. Then write a letter to Mrs. Whipple as if you were her counselor, helping her to understand her son, to deal with her neighbors, and any other topics about which you consider Mrs. Whipple needs assistance to better prepare her for the task.
toward the sanitarium that she notices that He is crying. This is the first time that she must face the fact that He has real emotions. Although Mrs. Whipple, at the end of the story, takes her son into her arms and rocks him, crying along with him, her final emotional assessment of her relationship with her son is that He should have never been born. This is a cruel thought but probably the most honest emotion that Mrs. Whipple confesses throughout the whole story. This is the closest that she comes to the truth about her feelings, which include both a real love as well as a real disappointment that he has been such a burden on her.
Style Symbolism The overriding element in the story "He" is the many uses of symbolism. First there is the
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silence of the son He, the main focus of the story. He is mute and thus cannot verbalize his feelings or his experience, and therefore cannot overtly make his identity known. He is at the mercy of others to express these most elementary ingredients that make up his definition: how he thinks, what he feels. At least, this is what the most surface portion of this story tries to imply. This is the way that Mrs. Whipple sees her son. She believes that she must cover up his silence, on one hand, making excuses and exaggerating his gifts, as well as her love, so the neighbors will ignore his inability to speak. On the other hand, Mrs. Whipple uses his silence to ignore him. He does speak, in reality, not by use of his vocal chords but through physical gestures such as facial responses to pain, all of which Mrs. Whipple usually ignores. By using silence, which Porter often does in her short stories, she symbolizes both a sense of helplessness and also a need for people to look deeper than on the surface of things. The helplessness that her mute characters experience comes because society is based on verbal communication. If people do not speak, they are typically ignored, and their identity is created by those around them. This silence could also symbolize people who are oppressed, such as women, especially women during the height of Porter's writing career. Although women could speak, they were not encouraged to and sometimes not allowed to. If they submitted to the men around them, they were most often defined as weak. If they contradicted men and the social confines that were put upon them, they were often considered abnormal or crazy. Porter could also have used silence to symbolize the need for people to look beyond words. In contrast to her mute son, Mrs. Whipple is all talk. She represents the surface reality of life as she does everything for appearance's sake. This is the sign of insincerity. The harder she tries to make things appear one way, the more obvious it is that she is false. In opposition to this is the silence of her son. In order to communicate with him, one must look deeper. In his lack of verbalization, one must look for his emotional expression through his eyes, his mouth, and other physical gestures. Rather than dismiss his whole emotional and psychological life, one must take the time to understand him, make the effort to get beyond his silence. Porter could also have been suggesting that one must look beyond the material aspects of life, something that Porter herself had trouble doing, to discover a deeper meaning.
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The killing of the suckling pig is also highly symbolic in this story. Mrs. Whipple's son Adna is fearful of going into the pigpen and stealing the young pig from its mother. Adna is aware that the sow is capable of attack in order to save her baby. Whether He is also aware of this danger is not evident. He goes because his mother tells him to go. He does what he must do, and he does it successfully. He does not fully understand what his mother is going to do with the piglet until he sees her unemotionally slit the piglet's throat. At the sight of blood, He runs away. His mother assures herself that He will come back, as she believes that He has no emotions. On a symbolic level, the killing of the piglet could stand for the unconscious feelings of Mrs. Whipple to be rid of her son. This is fortified at the end of the story when Mrs. Whipple confesses that she wishes that He was never born. By sending He into the pigpen, knowing the potential danger and not warning him, Mrs. Whipple expresses her lack of concern for him. When He watches how coldheartedly his mother kills the piglet, on some level He acknowledges his mother's lack of emotion for him. Added to this is the reason behind the killing, which is to give the appearance of wealth to Mrs. Whipple's brother. Appearances are very important to Mrs. Whipple, and He is one of Mrs. Whipple's biggest challenges in that regard. She must forever disguise his true existence, or so she believes, just as she tries to disguise her poverty in killing the baby pig. If Mrs. Whipple had killed (or aborted?) He as a baby, many of her concerns would have been eliminated. The killing of the baby pig thus takes on this significance symbolically. There is also symbolism in the last scene, during which Mrs. Whipple puts on her finest dress for appearance sake, but it turns out that this dress is black, a sign of mourning. As she rides in the back of the wagon with He, she notices his tears, apparently for the first time in his life. She cuddles him, as if he were a baby, and cries with him, as she laments that He should never have been born. In a way, this scene is like a funeral. Mrs. Whipple is experiencing the death of her son, a death she had secretly longed for from the moment He was born. Finally, there is the symbolic use of the pronoun "He" that is used to signify the mute son. He is not given the dignity of a name, suggesting Mrs. Whipple's insistence that He was in some way subhuman. By not giving him a name, Mrs. Whipple
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denies herself the need to fully open up to him. He has no name, no emotions, and no attachment. He is more like the piglet than like her other children.
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explosion of jackrabbits, grasshoppers, and other insects, all of whom ate most of the crops that made it through all the other devastating elements. Although the rest of the nation suffered under the effects of the Great Depression during this time, many people living in the Plains, at least those who were not forced to give up their farms, had some form of food on their tables, even if it meant living off meals of wheat mush and jackrabbit.
Dust Bowl At the turn of the twentieth century, several factors came together that would eventually lead to the devastation of what was referred to as the Dust Bowl, a wide expanse of land in Kansas, Oklahoma, Texas, Colorado, and New Mexico that was turned into a virtual desert, thus causing widespread poverty in these southern plains states. First, there was a mass movement of settlers into these territories, with most of the people eking out a living on land that was originally considered sufficient only for grazing livestock. Then there were generally accepted, but invalid, so-called scientific beliefs that cultivation of crops actually attracted moisture; and the spread of railroads and electric wires as well as the use of artillery fire induced rain. None of these theories proved true and adding to an already unstable condition, as the population of these arid areas increased, the drought cycle increased. On top of these factors, Prohibition during the early part of the twentieth century decreased the need for a variety of crops, and farmers, instead of rotating their crops, turned to wheat as their sole source of income. The lack of rotation in planting caused the already precious soil to further erode. Dust storms in this area were not uncommon. However, in the 1930s, the storms grew ever thicker and their occurrences more frequent. In 1933, there were seventy different dust storms. By 1937, the number had increased to 134. The dust accumulation around doors and windows was so thick that it had to be shoveled, much like in a snowstorm. Sunday, April 14, 1935, became notoriously referred to as Black Sunday for the massive storm that swept across the Plains turning day into night. In a story about Black Sunday, a reporter for the Associated Press coined the phrase "Dust Bowl," for which this region would come to be known. As if this were not enough to send a farmer to ruin, this same time period was also known for its horrendous hailstorms, tornadoes, and record-breaking hot temperatures. Also, there was a population
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Eugenics Before the Civil Rights movement in the United States in the 1950s and 1960s, many disabled people were not only discriminated against but also had very few support systems. People with mental or physical handicaps were often institutionalized and even were considered a burden on the rest of the socalled normal society. In the late nineteenth century, this concept was carried out to the point that it was believed moral to improve humanity by eliminating the least able and most unhealthy segments of the population. This philosophy was called Eugenics. It became popular not only in Nazi Germany, but also in the United States. Toward the goal of purifying humanity, in 1907, the state of Indiana passed a law of compulsory sterilization of people who were concerned "degenerates." At first, this was only applied to those accused of crimes, but later the Eugenics movement included the sterilization of inmates in institutions for the insane. Such a case, in Virginia, went all the way to the U.S. Supreme Court, where in 1927 in the case Buck v. Bell, Justice Oliver Wendell Holmes upheld the right of doctors to forcibly sterilize Carrie Buck, a seventeen-year-old girl whose only crime was that she was classified as "feeble-minded." In another example of Eugenics, Dr. Harry Haiselden, a Chicago surgeon, became famous for his claims of allowing babies, whom he considered too deformed to lead a so-called normal life, to die rather than saving them through surgery. The feature film The Black Stork (1917) was produced, featuring Haiselden, playing himself. The movie was viewed all over the United States, making the topic of Eugenics an ever more popular one. The subject of Eugenics was taught at prominent schools such as Harvard, Columbia, Cornell, and Brown. Eventually, Eugenics came to be considered by some a science, and it even found its way into high school science textbooks.
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Compare fc Contrast • 1930s: Texas Panhandle agriculture is hit hard by a devastating drought and unusually strong wind storms and becomes part of what is referred to as the Dust Bowl. Some counties in Texas lose as many as 25 percent of their farms. This time period is also called the "dirty thirties." Today: Great aquifers supply water to the agricultural lands in Texas as farmers learn better ways to prevent soil erosion. The economy of Texas is bolstered by oil drilling, tourism, and the building of massive prison systems. • 1930s: American Eugenics Society is in full strength. Among their tenets is to prevent "the undesirables"—such as people who suffer from alcoholism, poverty, and epilepsy, to mention a few—from reproducing. Today: Although the American Eugenics Society lost favor after its concepts were used by Hitler in his bid to create an Aryan race, many people believe that eugenics is slipping back into American consciousness through the practice of genetic manipulation of crops, some forms of standardized testing in schools, and genetic prenatal testing. • 1930s: Americans suffer the effects of the Great
Critical Overview Although her whole collection of writing, from her book reviews and her published letters to her short stories and novel, is considered rather small, Katherine Anne Porter, according to many academicians, including Don Graham, in his article "Katherine Anne Porter's Journey from Texas to the World, in the Southwest Review, is revered as one of the "grande dame[s] of American literature." Without a formal education, a family that supported her interests, and a confident stance in regard to her own gifts, Porter was able to dig down into her personal history, where, Graham writes, ' 'there were never any easy answers,'' and come up
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Depression with unemployment almost reaching 25 percent of the work force. Government programs are developed to give people work. Long "breadlines" wrap around city blocks as people stand in line waiting for handouts. Today: Factors combine to send the soaring economy of the 1990s into a tailspin as technology stocks plummet, terrorist attacks destroy the sense of stability, major corporations layoff thousands of employees, and smaller businesses go bankrupt. • 1930s: Led by Helen Keller, a group of people form the American Foundation for the Blind, one of the first programs created to help people with this disability. Also the League for the Physically Handicapped is created to demonstrate against job discrimination in the Work Progress Administration, which was set up to provide jobs for unemployed people during the Great Depression. Today: Although many challenges still persist, people with physical or mental disabilities have many programs available to them to ensure proper education, assisted living facilities, easy accessibility, and other assistance to maintain a more beneficial lifestyle.
with a "key to her ability to create stories of lasting value." From this material, mostly taken from the struggles in her youth, Porter found "hard questions" most of which, Graham continues, "were never solved, but they produced some literature with lasting merit." Most reviewers hold similar sentiments concerning Porter's writing. She had a unique talent for understanding the emotional impulses behind people's actions, and it is this element that held her works together. Her works, stated a critic in a 1930 New York Times Book Review of Flowering Judas, the book in which the short story "He" was first collected, are "technically perfect." The stories in
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this collection, continues the review, "are carefully wrought, devoid of cliches, distinguished for their technical originality." In referring to the story "He" specifically, the reviewer found that it escaped "sentimentality by reason of its careful objectivity." In another 1930s review of Flowering Judas, written by Louise Bogan for the New Republic, Porter is described as a writer who "rejects the exclamatory tricks" and instead uses "straightforward writing" with attention to detail. She "has a thorough imaginative grasp on cause and character" and "has chosen the most exacting means to carry her knowledge into form." Mary Gordon, herself an accomplished author, wrote an essay on Porter for the New York Times Book Review in 1995. In her essay titled "The Angel of Malignity: The Cold Beauty of Katherine Anne Porter," Gordon writes Porter wrote during a period of time when the short story was not appreciated. Gordon claims that that was a sad mistake in reference to Porter's work, for she is best known for her novel, The Ship of Fools when in fact her best writing is found in her early short stories. It is in her short stories, Gordon believes that Porter was able to ' 'look in the face of such unimaginables as evil, death, the irreparable blows of fate, and force them to turn themselves beautiful."
Criticism Joyce Hart Hart has degrees in English literature and creative writing and focuses her writing on literary themes. In this essay, Hart examines the contradictions of Mrs. Whipple, the protagonist in Porter's story. Katherine Anne Porter's short story "He" is told through the eyes of its protagonist, Mrs. Whipple. However, both the eyesight and the insight of Mrs. Whipple are twisted, or convoluted, to the point of creating double vision, resulting in a blurred reality that throws both Mrs. Whipple and the reader off on many misguided trails. There is the surface vision that Mrs. Whipple would like everyone to believe, and that, in fact, she would like to believe herself. Then there is the deeper insight that Mrs. Whipple sometimes touches upon but recoils from the minute it comes into view. Lastly, there is the reality that everyone else envisions, to which Mrs. Whipple
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The Dust Bowl, during the Great Depression, led to an increase in poverty in the southern plain states, as experienced by the Whipples in ' 'He''
appears to be completely blind. This variety of interpretations leads to many contradictions for Mrs. Whipple, keeping her in a kind of no-man'sland of chaos and confusion. Within the first few lines of Porter's story, Mrs. Whipple is described as a woman who ' 'was all for taking what was sent and calling it good." However, Mrs. Whipple's character is more clearly defined with the qualifying statement that follows this. It is Mrs. Whipple's nature, according to the narrator, to be the eternal optimist, but, most often, this positive take on life is found only "when the neighbors were in earshot." It becomes quite obvious to the reader as the story progresses that Mrs. Whipple will do almost anything to impress her neighbors. She is a woman for whom life is more dependent on appearances than on food on the table. She would rather starve than be pitied. She would rather lie than give anyone a chance to look down on her. It is the lies that ultimately confuse her, for she tells them so regularly and in such an exaggerated manner that she begins to believe them herself. So fearful is she of how the neighbors judge her son
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What Do I Read Next? • Collected Stories ofKatherine Anne Porter (1965) won the Pulitzer Prize. This collection contains the best of Porter's short stories. • Porter's Pale Horse, Pale Rider: Three Short Novels (1939) contains "Noon Wine"—one of her most talked-about stories that deals with evil—and "Old Mortality" and the title piece, both of which are narrated through the eyes of Miranda, a female protagonist that Porter used in many of her short stories. Many critics believe this to be Porter's best collection. • Although Porter enjoyed writing short stories more than novels, after thirty years of working on it, Ship of Fools (1962) was published and became an instant bestseller. The story is short on action, but the psychological depth of her characters makes this book a very fascinating read. • Porter was a prolific letter writer, and much of
that when she is in view of her neighbors, she makes grandiose outpourings of her emotions toward her son, He, who is referred to as the "simple-minded one.'' Mrs. Whipple does not know for sure how she feels toward her son, and yet she believes she must constantly defend not only him but also her own feelings toward him. She is so uncertain of her feelings that she diminishes her love for her other two children in order to garner enough love for him. She often tells her neighbors that she loves him more than her two other children put together. Behind closed doors, however, she defers to her other children to the detriment of her son, He. She gives her other children the benefit of warm pajamas and extra blankets by taking these things away from He. While she makes sure that He receives extra portions of food, piling up his dish and relishing in the noises that he makes while eating, she also criticizes him, to herself, about how much he eats. The neighbors may not see that He sleeps at night
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her correspondence has been collected in Letters of Katherine Anne Porter (1990), edited and selected by Isabel Bayley. It was in her letters that Porter most often talked about her writing process, often working out details of some of her stories in them. Reading her letters gives aspiring writers a look behind the scenes of Porter's polished works. • Eudora Welty liked to read Porter's stories, so if readers like Porter, they might enjoy reading Welly's Collected Stories (1980). Welty is considered one of the great American masters of the short story. • Another master of the short story is Anton Chekhov. His 75 Grands and Other Stories, Complete Early Short Stories by Anton Chekhov (2001) is a great way to get to know this classic Russian writer.
without any blankets, but they would notice if He were malnourished. So Mrs. Whipple feeds him, and He grows to twice the size of his older brother. The neighbors, hiding their real thoughts of disgrace, also comment on his size, as if that were proof that one day He will grow out of his so-called simple-mindedness: "He's not so bad off," they often reassure Mrs. Whipple,' 'Look how He grows!'' The size of He is relevant in this story for other reasons, too. His size represents the dominance he has in Mrs. Whipple's thoughts. He is the hub of the wheel around which Mrs. Whipple directs the other members of the family, and around which she directs most of her thoughts. To Mrs. Whipple, He is the weakest link in the family. She must make sure that he appears as strong as possible, thus elevating all the other members around him. It is not only the size but also the strength of her son that makes him a viable participant in this family. For instance, Mrs. Whipple is proud of the way he can climb a tree. He is not only strong, in her
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mind, he is also fearless. Only when the neighbors suggest that He does not understand the possible consequences of falling out of the tree—and therefore suggest that Mrs. Whipple is not being a good mother for allowing him to climb so high and so freely—does Mrs. Whipple yell at him. Later, out of sight of any of the neighbors, she beats him in the head. It is in her allowing him to do things that her other children are fearful of doing that one may begin to wonder what lies beneath Mrs. Whipple's motives. Is she really proud of him for his lack of fear? Or does she not care if He gets hurt because in her mind, he feels no pain? And of course, one would then wonder, why does she choose to believe that He feels no pain? Has she so removed herself from her own emotions that she feels no pain when he is suffering? Or is there an even deeper motive? Despite the fact that the narrator discloses that "Mrs. Whipple's life was a torment for fear something might happen to Him," she encourages him to do things that his older brother Adna will not do. If the narrator is reliable, one wonders from where Mrs. Whipple's fear is coming. If she is not fearful that He will get hurt, then is she merely afraid of what the neighbors would think of her if He should hurt himself? "It's the neighbors," Mrs. Whipple tells her husband. "I can't afford to let Him do anything for fear they'll come nosing around about it." Besides climbing the tree, there are two other incidents in which Mrs. Whipple allows He to put himself in the midst of danger. First there is the snatching of the piglet. Adna knows that this particular sow is meaner "than a Jersey cow" and would rip his "insides out all over the pen." So Adna refuses to capture the piglet, and Mrs. Whipple calls him "old fraidy." At this point, Mrs. Whipple belittles Adna further by claiming that He is not scared of the old sow, and she laughs at the thought of it "as though it was all a good joke." She then pushes He toward the pen, knowing that He will do anything that she tells him to do. He trusts his mother. Of course, He follows his mother's orders, grabs the small pig from its mother, and runs with the sow "raging at His heels." Mrs. Whipple does not praise her son's bravery. She merely takes the pig, which is "screeching like a baby in a tantrum," and slices (' 'with her face stiff') through its neck. The only thought of her son that she has, as He runs away in utter horror at his mother's actions, is to criticize him for his appetite,
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By pushing him into these circumstances, encouraging him to take on things that may have been well over his ability, Mrs. Whipple's actions suggest that all along, she wanted to see him dead, wanted to be rid of him."
a strange reaction since earlier she seemed to be proud of his size and strength. "He'd eat up every mouthful from the other two if I'd let Him." The next major incident occurs when Mrs. Whipple sends He to fetch the neighbor's bull. Again Adna is too fearful to deal with the bull, so Mrs. Whipple must resort to using her other son. She feels easy about her decision at first, then later, when He seems to be taking too long to fetch the bull, she begins to worry. Her worries are strange, however, as she brings them into herself, feeling sorry about her own life, not necessarily about the welfare of he son. "It was just like everything else in life, she must always worry and never know a moment's peace about anything." Mrs. Whipple finally sees her son in the distance. Through the narrator, the reader understands that Mrs. Whipple is aware of how one must treat a bull. Bulls, apparently, can be easily startled, so one must be steady and quiet. "She mustn't make a sound nor a move; she mustn't get the bull started,'' Mrs. Whipple reminds herself. If the bull bolts, he might run himself right through her son, and Mrs. Whipple was concerned that He would not have the sense to get out of the bull's way. So what does Mrs. Whipple do next? She lets out a shriek and starts screaming at her son to hurry home. When He does not respond, Mrs. Whipple runs, not walks, back home. While she runs, she prays that nothing will happen to her son. ' 'Lord, you know people will say we oughtn't to have sent Him." The story jumps forward to the time when the other children have left home, and He must take on
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not only his own chores but those of his brother's. He seemed to have accepted the extra work ' 'fine,'' and "without even noticing" the extra burden, the narrator relates. Unfortunately, He slips on the ice, and his injuries cause him to have a fit. Mr. Whipple's first concern, while driving to town to get the doctor, is the money his son's extra care will cost him. Mrs. Whipple, on the other hand, denounces the doctor's suggestion that they send their son to the "County Home," so He will be off their hands. Why does she not want to do as the doctor has recommended? "I won't let Him out of my sight," she tells the doctor, sounding like the good mother than she wants to believe she is. Then she adds another comment that exposes her true concern: "I won't have it said I sent my sick child off among strangers." Mrs. Whipple comes around to the doctor's way of thinking. Mr. Whipple points out that it is not like they are accepting charity, as they pay taxes to maintain the sanitarium to which He will be taken. This is all that Mrs. Whipple needs to hear, for here is her chance to escape. She has suffered many years under the humiliation she experienced by having a mentally handicapped son. He has caused her so much worry because he did not fit into her image of what a child should be like. Her concern for appearances was driving her crazy, because He always seemed to destroy the facade that she tried desperately to maintain. Sending him away, if she could find a legitimate reason for doing so without fearing that her neighbors would condemn her, brings forth a dream, a hidden or suppressed desire, that she has held since the moment of his birth. Underneath the facade that Mrs. Whipple has created not only for her neighbors, her husband, and her other children but also for herself seems to be a death wish for her son. This is fortified by her admission at the end of the story when she declares, "Oh, what a mortal pity He was ever born." She had forever looked upon him as something less than human, for in her mind he did not get cold, he did not get hurt, and he never reacted to human emotions. Her refusal to believe that he was not scared because he was not aware of the consequences of his action could be interpreted that she really did not care if he fell out of the tree, was bitten, stomped on, or gored by the sow or the bull. By pushing him into these circumstances, encouraging him to take on things that may have been well over his ability, suggests that she, all along, wanted to see him dead, wanted to be rid of him. She was tired of worrying
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about him, not for his sake but for her own. ' 'Mrs. Whipple hated to talk about it, she tried to keep her mind off it, but every time anybody set foot in the house, the subject always came up, and she had to talk about Him first, before she could get on to anything else." Mrs. Whipple secretly wanted to get on with her life, without him. So she sits in the wagon with him, holding on, not to him, but to the edges of the blanket that is wrapped around him. Her exaggerations and lies were also like a blanket in which, since his birth, she had wrapped and held him. That blanket was placed around him not so much to protect him as to protect her. With her lies, she kept her own emotions at bay. She could not face the truth. She could not confess that she really did not love him; that she really did not want to take the extra effort to take care of him. As long as he was well, and she could work him like an ox, she would adjust to his behavior. Once he slipped and demanded a nurse's attention, she was willing to send him away. After all, as she reiterated throughout the story, he had no real emotions. In the final scene, Mrs. Whipple is forced to face the truth, when she sees He cry for the first time. She is taken aback by this show of emotion, and tries desperately to convince her son—as well as herself—that his tears are not real.' 'Oh, honey," she calls out to him, the first terms of endearment mentioned in the entire story, "you don't feel so bad, do you?" In his eyes, Mrs. Whipple sees a reflection of herself: she senses that her son is accusing her, reminding her of all the lack of emotion he has experienced under her care. She painfully remembers the times that she treated him unfairly. Almost as soon as this truth registers, however, she excuses herself, by remembering that she is poor, and that she has two other children to think about. She then pulls herself even further away from He, turning the blame back on He when she states,' 'there was nothing she could do to make up to Him for His life," as if she had not been a major part of it. Mrs. Whipple comes close to dealing with the truths of her life, but even in the final scene, she slips away from the truth whenever it draws near. For a mother to admit that she wished her child never to be born, to wish that her child be taken away from her, is a contradiction that Mrs. Whipple could not bridge. Source: Joyce Hart, Critical Essay on "He,"' in Short Stories for Students, The Gale Group, 2002.
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Bruce W. Jorgensen In the following essay, Jorgensen examines "He" within the context of tragedy and focuses on the difficulty readers can have understanding the character of Mrs. Whipple. "He" ends as Mrs. Whipple is taking her feebleminded, unnamed son to the County Home where she has finally admitted him. He may receive better care and no longer physically burden his family for whom ' 'Life was very hard.'' On the way He begins to cry, "rubbing His nose with His knuckles, and then with the end of the blanket" and "scrubbing away big tears that rolled out of the corners of His eyes." Neither we nor Mrs. Whipple can know for certain the motive of his weeping, but it drives in upon his mother the awareness she has warded off all of his life—that, however hindered by his condition from showing love or gratitude, He is far more a human being, a person, than she has allowed herself to think. The knowledge is terrible; whatever the reason for his weeping, Mrs. Whipple couldn't bear to think of it. She began to cry, frightfully, and wrapped her arms tight around Him. His head rolled on her shoulder: she had loved Him as much as she possibly could, there were Adna and Emly who had to be thought of too, there was nothing she could do to make up to Him for His life. Oh, what a mortal pity He was ever born. They came in sight of the hospital, with the neighbor driving very fast, not daring to look behind him.
Miss Porter once remarked that "Any true work of art has got to give you the feeling of reconciliation—what the Greeks would call catharsis, the purification of your mind and imagination— through an ending that is endurable because it is right and true.... Sometimes the ending is very tragic, because it needs to be." The ending of "He," I believed when I first tried to discuss the story with beginning literature students, intends just such a catharsis,' 'endurable because it is right and true" and "tragic because it needs to be." Surely the last two sentences intend to focus for our minds and imaginations the classic emotions that Aristotle said tragedy purifies—pity and terror; and surely those emotions are proper to the situation and action of "He." My students had a hard time seeing it: either they excessively, sentimentally pitied Mrs. Whipple, or they excessively, moralistically condemned her. I have since learned that recent critics of Miss Porter's story have fared little better: most of them lean either toward excessive pathos or toward excessive,
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,The problem 'He' poses for its audience ... is moral as much as literary: how to avoid easy pity or easy contempt for Mrs. Whipple."
even contemptuous irony. Thus James W. Johnson in 1960, though mentioning "the unavoidable tragedy of the abnormal child, the victim of a biological accident'' (thus seeming to use the word in its loose, non-literary sense of "deep misfortune"), moralistically implied that Mrs. Whipple might have suffered less had she not "refus[ed] to accept the facts." Harry John Mooney came a little closer in 1962, speaking of the "pathetic ending" as a "final" and "grim tragedy in a mother's life" and of the story itself as "a small tragedy;" but he did not point to the pity and terror of the ending as evidence, nor did he explain what he meant, and he sentimentalized Mrs. Whipple in seeing her as "altogether committed to Him." In 1963 Paul F. Deasy, though seeing that in the last scene Mrs. Whipple realizes ' 'He is as real as anybody,'' read the story moralistically as showing how Mrs. Whipple's "failure to face reality leads to frustration;'' he saw her love for her child as "unreal" and argued, without explaining how, that "Peace would lie in accepting Him as He is." William L. Nance in 1964 viewed the story as "a masterpiece of finely balanced satire and pathos" with an "all-judging ironic narrator;" he found no one in the story ' 'with whom the author or reader is inclined to identify sympathetically," and like Deasy he condemned Mrs. Whipple's "totally inadequate response to reality," her "folly of selfdelusion" or "willful blindness;" he rightly called attention to "the failure of the boy's parents to recognize his personality" as "the root of their error and suffering" but also, without evidence, blamed their poverty on "their own laziness and ineptitude;" though finally allowing that the last scene "leaves the reader suspended between condemnation and sympathy for this weak woman in her hard fate," he seemed to miss the way the last sentence about the driver brings into focus the tragic emotion of terror.
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In 1965, George Hendrick saw the story as ' 'stressing the irony of the situation but ending with compassion for both mother and child," yet he did not allow that the reader could have compassion for Mrs. Whipple before the end; he felt, rightly I think, that the boy is "beyond human help," able to "receive but ... not [to] return love;" yet far too simplistically he saw Mrs. Whipple's "professed love'' as merely ' 'a cover for hatred'' thinly masked "with Christian piety;" for him, finally, the story was "completely pessimistic." Winfred S. Emmons in 1967 allowed the Whipples "a certain dignity, though small," and admitted the boy was "a problem that nobody could solve;" but he also saw Mrs. Whipple as "very possibly hatfing] Him," as certainly ' 'wishfing] He had never been born'' (though that is not precisely what she says), and as practicing ' 'the eleventh commandment, which is to put up the appearance of a virtue if you cannot manage the real thing;" for him, the story's tone was "unrelievedly pathetic." In 1971, in the fullest discussion so far, Myron M. Liberman called "He" one of the most "harrowing" stories in English, "a little gem of enormous thematic magnitude" in which ' 'a universe of human suffering is worked out . . . in a way that involves the reader most painfully, without resorting to sentimentality or preachment," and in which the author "succeeds as always in maintaining that 'delicate balance of rival considerations'" that Robert Penn Warren long ago cited as a primary quality of her work; like Hendrick, Liberman saw the ironic narrative voice as allowing the reader to feel compassion for Mrs. Whipple only at the end; reading more cautiously than Hendrick or Emmons, he noted that ' 'no matter how His mother feels about Him, that feeling is bound to be something less than unalloyed love," yet he did not clearly define her feeling; he did see what I would call the "choral" function of the last sentence about the neighbor, and thus came close to defining the story's catharsis; most importantly, he pointed out that ' 'the burden of the story is the terrible question of how many of us could have succeeded in giving love where Mrs. Whipple failed." That remark, of course, is the perfect answer to those critics who find it too easy to condemn Mrs. Whipple, and after Liberman's care and clarity it is a letdown to come to John Edward Hardy's comment in 1973 (which acknowledged a debt to Liberman's discussion of the neighbor's final reaction), for Hardy saw Mrs. Whipple as having an "obsession" with her retarded son which she is ' 'pleased to call
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. . . love;" he regarded her as "severely punished" in the end for the "cruel folly" of her pride; thus he found it "easy justice on the reader's part to refuse [Mrs. Whipple the pity] she so despises." The main irony of the critical history of "He" is that its earliest commentators, those of the Thirties and Forties, read the story most clearly, whereas those of the Sixties and Seventies, supposedly better trained, have so persistently misconstrued it or seen it partially rather than as a whole. Thus Mary Orvis in 1948 saw Mrs. Whipple as "caught in a moral trap'' from which ' 'there is in all reality no possible escape" and in which her final action "is at best a compromise that must confront her all the rest of her life," leaving her "only the agony of guilt." Mrs. Orvis did not use the word "tragedy" in her comment, yet she defined the story clearly in a way that would accord with Karl Jaspers' dictum, "Absolute and radical tragedy means that there is no way out whatsoever." Claude M. Simpson and Allan Nevins in 1941 also viewed the ending of the story as "an incident of genuine tragedy," though without explaining why. But surely the most accurate comment on the story was the earliest, Howard Baker's single paragraph published in 1938, which used "He" to represent Miss Porter's "remarkable attainment" in Flowering Judas, her "perfection of a highly selective realistic method": viewing the retarded boy as ' 'a kindly, helpful, and beloved creature, whom his parents cannot avoid taking advantage of, and who exceeds little by little their capacity for caring for him," Baker saw how the author was able ' 'to indicate fully the thousand-fold aspects of the parents' predicament—the love, the misgivings, the rationalizings, the blind hope, the impotence, the awareness of need for help, the shame at having the neighbors know"—in such a way that "the story becomes genuinely tragic." The problem "He" poses for its audience, critics and common readers alike, is moral as much as literary: how to avoid easy pity or easy contempt for Mrs. Whipple; how to arrive at the justice of a clear, balanced estimate of her situation, character, and actions. Baker's summary displays the kind of critical negative capability that the problem demands—the capacity to see Mrs. Whipple in terms of both/and rather than either/or, to see that she can and does love her retarded son even at the same time she compulsively exposes Him to danger and harm, and to see that intolerable moral paradox as defining her tragic predicament. Baker took a long step forward in understanding the story, which unfortunately most recent critics failed to follow.
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Those who saw Mrs. Whipple' s love as a mere mask for her "real" hatred and thus found it easy to condemn her would have done well to take the advice Blake once addressed in a couplet "To God": If you have form'd a Circle to go into, Go into it yourself & see how you would do.
Liberman at least brought the discussion back to this point. The audience's problem with Mrs. Whipple, I suspect, was also the author's problem, and I further suspect that she began to solve it by going into the circle she had formed, sympathetically trying to see Mrs. Whipple's situation from inside, though with greater clarity of intelligence than Mrs. Whipple could possibly bring to bear on it. We might formulate the moral problem Mrs. Whipple faces in this way: because her son is retarded (and after a head injury forgets the few words He has learned), so that He cannot respond to his family or express his feelings with anything approaching the fullness of even relatively inarticulate people like the Whipples, He is in some sense hindered from being fully a person, but He is not a dumb animal either. Mrs. Whipple must in the beginning have loved Him as instinctively as most parents love the infants who must utterly depend on them; but as his body grew, He remained in that infantile dependence, and Mrs. Whipple already had one child older than He, and later another younger, both of whom were normal and who thus not only outgrew their total dependence but also were capable of returning their parents' affection and of responsibly caring for some of their own needs. In the family's "hard" life (which, significantly, Miss Porter defines for us before introducing their second son), Mrs. Whipple cannot possibly care adequately for all three, so she compromises, giving Him a larger share of privation and risk because "He don't really mind;" in this, of course, her judgment is already distorted by unconscious resentment of his disability and by guilt for that resentment. And so the fabric of Mrs. Whipple's self-deceptions and rationalizations weaves around her to the point where she cannot, until the end, realize or admit the degree to which He is a person. How would we do in that circle? The great risk to our justice as we enter the circle is the temptation of sentimental identification with Mrs. Whipple, of excessive pity for her as the victim of impossible circumstances. The audience, and I suspect the author as well, needed some check on compassion, and the ironic narrative voice provides that check. Contra Hendrick and Liberman, I
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do not hear Miss Porter's irony as consistent throughout the story up to its last scene; to my ear its effects are intermittent, local rather than pervasive, and qualified by context so as not entirely to undercut Mrs. Whipple's view of herself. Thus in the story's exposition we first see how Mrs. Whipple's stubborn, petty pride motivates the duplicity she practices ' 'when the neighbors were in earshot;'' but with a retarded child and those neighbors, how would we do? For they talk "plainly among themselves" of how the child's defect is "the sins of the fathers," the result of "bad blood and bad doings somewhere, you can bet on that." We can hardly blame Mrs. Whipple for not wanting to be looked down on by such neighbors, even if she doesn't know exactly what they say behind her back. Similarly, that Mrs. Whipple is "forever saying" that she loves "her second son . . . better . . . than the other two children put together'' and occasionally "even throwing] in her husband and her mother for good measure" does not necessarily mean that she simply hates her son. Mr. Whipple, bitter and cynical as he is, implicitly accepts that she does have "feelings about Him." Asshesays, "It's natural for a mother," and we need not deny her natural affection, even as we see that because it is also "expected," she exaggerates its quantity and purity and thus makes it increasingly difficult for herself to know her own true feelings. Again, it seems quite true that, at one level, Mrs. Whipple "wouldn't have anything happen to Him for all the world," though this masks her unadmitted guilt over his defect and her suppressed resentment at his passive dependence. She does patently overstate his invulnerability ("He can do anything and not get a scratch"), and she takes a desperate though quite real and deep solace in the preacher's saying that "The innocent walk with God." In the incident of the plank striking his head, the irony is heavy and lucid: clearly He was injured, for ' 'He had learned a few words, and after this He forgot them;" but it may also be simply true that "He never seemed to know it." We arrive at the same sort of judgment when "in bad weather" the Whipples give Emly "the extra blanket off His cot," rationalizing that "He never seemed to mind the cold": obviously it cannot be good for Him, yet He may indeed not "mind" it. It must be simply true that, however much she deceives herself about such compromises, "Just the same, Mrs. Whipple's life was a torment for fear something might happen to Him;" but the torment must be compounded
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almost unimaginably by her fear of the neighbors' judgment, by her unacknowledged hostility and by her guilt over it.
despair for Mrs. Whipple ("—oh, honest, sometimes I wish I was dead!") but with no clarification because she is so full of self-pity.
In the exposition of "He," then, an ironic narrative voice, always qualified by context so as to preclude easy, simplistic condemnation, requires us to make such complex judgments, allowing the validity of Mrs. Whipple's natural motherly feelings but also insisting on the reality of her unadmitted guilt and hostility. Miss Porter was not the kind of writer who, in Arthur Mizener's words, "encourage[s] people to enjoy the insidious pleasures of righteousness unearned by understanding" by pretending she and her reader ' 'are Christ harrowing a hell full of all the people who disagree with them;" die hell she imagines in "He" is not for other people, but for herself and her readers, too. And Miss Porter's irony—certainly in this story—is not a headsman's axe but a weight in the scale of justice to keep mercy from overtipping the balance. It serves to maintain a clear vision of Mrs. Whipple's flaws and errors and also to prevent the excess of pity that could blind a reader to her very real selfdeceptions and to her internal conflicts, including the complicated guilt that corrodes her love for her son.
The Whipples' hardship the following winter comes partly from the improvident slaughter of the pig, which would have meant "three hundred pounds of pork'' to use or to sell; with poor crops, they have barely enough money for food and thus too little for clothes. Most of that goes to Adna and Emly; because "He sets around the fire a lot, He won't need so much." He almost gets pneumonia, and, although He seems well next spring,' 'He walked as if His feet hurt Him"—probably a sign of some residual infection. The bull episode that summer develops from Mr. Whipple's effort to save "paying out money when [he hasn't] got it," and it once again reveals the intensity of Mrs. Whipple's moral and emotional conflicts. At first she feels "easy in her mind about sending Him for the bull," but then she starts thinking, "and after a while she could hardly bear it any longer.'' He returns,' 'leading the big bulk of an animal by a ring in his nose,... never looking back or sideways, but coming on like a sleepwalker with His eyes half shut" in what could be either near-paralyzing fear or just simple-minded insouciance. Mrs. Whipple possibly exaggerates the danger, for the bull lumbers "along behind Him as gently as a calf," but she recalls "awful stories about how [bulls] followed on quietly enough, and then suddenly pitched on with a bellow and pawed and gored a body to pieces," and she thinks how "Any second now that black monster would come down on Him." She imagines this so vividly that, when the bull harmlessly "horn[s] the air at a fly," she involuntarily shrieks, almost precipitating the violence that she fears and perhaps at the same time unconsciously desires. For her this episode ends in a frantic, self-serving prayer and nervous prostration, yet again without any recognition because her fear is so self-centered:' 'Lord, you know people will say we oughtn't to have sent Him. You know they'll say we didn't take care of Him. Oh, get Him home, safe home, safe home, and I'll look out for Him better! Amen."
Throughout "He," except in the last paragraphs where it is no longer needful, that kind of irony operates from time to time, counterpoising Mrs. Whipple's professed feelings by clarifying her unacknowledged ones, as the story's action unfolds in a well-knit plot comprising three main episodes: the pig slaughtered to feast Mrs. Whipple's brother and his family; He leading a neighbor's bull to pasture at the Whipples' as payment for the bull's breeding their cow; His final removal to the County Home. In the first, Mrs. Whipple's pride brings her to endanger her son to serve its turn, and it also leads her toward a possible recognition of His personality and of her guilt: "When He saw the blood" as she slit the pig's throat, "He gave a great jolting breath and ran away;" but Mrs. Whipple only thinks "He'll forget and eat plenty" and—probably correctly, though it is another rationalization—"He'd eat it all if I didn't stop Him." (At the meal, He won't enter the dining room where the pig lies in the center of the table, but presumably He does eat the "big plate" that Mrs. Whipple serves Him in the kitchen.) When on Sunday morning she boxes his ears for getting dirty. "His face hurtfs her] feelings," and her suppression of this incipient realization makes her physically weak. The episode ends in
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The recognition does come in the final episode— aperipeteia and anagnorisis as close to the classical tragic pattern as anyone has ever come in a realistic short story. Mrs. Whipple is hardly a classical tragic heroine. Perhaps she hardly reaches the stature of Arthur Miller's "common man" who becomes tragic in being ' 'ready to lay down his life, if need be, to secure one thing—his sense of personal dignity'': one might say she destroys her integrity to
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maintain a partly specious sense of dignity. Yet her final tragic recognition, like that of Oedipus, does fall on her because of her most important traits of character, which have conflicted throughout the story—her quite genuine feeling for her son and her pride (she refuses the ambulance because she "couldn't stand to see Him going away looking so sick as all that," and when she rides with Him, she wears her most dignified "black shirt waist" because "She couldn't stand to go looking like charity." In sending Him to the hospital, the Whipples simply intend his good, though his going will relieve them of practical burdens they can no longer bear (they can neither care well enough for Him themselves nor pay for the doctor's care; to keep Him would simply mean worsening poverty and privation, which could do Him no good). Yet, in a powerful situational irony, He weeps at what is happening, and there is no way Mrs. Whipple can ignore it or attribute it to anything except her present or past actions. The story's closing tableau is a devastating Pieta as the mother holds and weeps over her son, whose well-being and whose humanity she has continually sacrificed piecemeal to her confused feelings, and whose well-intentioned sacrificial expulsion now brings illumination but no release from guilt. The cathartic ending of' 'He," ' 'tragic because it needs to be" and "endurable because it is right and true," calls to mind a passage from Chapter Twenty of Middlemarch, in which George Eliot says: That element of tragedy which lies in the very fact of frequency, has not yet wrought itself into the coarse emotion of mankind; and perhaps our frames could hardly bear much of it. If we had a keen vision and feeling of all ordinary human life, it would be like hearing the grass grow and the squirrel's heart beat, and we should die of that roar which lies on the other side of silence. As it is, the quickest of us walk about well wadded with stupidity.
Miss Porter's subject in "He," tightly circumscribed by the Whipples' hard life and the ineludible moral dilemma of their feeble-minded son, is simply the tragic nature of ordinary familial love, of which, as she wrote twenty years after the story, "hatred is part . . . the necessary enemy and ally." With a keen vision and feeling of that ordinary love in her ordinary characters, the last scene of Miss Porter's story shows Mrs. Whipple finally hearing the roar on the other side of her son's inarticulate silence and of her own self-deceiving silence as well; it shows the terrified neighbor hearing both those roars; and it has the reader hearing all three in full fidelity. No one in our century has put the short
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story to nobler use—or to stricter discipline—than Katherine Anne Porter, and "He," a compact tragedy in the low mimetic mode of realistic fiction, is simply one of the finer instances of that fact: a classic story written ' 'with all the truth and tenderness and severity" that Miss Porter intended as the hallmark of all her work. Source: Bruce W. Jorgensen, "The Other Side of Silence: Katherine Anne Porter's 'He' as Tragedy," in Modern Fiction Studies, Vol. 28, No. 3, 1982, pp. 395-404.
Debra A. Moddelmog In the following essay, Moddelmog looks at "subtleties and ironies meant to darken the story's tone and complicate its tragedy.'' "He" has received varied critical attention in the fifty-five years since its publication, so varied in fact that the interpretations of its critics make one wonder whether they have read the same story. "He" is ostensibly about the Whipple family, but because Porter develops in detail only the relationship between Mrs. Whipple and her retarded son, the story becomes essentially a study of the psychology of that relationship. Critically, the key question seems to be how Porter wants the reader to react to Mrs. Whipple. Are we to view her finally with compassion, condemnation, or ambivalence? Winfred Emmons, for example, says of the story's conclusion: "Everybody has done his best, but He was a problem that nobody could solve. The reader may hope that Mrs. Whipple's bright outlook will somehow return; it has seemed to be her natural state and would doubtless be more pleasant to her than the defeated pragmatism of her husband. And it is possible that their luck might change for the better some day. Sometimes luck works that way, and Mrs. Whipple's desire for order and a better life might find a way to help luck along." But whereas Emmons applauds Mrs. Whipple's optimism, William Nance claims that Mr. Whipple's main function in the story is "to furnish a welcome contrast to his wife by acting as the laconic voice of plain truth." And whereas Emmons hopes that Mrs. Whipple's life will improve now that He has been placed in the county home, Nance takes a more ambivalent attitude toward the mother. He maintains that the reader is left "suspended between condemnation and sympathy for this weak woman in her hard fate." In contrast to Emmons and Nance, George Hendrick states that' 'He'' ends with compassion for both the mother and the child, but that it is "a completely pessimistic story."
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Having identified Mrs. Whipple's motives throughout the story and having understood the total lack of love she feels for her son, we can hardly feel compassion for her, as many critics do, at the story's end."
What gives rise to this diversity of opinion? M. M. Liberman suggests that "He" is a "gem of enormous thematic magnitude" and "a masterpiece of compression" in the tradition of Joyce's Dubliners. Unfortunately, economical stories of this sort (where not a word is wasted and much is implied) are often misread, for the simple language and seemingly straightforward narration may relax the reader into overlooking subtleties and ironies meant to darken the story's tone and complicate its tragedy. Furthermore, the subject matter of "He"— coping with the psychological and physical demands of raising a retarded child—is one that causes many readers to sympathize with Mrs. Whipple instead of judging her according to the story's evidence. My objectives in this paper are, first, to indicate how the story should be read and, then, to establish the view that Porter expects the reader to take toward Mrs. Whipple. "He" is a tour deforce in using point of view to unveil the hypocrisy of a character. We learn Mrs. Whipple's sentiments in two ways: directly, through quotation, and indirectly, through the restatement of her words by a third-person narrator. The narrator paraphrases accurately, but, in the story's opening paragraphs, qualifies Mrs. Whipple's noble and loving assertions by reminding us that she makes them only when the neighbors are (or might be) listening and by "loading" his descriptions with tags such as "would say," "kept saying," "forever saying so," and "keep on saying it." Thus, we learn immediately that the narrator is ironic. In reality, Mrs. Whipple is vain and self-deluding and often unaware of, or incapable of admitting, her true motives. In order to understand Mrs. Whipple, we
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must remember that throughout the story her assertions are exaggerated contradictions of her actual feelings. Porter's focus is on Mrs. Whipple's relationship with her retarded son, and in the opening scenes we discover the conditional nature of that relationship. The narrator mentions that her claims of a monumental love for Him are made only in front of the neighbors. Mrs. Whipple's priorities are further clarified when she explains to her husband the reason for this great love: ' 'It's natural for a mother . . . it's more natural for a mother to be that way. People don't expect so much of fathers, some way." In the repetition of the idea of her love as being "natural" and in her concern for what people expect, we note the unnaturalness of her "love." Although she would not admit the fact, even to herself, Mrs. Whipple's relationship with Him is dictated by what others would think, not by motherly love or tenderness. That is, Mrs. Whipple's public relationship with Him is governed by her anticipation of the neighbors' reactions. For when Mrs. Whipple is alone with Him and does not expect the neighbors to visit, eavesdrop, or spy, her true attitude toward Him becomes apparent, at least to the reader. John E. Hardy claims that the preacher's assurance that He enjoys God's special protection ("The innocent walk with God") has been valuable to Mrs. Whipple as ' 'an excuse for her own neglect and exploitation of Him." However, Mrs. Whipple's treatment of her son in private suggests her intentions go further than neglect and exploitation. When Mrs. Whipple tells her neighbors, "I wouldn't have anything happen to Him for all the world, but it just looks like I can't keep Him out of mischief," we search for the reality behind that seemingly loving, but defensive, assertion. We quickly realize that, unconsciously or subconsciously, she desires his death, provided she cannot be blamed for it. The evidence is copious. She allows Him to climb peach trees until a neighbor, concerned for his safety, warns her that she shouldn't let Him do that. She permits Him to handle the bees in their apiary, for He doesn't mind their stings, until, once again, she becomes fearful of what the neighbors might say. She boxes Him on the ears because He got His clothes dirty, unaware of how hard she has hit Him until she notices Him fighting back tears and rubbing His head. Then she gets scared and has to sit down because her knees are trembling. She gives her daughter Emily the extra blanket off His bed and
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provides warm clothes for both her other children, claiming that they cannot afford the same for Him. Yet He is the one taken sick in February. The Whipples fret for two days, His condition growing no better, before they finally send for the doctor, who tells them He must be kept warm. Mrs. Whipple is ashamed, for, not being able to stand dirt, she has washed his blanket and they must wait until it dries to put it back on His bed. So the Whipples give Him the blanket off their bed and put His cot by the fire, but again Mrs. Whipple is motivated by her fear of gossip:' 'They can't say we didn't do everything for Him . . . even to sleeping cold ourselves on His account.'' Mrs. Whipple's death wish for Him manifests itself less clearly, but not less significantly, in His encounters with the pig and with the bull. When her older son Adna refuses to take a baby pig away from its mother because "The sow'd rip my insides out all over the pen," Mrs. Whipple pushes Him into the pen, claiming He's not afraid. The mother pig is "a great fighter, worse than a Jersey cow." He comes running back, suckling pig in his arms, the sow "raging at His heels." Encouraging Him to court danger is not the only way that Mrs. Whipple displays her death wish for Him on this occasion. Hendrick notes that in this scene the description of the pink pig is almost the same as description of Him. Indeed, throughout the story the physical description of Him is reminiscent of a pig: for example, "Rolls of fat covered Him like an overcoat" and "He blubbered and rolled." After He catches the piglet, Mrs. Whipple takes it from Him and, with her face stiff, slices its throat in a stroke. He runs at the sight of the pig's blood, but Mrs. Whipple assures herself that He'll forget and eat plenty just the same. She cannot, however, stop thinking about Him: "It's shame, a shame," she kept saying under her breath, "and Adna with so much brains!" She kept on feeling badly about all sorts of things. In the first place it was the man's work to butcher; the sight of the pig scraped pink and naked made her sick. He was too fat and soft and pitiful-looking. It was simply a shame the way things had to happen.
Mrs. Whipple's stream-of-conscious self-pity underlines how closely she too connects her son to the pig. Reviewing her feelings about the pig, scraped pink and naked, triggers the thought of Him. The link between the butchered pig and Him is thus too obvious to overlook: both make her sick. We may deduce that when she cut the pig's throat she was also thinking of Him, and that this confused lamen-
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tation is partly an effort to propitiate her conscience, to prevent it from accusing her of the wish to murder. We recall the similar action of another Porter character with a death wish, Maria Concepcion, who soon after she discovers her husband's infidelity, selects a chicken for the archeologist Given and "silently, swiftly drew her knife across its throat, twisting the head off with the casual firmness she might use with the top of a beet." Givens is unnerved by Maria's cold-bloodedness, but her resoluteness here is an explicit foreshadowing of her later bloody revenge. The incident with the bull reinforces the impression that Mrs. Whipple harbors an unconscious death wish for Him. The Whipples borrow a bull for breeding purposes from a neighbor, and once again Mrs. Whipple excuses Adna and sends Him to perform a dangerous job—bringing the bulk back to the Whipple's farm. After He has been gone for some time, however, she begins to worry and goes out to the lane to wait for Him. When she finally sees Him, coming slowly and leading the bull behind Him, she panics: Mrs. Whipple was scared sick of bulls; she had heard awful stories about how they followed on quietly enough, and then suddenly pitched on with a bellow and pawed and gored a body to pieces. Any second now that black monster would come down on Him, my God, He'd never have sense enough to run. She mustn't make a sound nor a move; she mustn't get the bull started.
Significantly, right after she cautions herself to be still, Mrs. Whipple sees the bull move his head at a fly and ' 'Her voice burst out of her in a shriek, and she screamed at Him to come on, for God's sake." Fear causes Mrs. Whipple to endanger His life. However, her fear is not for her son's safety; rather, she is afraid that an accident would ensure the neighbors' scorn because she had let Him undertake a dangerous task. Running toward the house, she prays, "Lord, don't let anything happen to Him. Lord, you know people will say we oughtn't to have sent Him. You know they'll say we didn't take care of Him. Oh, get Him home, safe home, safe home, and I'll look out for Him better! Amen" (Porter's emphasis). Psychoanalysts tell us that death wishes are not uncommon to parents, especially to the mother, of a retarded child. Maud Mannoni, a French psychoanalyst who has studied the mother-retarded child relationship, emphasizes the intensity and frequency
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of the mother's death wish:' 'The mother-child love relationship will always, in such cases, have an aftertaste of death about it, of death denied, of death disguised usually as sublime love, sometimes as pathological indifference, and occasionally as conscious rejection; but the idea of murder is there, even if the mother is not always conscious of it." Simon Olshansky observes that parents of a simpleminded child have little to look forward to, which leads them to search for a permanent escape: "they will always be burdened by the child's unrelenting demands and unabated dependency. The woes, the trials, the moments of despair will continue until either their own deaths or the child's death. Concern about what will happen to his child after he is dead may be a realistic concern for a parent, or it may be associated with death wishes, either for himself or for his child. Release from his chronic sorrow may be obtainable only through death." Thus, besides selfish reasons for wishing for a child's death, Olshansky's investigation uncovers humanitarian motives.
the story lies in determining Mrs. Whipple's motives for sending Him to the county home and in analyzing her feelings in the final scene.
If we ignore the ironic narrator who dictates viewpoint in Porter's story and attribute, Mrs. Whipple's death wishes to her worry over her son's future, we might argue for humanitarian motives and conclude as Harry J. Mooney does:
Clearly, she does not desire his return. When she begins to make plans for their family, she remarks, "... we'11 all work together and get on our feet again, and the children will feel they've got a place to come to." In other words, without Him, family life will be normal, and the farm will become profitable. In her exultation she envisions summertime, "with the garden going fine, and new white roller shades up all over the house, and Adna and Emily home, so full of life, all of them happy together. Oh, it could happen, things would ease up on them." Although He has been a real help around the farm, even doing Adna's chores when he left to take a job, Mrs. Whipple associates Him with their hardship. The stigma of having a retarded child is more that the vain Mrs. Whipple can bear. Having at last found a way to get rid of Him, other than by His "accidental" death, she plans to do so.
In "He," we have the story of a mother whose whole life lies in her feeble-minded son, and whose final tragedy comes to her when she is forced to put him in the county home. Mrs. Whipple is not to be blamed for the fact that her son is a mental defective, but she is altogether committed to Him ... both because she loves him and because he is absolutely dependent upon her... But the real significance of Mrs. Whipple's life lies in her effort to make a life for her son, little though she can help; otherwise his going off to the county home would be a solution to a pressing problem rather than a grim tragedy in a mother's life.
Mooney's sympathetic interpretation of Mrs. Whipple cannot be accepted—first, because we should not overlook (as Mooney has) the ironic third-person narrator, and second, because Mrs. Whipple is not the typical mother of a retarded child. Mooney's belief that Mrs. Whipple loves her son is far from accurate. Indeed, as I have indicated, Mrs. Whipple's attitude toward her son is dictated entirely by her selfish concern for appearances. Furthermore, I would argue that His going to the county home is a solution to Mrs. Whipple's pressing problem, and, if so, the story's ending requires a very different response from the reader than the one Mooney proposes. The crux of our understanding of
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When the doctor advises the Whipples to put Him in an institution, Mrs. Whipple promptly refuses. Her reasons, however, are far from loving ones: she does not want the neighbors saying she sent her sick child off among strangers, and she refuses to depend on charity. But Mr. Whipple maintains that He will be better cared for at the county home and assures his wife that they are not accepting charity when their taxes support the place. Once Mrs. Whipple finds excuses with which to fend off neighbor's gossip. His fate is settled. Almost cheerfully, she states that they'll bring Him home when He's better, although, as Mr. Whipple reminds her, the doctor has diagnosed his condition as untreatable. "Doctors don't know everything." Mrs. Whipple retorts, but immediately we see that Mrs. Whipple's optimism is intended to delude herself and others as to her true motives.
The final scene of mother and child in the neighbor's wagon is the most difficult to assess because Mrs. Whipple finally seems to feel some compunction over her previous cruel treatment of Him. If we can determine that that guilt is a small sign of love or the indication of a change of heart, Mrs. Whipple would gain in complexity and become the tragic figure that Mooney claims she is. We note first that Mrs. Whipple is accompanying Him to the county home because of her concern not for Him but about the neighbors: "The hospital would have sent an ambulance, but Mrs. Whipple
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couldn't stand to see Him going away looking so sick as all that." Second, she continues her story about her plans for Him when, to the neighbor driving the carryall, she asserts: "Besides, it aint's as if He was going to stay forever.... This is only for a little while." Mrs. Whipple apparently expects an uneventful ride, a quick trip to the county home. But as she sits holding her son in her arms, she is amazed to see big tears rolling out of the corners of His eyes. She instantly believes He is accusing her of something: "Maybe He remembered that time she boxed His ears, maybe He had been scared that day with the bull, maybe He had slept cold and couldn't tell her about it; maybe He knew they were sending Him away for good and all because they were too poor to keep Him. Whatever it was, Mrs. Whipple couldn't bear to think of i t . . . there was nothing she could do to make up to Him for His life." Mrs. Whipple has not admitted her death wishes, but she has a complete inventory of them running through her mind. And she has given herself away, contradicting in this more lucid, private moment her previous claim that his institutionalization is only temporary (although even privately she rationalizes that decision with the economic excuse). But, primarily, she refuses to think about Him or to try to understand his feelings. As a Hardy notes: "She is herself so incapable of genuine charity, of love, that she cannot recognize even the possibility that His weeping is an expression of love for her—an appeal, simply, that He not be turned out of the family, rather than a reproach for what He has suffered there." The final scene, then, not only reaffirms Mrs. Whipple's callousness, but also confirms His sensitive nature, which previously Porter has only hinted at. We recall, for instance, that He gasped and ran at the sight of blood when Mrs. Whipple sliced the suckling pig's throat. Mrs. Whipple dismissed his reaction, claiming that He would "forget and eat plenty, just the same." However, during the Sunday meal, He would not enter the dining room where the prepared pig was being carved. Mrs. Whipple attributed His refusal to timidity, but knowing her habit of rationalization, we might more plausibly argue that His reluctance arises from His memory of the butchering of the pig. At one point in the story Mrs. Whipple chastises her husband for calling Him senseless. Pretending to understand Him, she maintains, "He sees a lot that goes on, He listens to things all the time." Ironically, Mrs. Whipple is right. For although the Whipples are careful not to discuss their plans for his institutionalization in
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front of Him, He seems to know He is being sent away, his dumbness becomes that much more painful to the reader, for He cannot protest or prevent His fate. As in Greek tragedy where blindness is an indication of "sight," in Porter's story dumbness becomes a sign of awareness. His understanding coupled with his dependency—and contrasted to Mrs. Whipple's deception and selfishness—makes Mrs. Whipple's victimization of Him even more appalling. As Mrs. Whipple observes, He does anything she tells Him to do. Yet she cannot accept Him for what He is, nor can she love Him. Her final thought is ' 'what a mortal pity He was ever born,'' a feeling the neighbors voiced behind her back and the death wish she can finally admit—now that He will no longer cause her misery. As far as she is concerned, He is dead. Having identified Mrs. Whipple's motives throughout the story and having understood the total lack of love she feels for her son, we can hardly feel compassion for her, as many critics do, at the story's end. In fact, Emmons' hope that Mrs. Whipple's ' 'desire for order and a better life might find a way to help luck along" now seems terribly ironic; Mooney's conclusion that "the real significance of Mrs. Whipple's life lies in her effort to make a life for her son" is simply a misreading. Even Hardy's suggestion that Mrs. Whipple's incapacity is "the common incapacity of mankind, the curse of our intelligent being" cannot be accepted; for Porter, with her use of the ironic third-person narrator, does not let us condone that incapacity or the woman who manifests it and tries to pretend otherwise. Mrs. Whipple's hatred of Him, derived from the loss of comfort and prestige that she believes her retarded son has caused her, is despicable, no matter how universal her feeling of injustice might be. In charting the psychology of the relationship between a mother and her retarded son, Porter actually anticipated by twenty years any extensive efforts of psychoanalysts to examine the same territory. However, "He" should not be viewed as a literary precursor to a scientific enterprise. Porter's purpose is not to depict the psychological and emotional problems that the ordinary mother of a retarded child might face. Instead she is concerned, as she is in many other stories, with self-deception, vanity, and hypocrisy. In "He" Porter shows us not a weak but well-meaning mother of a retarded child, but rather one whose pride and hypocrisy make her
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a moral monster. To be swayed by Mrs. Whipple's self-serving rationalizations is to miss the point of the story. Source: Debra A. Moddelmog,' 'Narrative Irony and Hidden Motivations in Katherine Anne Porter's 'He,'" in Modern Fiction Studies, Vol. 28, No. 3, 1982, pp. 405-13.
Brother Paul Francis Deasy In the following essay, Deasy examines the first fourteen paragraphs in ' 'He,'' tracing the development of Porter's central concern: "failure to face reality leads to frustration." Katherine Anne Porter's recent novel has served to emphasize a pre-occupation in all her work: to trace to its sources and understand the logic of what she calls the ' 'majestic and terrible failure of the life of man in the Western world." The early stories are short exercises, what the preface to Flowering Judas calls "fragments" of a larger plan concerned with this theme. They were written, she says, in a period of grotesque dislocations in a whole society when the world was heaving in the sickness of a millennial change. The story ' 'He'' is a good illustration of how one aspect of this general concern can be developed and complicated to the point where it becomes the primary structural factor of a story. As an abstraction, this meaning might be stated rather weakly as "failure to face reality leads to frustration." Actually, the meaning ramifies and develops in a host of contrasted and repeated relationships in the narrative. An examination of the first major part, the first fourteen paragraphs, will show the main lives of this development and will suggest that it contributes much to the story's success. Life is hard for the Whipples: '"It looks like our luck won't never let up on us,' said Mr. Whipple, but Mrs. Whipple was all for taking what was sent and calling it good, anyhow when the neighbors were in earshot." Several of the meanings that will permeate the story are present here: Mr. Whipple's outlook is contrasted with Mrs. Whipple's; what Mrs. Whipple believes differs from what she says to others; the neighbors are established as opposed to the Whipples. The conservation reveals that the Whipples consider themselves subject to occurrences rather than responsible cause of them. This indicates another basic contrast: what they do is seen as happening to them. Their life, then, is not really "hard" but is seen as such because their concern is to escape as much as possible. As for the narrator, we can note that he merely reports the
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surface level of thought and incident, at this stage, from the Whipples' viewpoint. He makes no judgment, nor does he point up the antithesis of appearance and reality, for the more complex meanings of the story develop beyond His vision. In the second paragraph, another contrast is suggested, between Him and the other children. Elements already noted are further developed around this relationship: Mrs. Whipple professes love for Him, but to the neighbors, who were presented before as causes of her hypocrisy. Her "love" then is unreal as Mr. Whipple causes her to indicate: "People don't expect so much from fathers, some way." The fault of saying one thing while believing another is extended to the neighbors: "There's bad blood and bad doing somewhere, you can bet on that. This behind the Whipples' backs. To their faces everybody said, 'He's not so bad off. He'll be all right yet. Look how He grows!"' The relationship of the Whipples to the neighbors, therefore, becomes more complex, for their fault is shared. The preliminary patterns revolving around reality and the failure to confront it or express it support the key relationship that develops in the next eight paragraphs and becomes the impetus to the incidents of the plot: Mrs. Whipple and He, or more precisely, the real He and Mrs. Whipple's concept of Him. Initially we are told that Mrs. Whipple ' 'tried to keep her mind off it, b u t . . . she had to talk about Him first... It seemed to ease her mind." Later, recalling the preacher's words about Him that "The innocent walk with God—that's why He don't get hurt,'' a ' 'warm pool spread in her breast, and the tears would fill her eyes." These feelings of relief and warmth surround her confession that it "just looks like I can't keep Him out of mischief." This inability she lamely covers with praise of His strength, activity, and vitality, and she emphasizes these things by contrasting them with the frailty of Emly and Adna. Her feelings played against His condition reveal that warmth comes only when she escapes the actual facts of His condition and His lying beyond her control. Developing in contrasts, the story moves from the level of "uncontrollable son to mother" to a point where He assumes symbolic proportions. His mother attempts to see Him as a triumph over "hard" times: "He did grow and never got hurt. A plank blew off the chicken house and struck Him on the head and He never seemed to know it ... He
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didn't whine for food, as the other children did . . . He could carry twice as much wood and water as Adna . . . He never seemed to mind the cold." But running parallel to this series of comparisons are statements which reveal the actuality: "He had learned a few words, and after this had forgot them . . . He ate, squatting in the corner, smacking and mumbling." He, then, becomes a personification of the theme that reality must be accepted as it is or frustration will result: "Just the same, Mrs. Whipple's life was a torment for fear something might happen to Him." With this established, the remaining paragraphs of the first part heighten the tension: ' 'a grin all over His face and her worried sick about Him all the time . . . I can't afford to let Him do anything for fear they'll come nosing around about it ... But if He gets a sting, he don't really mind." Mr. Whipple, always there to point to the limited view of His wife, replies:' 'It's just because He ain't got sense enough to be scared of anything.'' This leads her to a perfect juxtaposition of delusion and reality: "Anything I tell Him to do He does it ... What's done can't never be undone..." So far we have uncovered the controlling thematic tension and various ways in which it is developed in the first part of the story. In summary, the more apparent motifs could be stated as follows: what is said versus what is felt; what the neighbors are told versus the truth; statements to the Whipples' face and behind their backs; Mr. Whipple versus Mrs. Whipple; He versus the other children; He as opposed to Mrs. Whipple; His physical condition versus His mental state; what happens and what is thought to happen; what the narrator reports and what is implied. These contrasts could be multiplied readily, extending as far as the verbal elements Miss Porter uses to contrast the continual state of fear and worry against single incidents exemplifying the fact: Phrases like "would say," "kept saying," "forever saying so," "keep on saying it" are contrasted with the simpler forms used in dialogue. If one selects several incidents in the story where He and Mrs. Whipple are involved, the elements noted can be further substantiated. When the other son refuses, He easily takes the pig away from the sow and Mrs. Whipple exults. His reaction, however, is revealing:' 'When He saw the blood, He gave a great jolting breath and raw away." She quickly attempts to escape the truth: "But he'll forget and eat plenty, just the same." The morning of the dinner she "dropped everything to get Him
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The preliminary patterns revolving around reality and the failure to confront it or express it support the key relationship that develops the real He and Mrs. Chippie's concept of Him,"
all cleaned up," but He rapidly gets dirty again. She then significantly reverses the usual contrast with the other children and places Him on the short end: . . . "There's Adna and Emly staying so quiet. I get tired trying to keep you decent." The "tired" motif has been running through the previous scene and will appear in the final incident also. Here it is filled with exasperation, and she "boxed His head." On the level of the plot, this is a turning point, for it is the first time she expresses her anger against Him, and it consequently leads to the strongest reaction she has yet shown: "Her knees began to tremble, she had to sit down while she buttoned His shirt." She is beginning to perceive the reality, and the nature of her escape becomes more violent. The dinner is a party of contrasts between families, children, the delicious pig, and the Whipple's failure to enjoy it through worry. There is a play, too, on the neighbor motif with her brother's family now being contrasted with the Whipples. She continues her attempt to escape Him: ' 'I always say He ain't to be slighted, no matter who else goes without," and manages to delude herself until her foil, Mr. Whipple, crushes her with "Who knows what they had in their minds all along?" In winter the escapist Whipples follow the same patterns as in other seasons; they will not accept it as it is. In fall they had looked ahead:' 'That pig'll be worth money by Christmas." In spring, Mr. Whipple planned to "pasture the bull this summer and give Jim some fodder in the fall." Later when Mrs. Whipple dreams of summer, she makes a world of fantasy and ease: "the garden going fine, and new white roller shades up all over the house, and Adna and Emly home, so full of life, all of them happy together." But winter will be winter despite their efforts to avoid it, and He falls
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sick after they take away His blanket. And His sickness, of course, precipitates Mrs. Whipple's full realization that He is as "real" as anyone else.
Gordon, Mary, "The Angel of Malignity: The Cold Beauty of Katherine Anne Porter," in the New York Times Book Review, April 16,1995.
The bull scene vividly portrays the basic tension. She first trusts Him with the bull in accord with her illusion that He is more capable than the other children. But this idea is brought to play against another contrast: what goes on and what she thinks goes on. "Mrs. Whipple was scared sick of bulls; she had heard awful stories about how they followed on quietly enough, and then suddenly pitched on with a bellow and pawed and gored a body to pieces." Finally, there is a third flight—into prayer, where she aptly expresses her condition: "Lord, you know people will say we oughtn't to have sent Him. You know they'll say we didn't take care of Him."
Graham, Don, "Katherine Anne Porter's Journey from Texas to the World," in the Southwest Review, Vol. 84, No. 1, Winter 1998, p. 140.
His second sickness brings her to the final point of realization and also the final escape. As she sits beside Him in the cart going to the hospital, "Mrs. Whipple couldn't believe what she saw; He was scrubbing away big tears that rolled out of the corners of His eyes. Maybe He remembered that time she boxed His ears, maybe He had been scared that day with the bull, maybe He had slept cold and couldn't tell her about it; maybe He knew they were sending Him away for good and all because they were too poor to keep Him. Whatever it was, Mrs. Whipple couldn 't bear to think of it." She is brought to the point of realizing that He is as real as anybody, as anything. Peace would lie accepting Him as He is, but she cannot, and she chooses a final escape, the only one possible in the face of the actuality: she thinks, Oh, what a mortal pity He was ever born. The threads are fittingly pulled together by the neighbors' "not daring to look behind him"—not daring to see them as they are. Source: Brother Paul Francis Deasy,''Reality and Escape," in Four Quarters, Vol. 12, No. 2, January 1963, pp. 28-31.
Sources Bogan, Louise, Review of Flowering Judas, in New Republic, Vol. LXIV, No. 829, October 22,1930, pp. 277-78. Givner, Joan, Katherine Anne Porter: A Life, rev. ed., University of Georgia Press, 1991.
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Review of Flowering Judas, in the New York Times Book Review, September 28, 1930, p. 6.
Further Reading Busby, Mark, and Dick Heaberlin, eds., From Texas to the World and Back: Essays on the Journeys ofKatherine Anne Porter, Texas Christian University Press, 2001. Busby and Heaberlin have collected several essays written by scholars and critics, following the development of Porter as a writer. Carlson, Elof Axel, The Unfit: The History of a Bad Idea, Cold Spring Harbor Laboratory Press, 2001. Carlson has put together a study of the philosophy and history of eugenics, the philosophy that led to the involuntary sterilization of people in the United States who were deemed unfit and later to the Nazi campaign of creating a super race. This is not a pleasant book to read but one that gives the reader some idea about why Mrs. Whipple was so concerned about hiding her son's supposed lack of normal mentality. Lopez, Enrique Hank, Conversations with Katherine Anne Porter, Little, Brown, 1981. Lopez provides a collection of conversations with Porter, published one year after her death. Paul, Diane B., The Politics of Heredity: Essays on Eugenics, Biomedicine and the Nature-Nurture Debate, State University of New York Press, 1998. If people think the consequences of the theories of eugenics is something of the past, this book might inform them otherwise. Very contemporary in its approach, this book will bring the reader up-to-date on what is happening in the sphere of genetic studies as well as the politics involved in the publication of college science textbooks. Worster, Donald, The Dust Bowl: The Southern Plains in the 1930s, Oxford University Press, 1982. Although the Dust Bowl is not directly mentioned in Porter's story, the aftereffects of poverty caused by the lingering drought in Texas is part of the living conditions that drive the story. If readers want to learn more about the devastation and see photographs of just how bad these storms were, this book will meet that need.
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Henne Fire Isaac Bashevis Singer's short story "Henne Fire" first appeared in the magazine Playboy and then in his 1968 collection entitled The Seance. Singer wrote this story, as he did his other works, in Yiddish, despite being fluent in English; the author and Dorothea Straus translated the story into English. Many critics and readers considered Singer a master of the short story form; among his numerous awards, he received the 1978 Nobel Prize in literature.
Isaac Bashevis Singer
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"Henne Fire" takes place in a small Polish village sometime before World War I but after the middle of the nineteenth century. The story is filled with supernatural and magical elements, and is told by one of Henne's neighbors in a familiar and intimate style. Henne Fire is a woman whose erratic and frightening behavior prompts the tale's narrator to refer to her as ' 'not a human being but a fire from Gehenna," an ancient word for hell. In the story, Henne's family flees her home, unable to tolerate the sting of her venomous words and physical abuse. Many of Henne's neighbors are afraid of her, as well, having witnessed her violence and paranoia, and simply want her to move to another town. Other villagers, including the local rabbi, try to make Henne's life bearable while striving to protect the townspeople from her wrath and her strange propensity to ignite nearly everything around her.
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Author Biography Isaac Bashevis Singer was born Icek-Hersz Zynger in Radzymin, Poland, on July 14, 1904. He was the son of a rabbi, and the grandson of two rabbis. Singer spent his youth studying sacred Jewish texts, such as the Torah, the Cabala, and the Talmud, in preparation for a life as a rabbi. Singer spent his childhood years in Warsaw and in the shtetl—the term used to describe the exclusively Jewish villages throughout Eastern Europe that were wiped out during Adolph Hitler's campaign against the Jews in the 1930s and 1940s— of Radzymin, Poland. While these locales had a major influence in the settings and references in his stories, Singer's single greatest influence was his older brother, Israel Joshua Singer, a secular Yiddish writer. Singer forsook his intended career as a rabbi and followed his brother's path, first heading to a writer's club in Warsaw. He took his mother's Hebrew name, Bathsheba, and made it his pen name in Yiddish, Bashevis. In 1935, Singer fled Europe to escape Hitler's regime and landed in America, penniless and knowing only one English phrase. Despondent after his brother's sudden death in America and the devastation of his people in the Holocaust in Europe, he wrote nothing for seven years. Eventually, however, Singer began to write again, publishing prolifically until the time of his death. Singer's writings, including plays, short stories, novels, autobiographies, and children's stories, respect and reflect both his brother's secularism and his own religious upbringing. Singer's work is filled with both mystical elements and realistic images of contemporary life. Singer originally wrote in Hebrew but soon switched to Yiddish. In 1923, Singer left rabbinical school and began his literary career as a proofreader for a Yiddish literary magazine. In 1935, he published his first novel, Shoten an Goray (Satan in Goray), prompting the first of many complaints from Yiddish traditionalists that Singer portrayed only the darker side of Jewish life. He continued writing in Yiddish for the rest of his life, even after following his brother to the United States, and after becoming a naturalized American citizen in 1943. Upon moving to America, Singer wrote for the Jewish Daily Forward under various pseudonyms, including Isaac Bashevis when he wrote fiction and Isaac Warshofsky when he wrote nonfiction. Occasionally during his career, Singer considered writ-
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ing in English, but he ultimately rejected the idea, holding fast to the belief that a writer should work in his own language. Much of Singer's body of work remains in Yiddish, untranslated into English. In 1950, Singer's novel Di Familie Mushkat (The Family Moskat) appeared in translation—the first of his work to be published in English. Singer's reputation as the century's foremost Yiddish writer was sealed when Saul Bellow, in 1954, translated the short story "Gimpel the Fool" for The Partisan Review. After that, Singer's work began receiving recognition and high praise from readers outside of the small Yiddish literary community. The short story "HenneFire" appeared in his 1968 collection of short stories, The Seance and Other Stories. Singer's numerous awards include the National Book Award in 1970 for children's literature and in 1974 for fiction; the 1978 Nobel Prize for literature; and a Gold Medal for Fiction from the National Academy and Institute of Arts and Letters in 1989. In 1983, his short story "Yentl, the Yeshiva Boy" was made into a film, as was his novel Enemies: A Love Story in 1989. Singer continued working well into his eighties, during which decade Singer published eight new works, which were all subsequently published in English translation. He died on July 24, 1991, in Surfside, Florida, after a series of strokes.
Plot Summary Singer's short story is told in the past tense by one of her neighbors as a collection of memories about Henne Fire, and what eventually became of her.
Part One The neighbor narrator begins by introducing Henne Fire as a demon or evil spirit and not a human female. Henne was an emaciated creature, all skin and bones, who screamed and behaved in crazy ways when she was angered. The neighbor considers Henne's husband, Berl Chazkeles, a saint; Henne threw dishes at him so often that he had to buy a new set nearly every week, and when he left for work as a sieve-maker each morning, Henne yelled insults at him. Henne has four daughters, and the neighbor remembers that each one devised a way to escape
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Henne as soon as possible. One was a servant in Lublin, one moved to America, one married an old man, and another died of scarlet fever. ' 'Anything was better than living with Henne," notes the neighbor. Berl finally ran away from Henne, provoking her to become even more out of control. "She knocked her head on the stones, hissed like a snake, and foamed at the mouth," according to the narrator. Traditionally, the narrator explains, when a woman's husband abandoned her, she would work in someone's home to make a living. Henne, though, frightened everyone in the village so much with her curses and violence that no one would let her in their home. Henne tried to earn money by selling fish, but this did not work out well because Henne insulted anyone who tried to buy her fish. Henne became even more paranoid, accusing her neighbors of various slights. When Henne's daughters came home to visit, she would start fights with them that tumbled out into the streets. Henne was convinced that they were hiding their father and would not tell her his whereabouts. Eventually the daughters stopped coming by, which prompted Henne to have the village teacher write them letters saying that she was disowning them. The narrator notes that "in a small town one is not allowed to starve," so people brought food to Henne, but she just threw it away. Henne next turned her venomous behavior on the children of the village and also reported various imagined crimes to the chief of police. In the marketplace, she announced that the military was drafting only poor boys and sparing the rich, which, according to the narrator, was true. "But if they had all been taken, would it have been better?" wonders the narrator. Henne's pronouncements provoked the Russian officials to place her in an insane asylum. In less than six months, Henne returned to the village, and she promptly threw out the people who had settled into her house. She searched for her missing belongings in other villagers' homes and "humiliated everybody." The rabbi refused her entrance into the women's synagogue and his study when she came looking for him. Groups of villagers regularly beat her up after she spit at passing hearses. One night, Kopel Klotz, a neighbor, awoke to find Henne's house on fire. He ran over with a pail of water, but "It wasn't a usual fire," according to the narrator. "Little flames flew around like birds. . . .
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[T]he flames danced and turned somersaults. . . . These were not flames, but goblins from hell." Even after the neighbors finally extinguished the fire, Henne's bed burst into flames the next morning. The narrator suggests that the fire was retribution by the devil for Henne's cursing everyone in the village. Henne's neighbors told the rabbi that if he didn't do something they would "take matters into their own hands." As Henne pleaded with the rabbi to help her, her house went up in flames again and was destroyed. She claimed the neighbors set the fire, but the narrator denies this, arguing that no one would try such a thing with the wind blowing as it was. This was when the villagers began calling her Henne Fire.
Part Two Henne tried to live at the poorhouse, but the poor were frightened and turned her away. A gentile woodchopper took in Henne but had to throw her out after the handle on his ax caught fire. Finally, the rabbi allowed her to live in the booth behind his home set up for the Succoth holidays (a Jewish harvest festival, usually celebrated in September, that commemorates the forty years the Jewish people spent in the wilderness). The rabbi's family all worked to make the booth warm and comfortable for the winter; the son installed a stove and his wife
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arranged a bed and provided Henne with food. Everyone hoped that "the demons would respect a Succoth booth and that it would not catch fire." The narrator recalls that Henne became a docile person and stayed inside the Succoth booth all day during the winter. "Yet evil looked out of her eyes,'' the narrator adds. The rabbi's wife suggested to Henne that she come inside the house and help out in the kitchen, but Henne declined and expressed concern that she might cause the rabbi's books to light on fire. The deep snows of winter gave way to surprising warmth in the early spring, and the town flooded. Even so, one day, the Succoth booth burst into flames "like a paper lantern." The narrator recalls how Henne later told of a ' 'fiery hand'' that reached down and ignited the booth. At this point, the rabbi felt he had no choice but to bring Henne into his house, but this greatly upset his family. The community suggested that Henne be sent to another town, but Henne cried out that she could not bear being buried anywhere but in the village. ' 'She had found her tongue again," remembers the narrator, "and everybody was surprised." Reb Zelig, a plumber, along with other villagers, offered to build a brick house for Henne on the site of her old home, and asked nothing for their labor. The house was finished just before Passover, but no one asked Henne to the Seder meal at their house. One day, a letter came from Mindel, Henne's daughter who had left the village to live in America. She enclosed money and wrote that she and her husband had become rich in New York City. If Henne and Berl would reconcile, Mindel would pay for them to come to America and live. Henne's sudden wealth interested a number of villagers, but Henne simply muttered curses at them. Henne began to drink heavily, according to the narrator, and began appearing in public drunk, angry, and only partially clothed. She tossed coins out of her window and threw trash at the children when they scrambled for the money. The townspeople believed that Henne was bound to ' 'drink herself to death." After no one had seen Henne for a few days, a group broke down her door and came upon an amazing sight. Henne was sitting in her chair, "burned to a crisp." Nothing else in the house was burned—not even the chair in which they found her. The villagers searched for an explanation but could
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come up with none, except that the curses Henne had used against others must have come back on her in the form of fire. After Henne's death and burial, the villagers began to report strange incidents, such as washtubs magically overturning and straw suddenly and inexplicably catching on fire. According to her neighbor, "Henne continued to cause trouble even after her death.''
Characters Berl Chazkeles Berl is Henne's husband and, according to the story's narrator, "a saint" for tolerating Henne's daily verbal and physical abuse. He earns a meager living making sieves. Eventually, Berl abandons Henne and she becomes even more angry and loud than before.
Henne Fire Henne Fire, also known in her Polish village as Black Henne, is described by the narrator as a demon. The narrator claims that Henne is "not a human being but a fire from Gehenna," an ancient name for hell. Henne is emaciated, her skin is black, and her eyes look like two burning coals. For most of the story, Henne behaves as if an evil spirit possesses her; she falls into convulsions and makes animal noises when something displeases her. She has no friends among the villagers, as she is always screaming at them and threatening them with horrible curses. Her four daughters find various ways to escape her house as soon as they are old enough to leave. One daughter dies from scarlet fever, however, and the narrator comments, "Anything was better than living with Henne." Even Henne's apparently gentle husband runs away. Henne also displays paranoid behavior. She is convinced that everyone in the town is out to cheat her, despite the fact that the townspeople offer to help Henne after her husband disappears, and contribute to her upkeep in various ways. "In a small town one is not allowed to starve," says the narrator. Henne reports to the village's chief of police that her neighbors are committing all sorts of crimes, but the narrator suspects that these crimes are all in Henne's head. The narrator admits that Henne was right to complain that the rich boys are never drafted for the army but excuses the practice as necessary.
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For Henne's inability to "suffer injustice," says the narrator, the Russian authorities place her in an insane asylum for a few months. Henne's personality changes after her house catches fire, and she appears possessed by some sort of fiery spirit. After Henne's neighbors threaten to ' 'take matters into their own hands'' if she does not leave town, the rabbi allows her to live with his family. While living with the rabbi's family, Henne ceases her screaming and angry accusations and turns silent and passive. Henne dies after becoming a drunk and, apparently, spontaneously catching fire. The villagers claim that her ghost continued to cause trouble long after her death.
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destroys her home. She does ask Henne to help out in the kitchen, but Henne refuses, citing the possibility that she may inadvertently ignite the rabbi's books. When Henne's fire destroys the Succoth tent in which she is living, the rabbi is forced to move her into the family's house. This upsets the rabbi's wife so much that she cannot sleep at night.
Reb Zelig Reb Zelig is a plumber in the village. He offers to build Henne a brick house after the Succoth booth she is living in bursts into flames, forcing her to move in with the rabbi's family. Zelig and others build a house for Henne on the site of her original home and ask nothing for their efforts.
Malkeleh Malkeleh is one of Henne and Berl's four daughters. Malkeleh is described as the most beautiful of the couple's daughters. She dies of scarlet fever.
Themes Community
Mindel Mindel is one of Henne and Berl's four daughters. She leaves for America and marries a man in New York City who becomes wealthy. Mindel sends money back to Henne and writes that if her mother and Berl make up she will arrange for them to come to America. Henne accepts her money but refuses to make up with Berl.
The Narrator Very little is known about the narrator except that he or she enjoys telling a story and lives next door to Henne and her family.
The Rabbi The village's rabbi takes pity on Henne when her neighbors are ready to run her out of town and arranges for her to sleep in an outdoor booth, or tent, set up for the Succoth holiday. The rabbi's family supplies her with a bed, a stove, and food during the winter. When the tent catches on fire, the rabbi insists that she stay in his family's house. This is very upsetting to his family, so various members of the village offer to build a fireproof brick house for Henne.
The Rabbi's Wife The rabbi's wife appears to be as kind as her husband and helps with Henne's upkeep after a fire
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While Henne is the main character in Singer's story, the community plays a vital role, at times performing as a single entity with a single voice. The story is set in a very insular village in Poland before World War I, and it is told by one of Henne's neighbors. Although Singer refers to gentile characters a couple of times, the community in which Henne Fire lived seemed to be primarily Jewish. Everyone knows one another, and Henne is especially well-known throughout the village. Singer depicts the villagers constantly attempting to mollify Henne's rage. After her husband left and she was unable to work, many people brought food to her house—"in a small town one is not allowed to starve," notes the narrator. Henne's actions and behavior deeply concerned the entire village, especially after her house burned to the ground and she had nowhere to live. The rabbi eventually allowed her to live with his family, but the community decided that it was best if she had her own fireproof home, and a group collaborated and contributed their labors to build Henne a new house. As much as the villagers seemed wary of Henne, there was also a note of guilt in their attitudes toward her. The narrator mentions that Henne ' 'suffered greatly for her sins," but also notes that the villagers were loathe "to pay for the sins of another" by tolerating Henne's crazy behavior. In a
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Topics for Further Study In the story, the narrator indicates that a demon possessed Henne. What do you think caused Henne to behave as she did? Write a short essay explaining Henne's behavior and include evidence from the story and other sources (such as medical, scientific, or psychology texts) to support your argument.
Investigate the history of the Jews in Poland from the 1800s through today. Create a time line showing critical dates and brief explanations of the events.
Research the origins, history, and current status of the Yiddish language. Create a map to show how it has been transported from Central Europe to various parts of the world. Yiddish has incorporated words from many other languages, such as German, English, and Russian; and English
"Henne Fire" is packed with strong visual images. Create storyboards for a movie version of the story. Decide which scenes and images you would include and how you would bring them to life.
few instances, the villagers were moments away from forcing Henne from the town, but intervening acts consistently delayed her forced departure.
the shape of "a man with long hair," dancing, whistling, and waving his arms. These incidents prompted the villagers to call her Henne Fire.
Fire Images of fire appear throughout Singer's story and are primarily used to associate Henne with evil. Sometimes these are actual fires, while other times they seem to be figurative or symbolic fires. The fires in the story often seem to have a life of their own, taking on the likeness of an evil spirit or demon. The neighbor who narrates the story refers to "a blaze" that was always inside Henne, as if fire were consuming her. Her skin was black, her eyes were like "two coals," and she was always angry. In addition, Henne was emaciated and unable to put on weight, as if something inside her was burning up any food she ate. When Henne's house caught on fire, the flames "danced and turned somersaults." Even after her neighbors put out the fire, another fire the next morning ignited her bed sheets and the garbage and baked a piece of dough. Later that day, Henne accused her neighbors of setting the fire, and pleaded with the rabbi to take her into his home. However, as she spoke to the rabbi, her kerchief burst into flames and her house caught fire once again. The fire took
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has also adopted some Yiddish words. To go with your map, create a chart showing some of these borrowings.
Henne's final demise resulted from fire. Her neighbors found her corpse ' 'burned to a crisp'' in a chair. Oddly enough, nothing else in the house was burned, not even the chair in which she sat. The narrator remarks that it should be no surprise that Henne died by fire, as Henne cursed others by using the word "fire."
The Supernatural and Superstition Supernatural events occur in nearly every scene in "Henne's Fire," providing an atmosphere of timelessness, such that the amazing events being relayed in the story take on a sensation of truth. The story's narrator makes it clear from the beginning that the supernatural was at work in the village, and especially in Henne Fire. In fact, the narrator goes so far as to claim that Henne "was not a human being but a fire from Gehenna." The reference to an ancient name for hell creates an atmosphere in the story in which flames can suddenly—but not suprisingly—appear, looking like demons. The world of the narrator and the villagers accepted the idea that evil spirits are as real and as involved in everyday life as any other member of
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the community. The tale opens with the narrator's assertion, ' 'Yes, there are people who are demons. God preserve us! Mothers see things when they give birth, but they never tell us what they see!" When Henne has her fit after her husband leaves, a fellow villager "pushed a key into her hand," but that superstitious effort didn't help Henne recover. The rabbi gives Henne the small tent in which to live, believing that' 'the demons would respect a Succoth booth and that it would not catch fire." The rabbi made sure, though, to hang a talisman in the booth as insurance. In the end, the villagers believe that Henne's curses came back to kill her. Even after her death, Henne continued to bother the villagers, they believed, sending ghosts to turn over their washtubs and throw dirt on their clean clothes.
Madness and Insanity Madness and insanity define Henne's character, at least according to the narrator. These qualities make her both fascinating and a bit frightening, and they set her apart from the other villagers. As described by her neighbor, Henne was a madwoman, displaying behavior that would lead one to believe that if she was not possessed by a demon, then she suffered from some kind of mental illness. When her husband ran away, Henne "knocked her head on the stones, hissed like a snake, and foamed at the mouth." When the villagers gave her food, she would throw it away and berate them. According to Henne's neighbor, walking into Henne's house was "like walking into a lion's den." Whenever Henne was around, items spontaneously caught fire. Henne continually cursed nearly everyone she encountered, and suspected them of cheating, lying, or setting fire to her house. She was sent to an insane asylum for accusing the military of exempting rich boys from the draft—not for being insane. These and other incidents in the story raise the possibility that Henne may have simply been extremely angry over whatever events occurred in her life before the narration began, rather than actually being possessed. On the other hand, she may well have had a physical illness that contributed to what her neighbors described as madness. In fact, the narrator uses the phrase "epileptic fit" just before describing Henne's apparently crazy actions in response to her husband's leaving, suggesting that Henne may have had a medical condition that was the cause of some or all of her frightening behavior. The narrator would lead the reader to believe in the theory of
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madness, but a perusal between the lines opens the story to other possibilities, thus shedding light on the possible bias of the narrator himself.
Style Symbolism The image of fire is used throughout the story: Henne's last name was Fire; fire seemed to follow her wherever she went; and finally, fire was responsible for her death. Fire is so prevalent and so closely linked to Henne that it can be interpreted as a symbol of her life. Fire has two primary features: it both destroys and purifies whatever it touches. The fires surrounding Henne can be seen as a representation of evil, something that destroys people and societies. As well, it can be seen as a purifying force; Henne may be a scapegoat, carrying the sins of the villagers within her. Her destruction at the end of the story may be a representation of the town attempting to rid itself of sins or evil.
Tone Singer wrote ' 'Henne Fire'' in a very familiar and casual tone. Beginning with the story's opening lines, there is a strong sense that the narrator is relating the tale in an intimate setting. The narrator's use of phrases such as ' 'Now listen to what happened" and "My dear people" interspersed throughout the story indicate the narrator's intention to make a direct connection with his readers. The narrator is revealed early in the story to be one of Henne's neighbors, someone who might well know the details of her life. Furthermore, the neighbor places himself or herself in the middle of a number of scenes, as if to add authority to the telling. The narrator, however, may not necessarily be the most trustworthy of storytellers. For example, on the question of whether or not Henne's neighbors set the fire that destroyed her house, the narrator immediately rejects any such possibility. "Who would try such a thing like that," comments the narrator, "especially with the wind blowing?" Since the narrator is one of the neighbors, his or her main interest may be self-exoneration. After all, just a
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few paragraphs before this scene, the narrator has admitted that many of the people who lived near Henne had warned the rabbi that if she did not leave the village,' 'they would take matters into their own hands."
ist Party, organized a number of paramilitary groups that launched raids on symbols of Russian rule, such as post offices, tax offices, and mail trains.
[Historical Context
Yiddish Language and Literature
Poland in the Nineteenth and Early Twentieth Centuries
German Jews developed the Yiddish language around the year 1100 A.D. as a dialect of German that included Hebrew letters and Hebrew and Aramaic words. The language grew with the inclusion and adaptation of words from languages with which European Jews had contact, such as English, Russian, and even Provencal, in southeastern France.
The combination of a series of wars in the seventeenth century and corrupt Polish rulers in the eighteenth century left Poland in a shattered state. At the end of the eighteenth century, the Polish king's close alliance with Russia left Poland virtually ruled by the Russians. In 1772, the Polish government was so weak that Prussia, Russia, and Austria agreed to annex portions of Poland, launching a series of partitions of the country that continued through the early nineteenth century and essentially wiped the nation off the map until just after World War I. During the 1790s, Napoleon Bonaparte of France recruited thousands of Poles for his effort to capture land belonging to Austria, Russia, and Prussia, assuring them that he would restore their nation in exchange for their services. This never came about, and in 1815 the country was partitioned once again. A large part of what was once Poland went to the Russians, and it is in a small village in this region that Henne and her neighbors lived. From 1815 until 1917, various Russian kings, or tsars, ruled Poland. This period was marked by a succession of revolutions and uprisings within Poland against the tsar. Typically, tsarist rule in Poland was harsh and repressive; for example, after the unsuccessful January Uprising of 1863, the Russians responded by shutting down the universities and schools and outlawing the speaking of Polish in public places. While serfdom was abolished in Russia by 1861, this abolition did not extend to her Polish territories. Around 1905, after suffering a number of key defeats in the Russo-Japanese War, Russia began to lose economic and military power, and the country fell prey to internal civil unrest. In 1906, Josef Pilsudski, a founding member of the Polish Social-
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In 1917, the Russian tsarist regime collapsed, and in 1918 Pilsudski proclaimed Polish independence and became Poland's first head of state in the twentieth century.
By the fourteenth century, the center of the Yiddish language moved to Eastern Europe when Jews fled persecution in Central Europe. Yiddish soon became the language of everyday life for most Jews living in Eastern Europe. They continued to use Hebrew, however, primarily for religious study and services. Through the middle of the nineteenth century, Eastern European Jews used Yiddish for commercial transactions, general education, and the religious education of women and others lacking a high level of Hebrew. In the mid-nineteenth century, Jewish authors in Europe began writing in Yiddish to convey a sense of community and culture. The classical period of Yiddish literature is considered to have lasted from the late nineteenth century through the early twentieth century. The three greatest fiction writers of that period are considered to be Sholem Aleichem, Mendele Mokher Sefarim, and Isaac Leib Peretz. Singer, too, wrote entirely in Yiddish and, like the writers during the classical period, wrote stories of life in small Eastern European Jewish villages. Before World War II, some eleven million people spoke Yiddish; currently, about four million Yiddish speakers remain, the huge reduction being due in large part to Adolph Hitler's campaign to wipe out the Jews. While Yiddish is considered by the United Nations to be an "endangered language," there are signs that interest in Yiddish is growing. In 1984, a Russian-Yiddish dictionary containing essays on etymology and grammar was published in Russia, and a number of universities, including a few in the United States, now offer classes and programs in Yiddish.
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Compare & Contrast • 1800s: Poland does not exist as a separate, sovereign nation but as a territory of Russia. Efforts to suppress any glimmer of Polish nationality include closing all of the universities. 1960s: Poland is a nominally independent country economically and militarily controlled by the Soviet Union, although with more autonomy than many other Soviet client states. It is referred to as the Polish People's Republic. Today: Poland is a constitutional republic with no political ties to Russia. • 1800s: The vast majority of Poles work in rural areas or on small family farms. 1960s: The Polish economy is experiencing near total collapse, and the price of food and other goods begins to skyrocket. Today: About 19 percent of the Polish workforce is involved in agriculture, but Poland still experiences difficulty meeting its requirements for food and feed grains. Other economic sectors include fertilizers, electronics, ship building, and petrochemicals. • 1800s: Poland is home to one of the largest contingents of Jews in Europe, including the Ashkenazi (from other parts of Central and Eastern Europe) and Sephardi (refugees from the Spanish Inquisition and Portugal). However, under the rule of the Russian tsars, Jews are not granted the same rights as Christians until the 1860s. By the close of the century, many Jews are leaving Poland for Western Europe, prompted by a surge in anti-Semitism in Poland.
Critical Overview Two lines of criticism emerge about the winner of the 1978 Nobel Prize for literature. Many have praised Singer, who always wrote in Yiddish, as the last great storyteller, especially in the tradition of
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1960s: Anti-Semitic activities by the Soviet government in Poland prompts the United States to cool its official relations with Poland. Today: Poland is a very homogeneous country; only about two percent of the population is not ethnic Polish, and about 95 percent is Roman Catholic. Estimates of the number of Jews remaining in Poland range from three thousand to fifteen thousand. • 1800s: Realizing that the numerous revolutions and uprisings against occupying governments have proven fruitless, many Poles decide to focus on strengthening the nation through education, economic development, and modernization. The movement takes on the name' 'Organic Work'' for its efforts to strengthen Poland at the grassroots level. 1960s: Polish students and intellectuals, encouraged by similar movements in Czechoslovakia, decide to challenge Soviet limits on their intellectual freedom. Student riots break out in Warsaw, Krakow, Lublin, and other Polish cities, and more than 2,500 are arrested. Today: Poles celebrate more than a decade of free elections. Political parties in Poland are varied; major parties include the Democratic Left Alliance, Solidarity Electoral Action (associated with Nobel Peace Prize winner Lech Walesa's ground-breaking political party of the 1980s, Solidarity), the Polish Peasant Party, and the Freedom Union. In the 2001 parliamentary elections, the Solidarity Electoral Action fails to win any seats, but a number of other parties spring up to take its place.
Yiddish storytellers. Stefan Kanfer's 1991 obituary for Singer in Time, in fact, highlights the author's lofty position in many critics' minds with its title, "The Last Teller of Tales." The other strain of criticism, according to Dan Miron in Judaism, showed itself in the "servings of envy and
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hatred that [Singer] received from the rapidly shrinking Yiddishist cultural establishment." Abraham Bezanker, writing in Critique: Studies in Modem Fiction, also notes that Singer's "reception by his kinsmen is somewhat less admiring" than that of English-speaking and American readers. R. Barbara Gitenstein, writing in the Reference Guide to American Literature, notes that Singer's treatment of "sexuality and insanity alienated him from many of his Yiddish readers." This tension between Singer and those involved in Yiddish literature also is based on Singer's somewhat passive and fatalistic outlook on life, according to Miron, an outlook that does not mesh with modern Yiddish literary culture. This culture has "sprung out of the opposition to what appeared to be the inertia and passivity of the old, traditional Jewish way of life," Miron continues. Singer's "gospel which preaches surrender," according to Miron, cannot be accepted. This sense of surrender and passivity emerges in "Henne Fire," especially when Henne calls attention to the injustice of how the army selects its recruits. The story's narrator, while admitting that Henne is factually correct, accepts the inevitability that someone has to fill the ranks and that it might as well be the poor. Miron acknowledges, however, the strength and beauty of Singer's writing, admitting that "it is impossible not to be enraptured by Bashevis's narrative art, not to be drawn into the melancholy and mystery of his fatalism." Bezanker, while criticizing Singer for his "qualitative unevenness," notes that in his best work the author ' 'has a good deal of power and emotional impact," especially through his use of humor, mysticism, and the occult. Israel Shenker, in an appreciation of the author in the New York Times soon after Singer's death, also welcomed Singer's liberal use of humor. Singer's fiction reflects his own experiences "leavened by humor," Shenker writes. Susan Moore's article in Quadrant argues that Singer finds his prowess in the short story form. He has "a deftness which enchants" and makes the mundane "convey important truths,'' she states. Other critics, including Elizabeth Gottlieb, have also noted the humor and mysticism in Singer's fiction. In Southern Review, Gottlieb asserts that, while many readers have called Singer the "Yiddish [Nathaniel] Hawthorne," Singer's use of humor sets him apart from the nineteenth-century American author. Gottlieb contends that, unlike
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Hawthorne, "man's imperfections do not obsess Singer; he and his characters accept it as a kind of divine joke." This dichotomy—in which Singer is praised as the consummate storyteller on one hand and condemned as a perpetrator of fatalistic Jewish stereotypes on the other—has made it difficult for critics to classify Singer. Gitenstein notes that Singer's refusal to choose between ' 'mysticism and rationality" gives his fiction both "charm" and "sophistication." According to Kanfer, none of Singer's writings can be categorized, and this was what the author desired. He quotes Singer as saying that schools of literature are inventions by professors and that' 'Only small fish swim in schools.'' Kanfer asserts that "Isaac Bashevis Singer chose to swim alone. Leviathans always do."
Criticism Susan Sanderson Sanderson holds a master of fine arts degree in fiction writing and is an independent writer. In this essay, Sanderson examines the various roles of Henne in Isaac Bashevis Singer's short story. Why would Singer write about such a woman as Henne in his short story "Henne Fire?" As the narrator recalls Henne, the main character in Singer's bizarre and amazing tale, she appeared to be insane or even possessed by some demon. Not only was she physically frightening— skin charred as if by a fire, coal-black eyes out of which "evil looked," and a stature that more closely resembled a skeleton than a living, breathing mother of four—but she behaved in ways that scared adults and children alike. Henne was easily provoked, and she often responded to perceived slights with swear words and curses that were like "worm-eaten peas." After her husband left her and the village proper, she threw herself down on the ground and "hissed like a snake and foamed at the mouth." When her daughters returned for a visit, Henne broke plates and windows, and screamed such epithets at her daughters as, "Bitch, slut, whore, you should have dissolved in your mother's belly!" As if that were not horrible enough, Henne's presence seemed to call forth some fire-breathing
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What Do I Read Next? • Tevye the Dairyman and the Railroad Stories (1996), translated by Hillel Halkin, is a collection of Sholem Aleichem's Yiddish stories from the early 1900s. Aleichem's tales about Tevye, considered some of the finest examples of storytelling in all of literature, formed the basis for the popular musical Fiddler on the Roof. • Found Treasures: Stories by Yiddish Women Writers (1994) presents an anthology of tales about life in Eastern European shtetls (Yiddish neighborhoods or villages), the Holocaust, and Jewish immigration to the United States and Israel. This collection includes stories previously available only in Yiddish and was edited by Frieda Forman, Ethel Raicus, Sarah Swartz, and Margie Wolfe. • The Collected Stories of Isaac Bashevis Singer (1983) includes forty-seven of Singer's short
demon. No building was safe from the spontaneous blazes that broke out whenever she was around, and even her death was defined by the fiery wrath of whatever lived inside of her. The townspeople discovered her body, burned to the bone, seated in a chair that did not exhibit even a trace of fire damage. Singer, however, presents the reader with a curious scene about halfway through the story that creates a pause in the narrator's inventory of Henne's strange behaviors. The narrator, one of Henne's neighbors, mentions that Henne once called attention to the occupying Russian government's practice of drafting only poor boys and exempting the boys of rich families. The narrator admits that this was true but adds, "[I]f they had all been taken, would it have been better? Somebody had to serve. But Henne, good sort that she was, could not suffer injustice." This is truly an amazing thing to say about someone who has been described, in the previous pages, as crazy and demon-possessed. All of a sudden, Henne the wild-woman proves to have a strong sense of right and wrong. Equally remark-
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stories selected by the author. The collection features some of Singer's lesser-known works as well as such classics as "Gimpel the Fool," ' The Dead Fiddler," and " A Friend of Kafka.'' • Singer's first major work, Satan in Goray (1996), originally published in Yiddish in 1935 as Shoten an Goray, takes place in seventeenth-century Eastern Europe during a period that featured anti-Semitic pogroms—official efforts to persecute or eradicate the Jews—and a false messiah called Shabbatai Zevi. • Singer originally wrote Shadows on the Hudson as a series for the Yiddish-language Jewish Daily Forward in 1957. In a 1999 edition, Joseph Sherman has translated Singer's expansive novel about a family of prosperous Jewish refugees in New York City during the 1940s.
able is the fact that this sense of right and wrong, and not her madness, is what lands her in an insane asylum. With this scene, Singer causes careful readers to question the assumptions he has led them to make up to this point. Henne is not totally depraved, and those around her are not altogether upright and rational. Perhaps this is not the only instance in which Henne has a point. Writing in Studies in American Fiction, Sarah Blacher Cohen surveys Singer's use of female characters. One of the features of Singer's women, according to Cohen, is that they "unsettle" the other characters in a story and force them to question their beliefs and actions. These women have ' 'emblematic qualities [that] unsettle and disorient the Singer protagonist," she writes, and,' 'prod him to explore his own guarded interior, to discover unpleasant truths about himself." Possibly, Henne Fire is not simply a crazy middle-aged woman wandering around a small village and scaring everyone back into their homes;
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Henne was the village's scapegoat—but she wouldn't leave!"
maybe her actions have a significance beyond madness. A close examination of the story reveals that Henne was the physical and human representation of the villagers' own sins and faults and served as their scapegoat and teller of hard truths. Little wonder it is, then, that the villagers wanted her to leave. One reason it may be difficult to see Henne's true nature is that Singer's story is told through the character and memory of her former neighbor, who narrates the story. Henne is portrayed as being furious with most people in the village, including her husband, her daughters, and her neighbors, but the reader must rely solely on the neighbor's interpretations of this fury. The neighbor records that Henne verbally abused her husband, Berl, but also slyly suggests that her anger may have been due to the small income he made. "He earned only a pittance. Of course, they were poor, but they were not the only ones," the neighbor comments. The neighbor also indicates in those words that poverty was a common condition and that Henne should not have expected much more. As seen through the neighbor's eyes, Henne must be crazy or possessed to be complaining about something that, in his eyes, cannot be helped. When Henne's daughters returned for a visit, Henne screamed at them, too, demanding that they tell of Berl's location after he abandoned her. The daughters swore that they had no idea where their father was, but Henne believed they were lying and screamed, "Your mouths will grow out the back of your heads for swearing falsely!" The neighbor says that they were "good girls, and that they all took after their father," which raises the possibility that they were, indeed, lying to protect him. The neighbor is assuming that Henne was always in the wrong, no matter the situation. She was wrong to be so angry about how her family treated her, just as she was wrong in challenging the Russian government for drafting only poor boys for the military. Yet the reader knows—and the narrator admits—
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that Henne's complaints about the Russians were well founded. Maybe her complaints about her family had some basis as well; readers do not hear Henne's side of the story. In the scene where Henne's house burns down, as well, the neighbor's interpretation reveals more than may be immediately apparent. The first fire erupted suddenly, and the house was saved, but the neighbor swears that theflameswere ' 'goblins from hell." The second fire erupted just as suddenly but was restricted to Henne's bed. The neighbor describes this fire as having been "tricks of the Evil Host," and says that because Henne had cursed nearly everyone in the village,' 'the devil had turned on her." This fire prompted those living in the neighborhood to threaten that "they would take matters into their own hands" if Henne were allowed to continue living among them. Amazingly, there was a third fire later the same day that finally destroyed Henne's house and put her out in the cold. Henne "spread the rumor" that her neighbors had purposely set her house on fire. Three suspicious fires in one day and a threat, but the neighbor narrating the story still insists that Henne's suspicions were unfounded, citing the "scores of witnesses to the contrary." Even if the neighbors did not burn Henne's house, why was she so despised that they threatened to do so? Why was she always in the wrong? Singer gives a clue in the fact that the neighbor refers vaguely to Henne's sins on a number of occasions, but never says what they were. This is because the sins are not Henne's, per se; they are everyone's. Singer has created Henne to serve as a scapegoat for the village, bearing the villagers' sins and transgressions. The evil the villagers see surrounding Henne— in the form of the fires as well as her frightening appearance and demeanor—is the evil that lives in their own souls and hearts. The tradition of assigning a person the role of the scapegoat is a very old one, and one firmly established in ancient Jewish custom. On the Day of Atonement (more commonly known as Yom Kippur, usually occurring in late September or early October) two goats were brought to an altar. By random choice, one was slaughtered as a sacrifice to God and the other was considered the scapegoat. Through a ritual, the high priest transferred all of his sins and the sins of the community to this goat. The goat was then taken to the edge of the village and expelled, signifying that the people were now cleansed of their sins.
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Henne was the village's scapegoat—but she wouldn't leave! In fact, the only time she left the village was when the Russians hauled her off to an asylum, and even then, she found her way back to her town. Despite declarations to the contrary by Henne's neighbor, the village did have its share of sin and transgressions. True, when Henne's husband left her, many of the villagers made sure that she was fed, supplying her with soup, potatoes, bread, and whatever they could spare. As the neighbor notes, "in a small town one is not allowed to starve." After her house burned down, a Gentile took Henne in, as did the rabbi and his family a little later. Again, the neighbor notes, ' 'What else could they do? Jews don't let a person perish." When the rabbi's family began to worry about spontaneous fires in their home, a group of villagers built a brick house for Henne. But the village was not all kindness and goodness. When Henne accused the Russians of unfairly drafting poor boys and was sent to an insane asylum for punishment, the village did nothing—even though, as the neighbor admits, her concerns were legitimate and expressed in the spirit of justice. While Henne was held in the asylum, another family took over her home, even though it was known to be her property. In addition, the villagers literally pillaged her house once she left town. The neighbor, though, condemns Henne for kicking out the family when she returned from the asylum and for going from house to house in search of her stolen possessions. The neighbor claims that Henne ' 'humiliated everyone" by expecting to have her home and possessions returned. For this, Henne was banned from the women's synagogue, even during the holy days. The rabbi's behavior was not particularly stellar, either. At one point he refused to see Henne when she pleaded for his assistance. When Henne found herself homeless after her house burned down, the rabbi was not the first person to take her in—that role was accepted by a Gentile after the poorhouse refused to let her in. When the rabbi finally did decide to help Henne, he only allowed her to sleep in an outdoor booth set up for the Succoth holidays. Only when the booth later became engulfed in flames did he permit her inside his home. Henne, therefore, was not only the town's scapegoat, but also its conscience. One look at Henne, and the villagers could not help but come
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face to face with their own shortcomings and faults. Hers was a stubborn presence, even though the villagers repeatedly tried to get rid of her. Interestingly, Singer had something in common with Henne: many traditional Yiddish writers condemned Singer for exposing the dark side of Yiddish and Jewish life. Through his stories, as Henne did through her outbursts, Singer revealed the truth and reality of the human condition, including its evil shadow. Source: Susan Sanderson, Critical Essay on "Henne Fire," in Short Stories for Students, The Gale Group, 2002.
Josh Ozersky Ozersky is a critic and essayist. In this essay, Ozersky describes how, beneath the supernatural surface of this story, one can see Singer's deeply tragic view of human life. Singer, considered one of the most important Yiddish writers of the twentieth century, presents contemporary readers with a confusing paradox in his stories, and "Henne Fire" is no exception. Singer writes of lost periods of time and distant, forgotten places, like the European shtetl (village) communities destroyed by the Nazis, and the postwar communities of expatriate Jews living in America amidst the specter of the holocaust. Yet Singer makes no attempt to explain Jewish culture or life to the reader. Furthermore, his straightforward tales of demons, imps, black magic, and evil spirits puzzle many readers. Does Singer really believe in such things? (He claimed to.) Or is this magic realism? Are his works ethnic literature, half fiction and half anthropology, read as a kind of time capsule of Yiddish culture? Or do you have to be an elderly Jew to ' 'get'' Singer? It is an important question because nearly all of Singer's works are written either in the first person, or inside the mind of a Jewish protagonist. There are almost no outsiders in his works; if a gentile appears, he is likely to be a faceless Cossack, or perhaps a good-hearted shabbes goy, hired to do tasks forbidden to Jews on the Sabbath. Moreover, most of Singer's short stories, including "Henne Fire," were written originally in Yiddish, and published in the Yiddish-language Daily Forward, for a wholly Jewish readership. Yet, as with "Henne Fire," the stories seem nearly universal. The reader does not need to know anything about Jews or
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Whether one interprets the hellfire that eventually consumes her in a literal manner, as the narrator seems to, or as a metaphor, as Singer perhaps implies, there is no doubt that Henne is a creature of pure, raving, uncontrollable unhappiness."
Jewish culture to grasp the essence of the stories. Readers in every language seem to respond to them, and Singer's Nobel Prize for Literature was applauded everywhere in the world as a triumph of the universal power of literature. "Henne Fire" testifies to this universality of scope. Singer's tale of a shrew possessed by hellfire is intensely localized, and at the same time universal. It is because the story is so fully realized as a folk story of the shtetl world that everything in it is so believable. The narrator believes in it, which allows readers to believe in it. Since the essential truth of the story is not about Jewish life or demonic possession, but human unhappiness, readers tend to forget that they do not know about or believe in Jewish folkways. Consider the beginning of "Henne Fire": "Yes, there are people who are demons. God Preserve us! Mothers see things when they give birth, but they never tell us what they see!" The first sentence tells readers something that many people have been trained since birth to disbelieve, that demons exist, and that people can be truly evil. People seldom make exclamations like "God preserve us!" —which even in the original Yiddish would have sounded folksy and uneducated, particularly to the educated, secular readers of the Daily Forward. The first two lines do a lot of work: they tell readers who is talking, and they let readers know that the narrator is old-fashioned and superstitious. The last section cleverly identifies the speaker as someone whose world-view is characterized by mystery and dread. It also identifies him as a man,
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speaking to other men. So readers can begin to sense that the narrator is not going to have much empathy for Henne. The narrator of "Henne Fire" constantly lets readers know how inexplicably bad Henne is.' 'Whatever one said to her, she immediately took offense.'' "How could one love such a fiend?" "There was no dealing with her without being insulted." To the narrator, Henne is shrewishness personified. When she becomes cursed by hellfire, he sees it, implicitly, as just an extension of her infernal character. Her curses and abuse are like fire, such that adding a supernatural element merely takes Henne's pathology to the next level. But, as is common in all of Singer's works, readers are left to feel a compassion and an understanding that is denied to the narrator. In Henne's case, readers have to look especially hard to gain compassion for her. Henne is a shrew's shrew, universally scorned even in the close-knit community of her village. One thing readers might notice, however, is that everything they learn about Henne involves seeing her from the outside. It is a neighbor's perspective. Readers hear about her screams, her tantrums, her sale of rotten fish in the market, her blasphemy and curses, but never really get a glimpse of her private life. This is not to say that the story's nameless narrator, or for that matter Singer himself, harbors much doubt about Henne's essentially miserable nature. Whether one interprets the hellfire that eventually consumes her in a literal manner, as the narrator seems to, or as a metaphor, as Singer perhaps implies, there is no doubt that Henne is a creature of pure, raving, uncontrollable unhappiness. But where the narrator sees Henne as merely a freak of nature, the worst harridan he ever encountered, Singer takes a more tragic view. This tension between the garrulous, story-telling nature of the text and the vast sadness of the story's subtext goes a long way toward explaining why Singer's stories are considered great literature, and not just snapshots of Jewish life of the kind popularized by Shalom Aleichem. This tension is a key characteristic of Singer, and of Jewish culture as well. Stories like "Henne Fire,""The Spinoza of Market Street,""Gimpel the Fool," "Enemies: A Love Story," and many more, center on characters whose lives are profoundly unhappy. But the stories are told by profoundly good-humored narrators, who seem to rel-
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ish the telling of a good story for its own pleasures. They come out of an oral tradition, centuries of aphorisms and fables and tall tales. Singer feels that "genuine literature," as he calls it (writing in the Introduction to his Collected Stories:) is unique and general, national and universal, realistic and mystical. While it tolerates commentary by others, it should never try to explain itself. .. . The zeal for messages has made many writers forget that storytelling is the raison d'etre of artistic prose.
Thus, "Henne Fire" never explains the true meaning of Henne's curse. The narrator tells readers, "Henne sent everyone to the devil, and now the devil had turned on her." The Evil One is at work; and on a storytelling level, that is enough. But if that was all there was to it, why bother following Henne through her last misadventures? Because it is in the supernatural, second part of the story that ' 'Henne Fire'' really develops as a work of art. Under the force of her misfortune, Henne is partially redeemed. She wants only the gift of community which she has so violently rejected for her entire life. Only when the hell-fire is upon her does she realize how much she needs the village: "Rabbi," she tells the village elder,' 'I've lived here all my life, and here I want to die. Let them dig me a grave and bury me. The cemetery will not catch fire." It is as if the fire inside Henne is somehow transferred outside her inner self, and despite the devastation it brings her, she also finds some peace. Again, the narrator does not seem to notice this; but readers do. The villagers seem to notice it, too. Upon hearing her hopeless request, they build Henne a brick dwelling that they imagine will not burn. No one will have her for the Sabbath dinner, however, the most sacred social activity in the life of observant Jews. Henne sits by herself, "munching a carrot." It is as if Henne has finally accepted her dismal lot. Soon after, however, good news arrives in the form of a letter and money from her daughter in America. Worldly good fortune can not save Henne, any more than it was worldly ill fortune that made her so unbearably unhappy to begin with. Today, such deep, chronic unhappiness is understood as "depression" or some other condition, a handicap to be corrected with medical and/or psychiatric treatment. But for most of history, it was either misfortune or, worse, evil spirits—a kind of divine misfortune for which no cure of this world could suffice. Henne's suffering is of the latter kind, so there is no possibility that a boat to America, or more comfortable surroundings, can succor her.
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Worse still, Henne's neighbors are soon corrupted by money, and begin to treat her well for callous motives. This seems to have the effect of making Henne even more miserable, and she takes to drink. Soon she burns to death, a victim of spontaneous combustion. The simple-minded narrator has no idea this is coming, but readers do; because readers see the trajectory of Henne's unhappy life, and whether the fire is diabolic or metaphorical does not really matter in the end. Some of this seems to penetrate through to the narrator. In one of Singer's most powerful sentences, the narrator has a vision of Henne that finally transcends his picture of her as a enraged shrew. He no longer thinks of her a monster, or even a woman: ' T see her to this day, black, lean, with a flat chest like a man and the wild eyes of a hunted beast." There is no room for condemnation or stereotyping here; he has finally found the essence of Henne in the purity of her pain. "Something was smoldering within her," he says. "She must have suffered." Tellingly, his last comments on the matter are not his own. Though he may not realize, the narrator sees that Henne is not an isolated case. An old saying of his grandmother's comes to his mind: "A good life never made anyone knock his head against the wall." Maybe there was a reason Henne was afire; and maybe, just maybe, she's not the only one. Why else would the narrator's parting words be another proverb, this one a stark statement about the darkness of life in this world? "If people did not have to work for their bread,'' he quotes the rabbi as saying, ' 'everyone would spend his time mourning his own death and life would be one long funeral." In essence, that is what Henne's life has been—a walk toward death. The work of Isaac Bashevis Singer, as noted earlier, is rooted in pain and disaster; indeed, that had been the experience of his people for thousands of years, and never more so than in the decades after the Holocaust. To sound the depths of misery and sin with lively stories and rollicking black humor was Singer's gift. Even in his shortest and simplest works (and few are shorter than "Henne Fire"), he manages to reveal the cosmic paradox of human unhappiness. "Henne Fire" is a tale of the abyss, which somehow finds compassion and empathy at its core. Source: Josh Ozersky, Critical Essay on "Henne Fire," in Short Stories for Students, The Gale Group, 2002.
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Sources Bezanker, Abraham, "I. B. Singer's Crisis of Identity," in Critique: Studies in Modern Fiction, Vol. XIV, No. 2, 1972, pp. 70-88. Cohen, Sarah Blacher, "Hens to Roosters: Isaac Bashevis Singer's Female Species," in Studies in American Fiction, Vol. 10, No. 2, Autumn 1982, pp. 173-84. Gitenstein, R. Barbara, "Singer, Isaac Bashevis," in Reference Guide to American Literature, 3d ed., edited by Jim Kamp, St. James Press, 1994. Gottlieb, Elaine, Review, in Southern Review, Vol. VII, No. 2, Spring 1972. Green, Norman, "The Salon Interview: Isaac Bashevis Singer," in Salon.com, April 28,1998, at http://www.salon. com/books/int/1998/04/cov_si_28int.hunl (last accessed April 2, 2002). Kanfer, Stefan, "The Last Teller of Tales, Isaac Bashevis Singer: 1904-1991," in Time, Vol. 138, No. 5, August 5, 1991, p. 61. Miron, Dan,' 'Passivity and Narration: The Spell of Bashevis Singer," translated by Uriel Miron, in Judaism, Vol. 41, No. 1, Winter 1992, pp. 6-17. Moore, Susan, "The World of I. B. Singer," in Quadrant, Vol. XXV, No. 2, March 1982, pp. 69-71. Shenker, Israel, "The Man Who Talked Back to God: Isaac Bashevis Singer, 1904-1991," in the New York Times Book Review, August 11, 1991, p. 11. Singer, Issac Bashevis, Introduction to The Collected Stories, Farrar, Straus, & Giroux, 1982, p. vii.
Further Reading Kacyzne, Alter, Poyln: Jewish Life in the Old Country, Metropolitan Books, 1999. In 1921, a New York City Yiddish daily newspaper commissioned photographer and journalist Alter Kacyzne to capture Jewish life in Poland (or Poyln, as
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the Eastern European Jews once referred to the country). For ten years he traveled across Poland, documenting a way of life that literally disappeared after Hitler's campaign against the Jews in the 1930s and 1940s. The materials from Kacyzne's project sat for sixty years until this recent effort to bring it to the public's attention. Rogovoy, Seth, The Essential Klezmer: A Music Lover's Guide to Jewish Roots and Soul Music, from the Old World to the Jazz Age to the Downtown Avant Garde, Algonquin Books, 2000. Klezmer music traces its roots back to the Jewish communities of Eastern Europe and is currently experiencing a revival. It is now played by such varied musicians as the classical violinist Itzhak Perlman and the pop band Yo La Tengo. This book introduces the reader to klezmer's beginnings and examines how it has been incorporated into numerous other musical styles. Silvain, Gerard, and Henri Minczeles, Yiddishland, Gingko Press, 1999. In their book, Silvain and Minczeles refer to "Yiddishland" as an area that included Poland, the Ukraine, Belorussia, Romania, Bessarabia, Eastern Hungary, and the Baltic States before World War II. The authors have collected images and texts from attics, trunks, and Jewish family archives all over the world to tell the stories of those who lived and worked in Yiddishland during the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. Telushkin, Dvorah, Master of Dreams: A Memoir of Isaac Bashevis Singer, Morrow/Avon, 1997. Dvorah Telushkin spent nearly eighteen years as Singer's literary assistant, all the while keeping the diary of her experience, which became the basis of this memoir. The book also includes black and white photographs. Vishniac, Roman, A Vanished World, Farrar, Straus & Giroux, 1986. Originally published in 1983, A Vanished World is the pictorial story of German and Eastern European Jews in the years immediately before Hitler's Holocaust. This edition also includes a forward by Nobel Peace Prize winner and author Elie Wiesel.
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The Invalid's Story "The Invalid's Story," Mark Twain's raucous story about a case of mistaken identities that eventually kills a man, is considered by many critics to have no literary value. Still, even though some critics have panned the story, it is often reproduced in collections of Twain's stories and others have noted that it is a good example of the frontier-style humor for which Twain was known. The story details the unfortunate misadventures of two men on a train who mistake a gunbox and a piece of rotting cheese for a smelly corpse in a coffin. The two men try many tactics in an attempt to fight the smell of the "corpse," but in the end, all of their efforts are fruitless. The themes range from mortality and the proper behavior towards the dead, to the power of imagination to overcome reason.
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It is believed that Twain wrote the story in the 1870s, about a decade after he began what would be an illustrious career. During this time, America's railroads were experiencing their Golden Age, as people relied mainly on trains for both travel and the transportation of everything from coffins to food products. First published in The Stolen White Elephant, Etc. in London in 1882, the story can be found in The Signet Classic Book Of Mark Twain's Short Stories, published in 1985.
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Author Biography Mark Twain was born Samuel Langhorne Clemens on November 30, 1835, in the village of Florida, Missouri. Although his early life was spent in Missouri, Clemens left home as a young man and traveled around the United States, often picking up temporary printing jobs or other odd jobs to fund his adventures. Travel remained a big part of Clemens's life and he experienced many of the different types of travel available to people in the nineteenth century. From working as a riverboat pilot on the Mississippi, Clemens moved out west, traveling by stagecoach. It was in the west that he began to publish his own writing, including his first book, a collection of humorous tales, in 1867. In fact, Clemens's frontier-style humor became a trademark in many of his future publications. "The Invalid's Story"—which is believed to have been written in 1877, and which was first published as part of "Some Rambling Notes of an Idle Excursion" in the story collection, The Stolen White Elephant, Etc (1882)—is a good example. Even though the story takes place in the Midwest, it exhibits the same raucous humor that Clemens first introduced in his western stories. "The Invalid's Story" also featured another form of travel that Clemens had experienced. Train travel was the dominant form of travel in the latter half of the nineteenth century. Throughout his life, Clemens and his family were plagued by sickness. His firstborn son was exposed to the elements and died of diphtheria, much like the narrator in Clemens's story, who eventually dies from typhoid fever—as a result of being out in the elements. Clemens (as the more commonly known Twain) wrote hundreds of works during his lifetime. Some of his most famous writings include the novels, The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, The Prince and the Pauper, and A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court. His autobiographical and travel books include The Innocents Abroad; or, the New Pilgrims' Progress, Roughing It, Old Times on the Mississippi, and Following the Equator. His stories include "The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County, and Other Sketches," "1601," and "The Man That Corrupted Hadleyburg, and Other Stories and Essays." In 2001, one of Clemens's manuscripts, entitled A Murder, a Mystery, and a Marriage, was published by the Atlantic Monthly.
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Clemens died in his home near Redding, Connecticut, on April 21,1910, leaving behind a legacy as one of America's most important writers, a distinction that has only increased with time.
Plot Summary At the beginning of Twain's ' 'The Invalid's Story,'' the narrator explains that he looks and feels older than he is and that he used to be much healthier than he is now. He attributes his decline in health to the strange events of one winter night, in which he traveled with a box of guns for two hundred miles. The narrator recalls how, two years before, he had arrived at his home in Cleveland, Ohio and learned of the recent death of his friend, John B. Hackett. Following Hackett's last wishes, the narrator leaves for the train station to take Hackett's body back to his parents in Bethlehem, Wisconsin. The narrator finds a white-pine box at the train station that matches the description of the coffin. He attaches the address card from Hackett's father, Deacon Levi Hackett, to the white-pine box, and has it loaded into the train on the express car—a method for transporting packages by train that was safer and faster, but more expensive, than normal freight cars. The narrator leaves to get food and cigars, and when he comes back to the area where he had first found the white-pine box, a young man is tacking an address card onto an identical box. The narrator checks to make sure his whitepine box is still in the express car, which it is. At this point, the narrator lets the reader know that the boxes are labeled wrong. The first box, the one in the express car, which the narrator assumes is the corpse of his friend, is actually a box of guns that is meant to go to Peoria, Illinois. Conversely, the second box, which the young man assumes contains the guns, actually contains John Hackett's corpse. However, the narrator is not aware of this fact at the time that he is taking the train trip. He settles into the express car, where he and the expressman— the man hired by the express company to look after the express packages—settle in for the long, twohundred-mile journey. Right before the train takes off, a stranger comes into the express car for a moment and places a package of ripe Limburger cheese on top of the white-pine box. Just as neither the narrator nor expressman, a man named Thompson, are aware that the coffin box contains guns,
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they also don't realize that the package on top of the box contains ripe cheese. Once again, the narrator tells the reader this fact, but he does not know it at the time of the train trip. As Thompson starts to seal the car against the winter storm that rages outside so that he and the narrator can keep warm, the ripe cheese also starts to get warm, and begins to smell. The narrator notices it first, and mistakes it for Hackett's corpse, which he believes is starting to rot. Thompson starts a fire to help the two keep warm, which only makes the cheese stink even more. Although he is cheerful at the beginning of the trip, singing happy songs, Thompson eventually becomes aware of the cheese stench, and he stops his singing. Thompson also assumes that the stench is from a rotting corpse, and he and the narrator begin to talk about it. Thompson notes the smell of the corpse and says that he has transported people who were not really dead, only in a trance, but that he can tell by the stench that the narrator's friend is not one of these. In an effort to get away from the smell, Thompson breaks one of the express car's window panes and sticks his nose outside to get some fresh air. He and the narrator take turns sniffing at the window, and Thompson asks how long the narrator's friend has been dead. Thompson does not believe the narrator's assertion that Hackett died recently, because a corpse could not rot and produce such a pronounced smell in a few days. Thompson admonishes the narrator, saying that Hackett's body should have been laid to rest long ago. Meanwhile, the smell of the cheese has gotten so bad that the narrator suggests smoking cigars to try to mask the odor. The cigars are the first of many failed attempts to try to tame the smell of the cheese. After the cigars fail, Thompson suggests that they move the box to the other end of the express car. This does not work and the two run outside onto the express car's platform to get some fresh air, where they discuss their predicament. They can not stay outside or they will freeze to death in the stormy winter weather, but they can not handle the smell either. They end up going back inside the car, once again taking turns getting air at the window. When the train pulls away from the next train station, Thompson comes back into the express car with carbolic acid, a caustic, poisonous chemical commonly used as a disinfectant. He douses the box
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and cheese with the acid, but it is no use; the acid only adds a new odor, while magnifying the first one. After they leave the next train station, Thompson tries again, this time by starting a bonfire of chicken feathers, dried apples, sulphur, and other items. The resulting smell is so bad that Thompson and the narrator resolve to spend the rest of the trip out on the platform, even though it will probably mean their death from typhoid fever. An hour later at the next train station, the frozen expressman and narrator are removed, and the narrator is violently ill for three weeks. It is at this point that he finds out about the box of guns and the ripe cheese. At the end of the story, the narrator, once again in the present, explains that the fateful trip sapped his health, and that he is going home to die.
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The Colonel See John B. Hackett
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John B. Hackett John B. Hackett is the narrator's deceased friend, whose body the narrator attempts to transport from Cleveland, Ohio, to Hackett's parents in the fictional town of Bethlehem, Wisconsin as part of Hackett's last wishes. Although the narrator and his train's expressman think that Hackett's body is in a box in their car, through a case of mistaken identities, Hackett's body ends up in transit to Peoria, Illinois while the narrator and the expressman are actually transporting a box of guns. The lack of this knowledge eventually leads to the illfated death of the narrator and, one assumes, the expressman. The expressman refers to Hackett's body by several military and civil titles: Colonel, Gen'rul (an abbreviated form of "General"), Commodore, and Governor.
Deacon Levi Hackett Deacon Levi Hackett is the father of the narrator's deceased friend—John B. Hackett—who sends a message to the narrator, informing him of his son's last wishes. Deacon Hackett also sends a card with his address, which the narrator tacks to a box of guns, thinking it is John Hackett's coffin.
the box of guns, thinking it is his friend's coffin, and loads the box of guns on his train. He notices a stranger placing a package on top of the "coffin," but thinks nothing of it at the time. The package contains some ripe Limburger cheese, which both the narrator and the train's expressman, Thompson, mistake for the smell of Hackett's corpse. The narrator notices the smell first, although Thompson is the first one to take action by breaking one of the express car's window panes to get fresh air. Although Hackett has only been dead for one day, the narrator lies and says he has been dead for two or three, in an attempt to explain the smells. The narrator and Thompson attempt to move the box of guns, but it is too heavy. Through a series of misguided attempts by Thompson to mask the smell with various chemicals and other items, the smell gets so bad that the narrator and Thompson decide to spend the rest of the trip outside the train on the express car's platform. As a result, the narrator becomes sick with typhoid fever, which proves fatal two years later when he is telling the tale. A similar fate is assumed for Thompson, although it is never discussed. Throughout the story, the narrator gives his audience information that he did not possess during his adventures on the train, such as the fact that the coffin is actually a box of guns and the package on top of the gun box contains the smelly cheese.
Stranger The stranger referred to in the beginning of the story places a piece of ripe Limburger cheese on top of the white-pine box full of guns in the express car, setting off a chain of events that eventually leads to the death of the narrator.
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The narrator of the story, called Cap'n by the expressman, is one of two ill-fated victims of a case of mistaken identities, which involves a coffin containing his dead friend—John B. Hackett—and a box of guns with Limburger cheese on top. The narrator is only forty-one years old when he begins his tale, but he says that he has aged prematurely as the result of his misadventures two years ago. It is at this point that the narrator begins his tale.
Thompson is the ill-fated expressman who, along with the narrator, mistakes the box of guns with ripe Limburger cheese on top for a rotting corpse. At the beginning of the train ride, Thompson, a fifty-year old, sings while he works on insulating the express car from the cold winter weather. His cheery demeanor soon diminishes, however, when he starts to smell the rotting cheese.
Motivated by Hackett's last wishes, the narrator attempts to transport Hackett's body from Cleveland, Ohio to the fictional town of Bethlehem, Wisconsin. At the train station the narrator labels
At first, he tries to make light of the situation by talking about the other experiences he has had transporting dead bodies that were not really dead, but he soon abandons his light conversation in favor
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of finding ways to cope with or hide the smell. He breaks one of the express car's window panes to get some fresh air, but it is not enough. He and the narrator try to move the box but it is too heavy; since they still do not realize it is a box of guns, Thompson attributes their inability to move the box to the corpse's will to stay where he is. At the next two train stations, Thompson picks up various materials to try to mask the smell. First, he tries carbolic acid, a potent, toxic chemical that was used as a disinfectant. When this only makes the smell worse, Thompson tries a wild, smelly mix of chicken feathers, dried apples, leaf tobacco, rags, old shoes, sulphur, and asafetida—an odiferous type of gum. The resulting smell is so bad that Thompson and the narrator resolve to spend the night outside on the express car's platform. Although Thompson's fate is never discussed, the narrator contracts typhoid fever from the night outside, and is dying when he tells the story two years later. During the train trip Thompson speaks in a rustic American dialect, and refers to the corpse in various titles of increasing military and civil rank— Colonel, Gen'rul (an abbreviation of "General," Commodore, and Governor. He also refers to the narrator informally as Cap, an abbreviated version of "Captain," another military title.
Young Fellow The young fellow referred to in the beginning of the story intends to ship a box of guns to a rifle company in Peoria, Illinois; instead, when his box is accidentally swapped with the narrator's box, the young fellow ships John Hackett's corpse to Illinois.
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who ruminates about the inevitability of death itself, saying twice that'' 'we've all got to go, they ain't no getting around it.'" Later, after Thompson and the narrator fail to move the box of guns with Limburger cheese on top—which they mistake for Hackett's corpse—Thompson gets a particularly potent whiff of the cheese. His resulting nausea makes him feel ill, and he proclaims, '"I'm a-dying; gimme the road!'" as he runs outside to the train's platform to get some air. Although he does not, in fact, die from the exposure to the cheese, the prolonged exposure to the winter weather on the platform—as a result of the two men's attempts to get away from the smell— does eventually kill the narrator two years later. ' 'This is my last trip; I am on my way home to die.'' Although Thompson's fate is never clearly stated by the narrator, Thompson's own words while they are freezing on the platform imply that he and the narrator share similar fates. '"It's our last trip, you can make up your mind to it. Typhoid fever is what's going to come of this.'"
Imagination In the story, Twain explores the power of the human imagination to overcome reason, and the disastrous consequences that can happen as a result. At the beginning of the tale, the narrator notes how Thompson "closed his window down tight, and then went bustling around, here and there and yonder, setting things to rights." Thompson is concerned only with weatherproofing the train car, and goes to great lengths to make the express car warm for himself and the narrator.
From the very beginning of the story, the narrator draws attention to human mortality when he refers to his health, saying that he is "now but a shadow," although he "was a hale, hearty man two short years ago." The rest of the story is filled with references to sickness and death. In fact, the story's plot is centered around the failed attempt to transport the corpse of the narrator's friend, John B. Hackett, from Ohio to Wisconsin, where Hackett is to be buried.
However, after they start to smell the cheese, which their imaginations tell them is the corpse, Thompson "scrambled to his feet and broke a pane and stretched his nose out at it a moment or two." Not only is this undoing all of his hard work, it also does not make sense. Since Twain says that Thompson shut the window, the expressman could simply open it to get a breath of fresh air. However, in the panic created from the idea that the stench is that of a rotting corpse, he breaks the window. The narrator's imagination is even more powerful, since he knows for a fact that his friend has only been dead for one day. Still, he does not find it odd when the smell becomes increasingly bad. ' 'By this time the fragrance—if you may call it a fragrance—was just about suffocating, as near as you can come at it."
In the process, the narrator has many conversations with Thompson, the expressman on the train,
Imagination continues to work against both men. Neither one of them questions the package of
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Topics for Further Study • During Twain's lifetime, the fastest way to send a package was to ship it by an express car on a train. Research the ways that express shipping companies during this time period identified and shipped their customers' packages, and compare this to the methods used by modern express shipping companies. Then, using a map, plot out the steps a package would take when being shipped from Ohio to Wisconsin in both the 1870s and 2000s. • In the nineteenth century, many people were buried in plain crates, a fact that leads to the case of mistaken identities in the story. Trace the development of coffins as far back as you can. Write a one-page report about the history of coffins, and create a timeline that includes at least five significant events in coffin development. • In the story, a box of guns is supposed to be shipped to Peoria, Illinois. Research the history of gunmaking, and propose a theory as to why you think Twain chose to put guns in the box, instead of something else. Using your theory and
cheese on the top of the white-pine box, even though the narrator noted earlier that somebody had placed it there. Even when Thompson slips and falls "with his nose on the cheese," where the smell is noticeably stronger, he does not think to check inside the package. The narrator notes at the end, after he had found out that the smelly corpse was really a gunbox with cheese on top, that ' 'the news was too late to save me; imagination had done its work, and my health was permanently shattered."
research, write a sample Peoria newspaper article about the misplaced guns and their intended purpose. • The expressman in the story refers to the narrator's deceased friend by a number of titles denoting military or civil rank. Research the meaning of these ranks and give a one-paragraph description for each one. For each rank, find a person from the Civil War era who held this rank, and write a short biography about him. • Making cheese is a huge industry both in the United States and abroad. Research the history of five different cheeses. Write a short paper discussing how, when, and where these cheeses were introduced to the world. • The narrator in the story catches a debilitating disease—which the expressman assumes is typhoid—while on his train trip. Research the history and symptoms of typhoid fever, and write a two-page report on when and where the spread of typhoid fever reached epidemic status.
'"Two or three years, you mean.'" At this point, the narrator notes how Thompson "gave his views at considerable length upon the unwisdom of putting off burials too long," finally stating that '"Twould 'a' ben a dum sight better, all around, if they'd started him along last summer.'"
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Proper Burials Another concept that Twain explores in the story is the proper way to bury a person. When Thompson asks the narrator how long his friend has been dead, the narrator lies, saying '"Two or three days'"—in an attempt to explain the stench. Thompson, however, thinks the narrator is lying, and says,
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Humor The humor in ' The Invalid's Story" manifests itself in two forms, contradictory language and actions, both of which are made ludicrous by the reader's knowledge of the gunbox and cheese. With this knowledge, the reader witnesses two men who
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fight valiantly against a dairy product—a funny, odd situation. Without this knowledge the reader would believe that the two men are really dealing with a corpse, and the story would not be funny; instead, it would be sad or morbid. The story's use of language is structured so that it will amuse the reader. For example, after Thompson first begins to notice the smell in the train car, he notes about dead people that '"Sometimes it's uncertain whether they're really gone or not.'" He then goes on to explain how he has had a number of cases where people were not really dead, they just seemed dead. This generally makes him nervous because these days he keeps expecting them to '"rise up and look at you!'" However, after a pause, Thompson notes, '"But he ain't in no trance!"' By having Thompson illustrate a possibility, then negate it, Twain tries to elicit a laugh from the reader by using contradictory language. Thompson is saying that Hackett's corpse is so rotted and smells so bad that there is no way Hackett could be alive. This becomes dark humor once the reader can take comfort in the fact that Thompson is talking about a piece of cheese. Thompson's contradictory language is also funny when it is combined with actions. The two men's first attempt to mask the smell in the train car consists of smoking cigars, which Thompson feels will be a good idea: '"Likely it'll modify him some.'" However, although the two men "puffed gingerly along for a while," it is no use. Pretty soon, "both cigars were quietly dropped," and Thompson notes that they didn't '"modify him worth a cent. Fact is, it makes him worse, becuz it appears to stir up his ambition.'" By using a piece of dialogue to set up the expectation that the cigars will mask the smell, the silent actions of dropping the cigars becomes a funny act. The humor is increased with Thompson's admission that the cigars didn't help mask the smell, but instead helped to make it more potent.
Personification In the story, the two men refer to two inanimate objects—the gunbox and the cheese—as if they exhibit human qualities, a technique called personification. In this case, the personification is a little different than in other literature, since the narrator and Thompson think they are talking about a corpse— which can be seen as one kind of inanimate object— when they are really describing two other inanimate objects.
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As with other cases of personification, the gunbox and cheese take on a life of their own. Says the narrator, when he first begins to notice the odor of the cheese and mistakes it for his friend: "There was something infinitely saddening about his calling himself to my remembrance in this dumb, pathetic way, so it was hard to keep the tears back." The narrator makes it seem that Hackett is willingly producing this smell in a nostalgic way, something that a corpse—or a gunbox and cheese for that matter—can not do. Throughout the story, both the narrator and Thompson attribute other human qualities to the guns and cheese, most notably stubbornness. Thompson notes the futility of their attempts to mask the smell after the carbolic acid only makes it worse. '"He just utilizes everything we put up to modify him with, and gives it his own flavor and plays it back on us.'" Ultimately, the "corpse"—which Thompson calls by a number of civil and military ranks, another human aspect—wins out, and Thompson notes that they can not beat him, and that they will have to stay outside the train all night. "The Governor wants to travel alone, and he's fixed so he can out-vote us.'"
Foreshadowing Twain uses foreshadowing to drastically change the tone of the story. As noted above, if the reader didn't know that the "corpse" was really a gunbox with some smelly cheese on top, the story would be sad, not funny. However, when he is telling his story, Twain's narrator gives away both causes of the conflict, the guns and the cheese. When referring to the gunbox, he says "that without my suspecting it a prodigious mistake had been made," and that he ended up "carrying off a box of guns," while the "young fellow" got the corpse. The narrator also gives away the cheese in the beginning of the story: "That is to say, I know now that it was Limburger cheese." This admission is revealed to the reader before the two men engage in their increasingly humorous and desperate attempts to fight the stench of the cheese, allowing the reader to focus on the humorous acts. Twain also employs foreshadowing in more subtle ways. Although the narrator reveals in the beginning that he is not healthy, and that he lost his health from the ' 'box of guns," he does not say that he is dying until the end of the story. However, he gives clues throughout the narrative that hint at the narrator's demise. For example, when the narrator and Thompson are trying to move the box of guns,
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the narrator notes that Thompson "bent over that deadly cheese." By calling the cheese "deadly," the narrator is referring to the fact that it eventually kills him. On a similar note, after this moving attempt fails, the two men go outside on the train's platform to get away from the smell. The narrator notes that "we couldn't stay out there in that mad storm; we should have frozen to death." Once again, this language helps to foreshadow the actual events at the end of the story, when the two men do stay outside in the storm. Later on, the narrator—and one assumes Thompson—die from their exposure to this freezing weather.
Historical Context In the 1860s, a number of railroad developments came into being. In 1869, four years after the Civil War ended, the Union Pacific railroad line was connected to the Central Pacific line and the world's longest railroad—1,776 miles of steel track—was completed. The transcontinental railroad line, which was subsidized by government funds from the 1862 Pacific Railroad Act, had taken years to finish. The project involved an extensive amount of tearing down forests, tunneling through earth, and constructing bridges to complete, but once it was done, it changed the face of transportation. Eight years later, in 1877 when Twain wrote "The Invalid's Story," railroads in the United States were in their Golden Age and trains were the dominant mode of transportation for both people and goods. Originally, this included only nonperishable items. In the early 1870s, however, Gustavus Franklin Swift, founder of the meat-packing firm, Swift & Company, began work on a refrigerated train car. He believed it would be a more cost-effective way to ship fresh meat than the current method, which entailed shipping live cattle to other areas of the country, to be slaughtered at their destination. In 1877, however, Swift made the first successful shipment of a carload of fresh meat from Chicago to the Eastern United States, and more people began to ship perishable items to other areas of the country. With the ability to ship fresh food, people were less likely to catch a food-related illness. However, the nineteenth century was still a time of little medical progress. Doctors in the nineteenth century
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were not regulated in their education, so a person's survival chances often depended upon the luck or guesswork of their individual doctor, or upon the strength of their body to defend itself. In the story, the narrator is taken with a fever for three weeks, but it does not mention that the doctors are able to do anything. In the end, the narrator's immune system fends off his ailment for two years, but the disease— which is caused from being outside in the cold for about an hour—takes his life. It was a common tale in the nineteenth century. In addition to transporting cargo by train, the mid-to-late nineteenth century also saw the development of rapid means to send messages across country. In the story, the narrator receives word that his friend has died the day before. Since the message travels from Wisconsin to Ohio in less than a day, one assumes that it has been sent by telegraph, one of the major inventions of the nineteenth century. The first telegraph message was sent in 1843 but it wasn't until the completion of the transcontinental telegraph system that the telegraph came into widespread use in the United States. From 1860 to 1861, before this transcontinental telegraph system was completed, people relied briefly on the Pony Express to transmit messages along a route from the Eastern United States (Missouri) to the Western United States (California). Although it was short-lived, the Pony Express is famous for some of its famous riders, including William "Buffalo Bill" Cody. Along with his colleagues, Cody would transport mail by horse, very quickly, between one of the more than 150 stations along the route. As each rider reached a station, a new rider and refreshed horse would take the mail and ride very fast to the next station. In this way, mail could travel continuously, at a much more rapid pace than by using one rider, who would have to rest himself and his horse at some point.
Critical Overview The publication history of "The Invalid's Story" gives an indication of the general negative critical opinion of the story. Although the story is believed to have been written in 1877 for inclusion in ' 'Some Rambling Notes of an Idle Excursion"—a work
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Compare ft Contrast • 1870s: Several people are killed in the United States' first national railroad strike, which threatens to damage the nation's trade. The strike is caused by a 10 percent wage cut in railroad employees' pay, the second such cut in four years. Today: After terrorists use three commercial airplanes to attack the World Trade Center and the Pentagon, nationwide travel comes to a halt. Although people slowly begin to travel again a few months after the attacks, the tragic events help to plunge the nation into an economic recession. The transportation sector is one of the hardest hit. • 1870s: Medicine is largely undeveloped and shortsighted, and medical education is not yet regulated. As a result, people must take precautions against getting sick. This includes staying out of the cold as much as possible, for even an hour out in the elements is enough to contract an illness that may eventually prove fatal. Today: Modern medicine is interdisciplinary,
that was released in four parts in the Atlantic Monthly in the same year—"The Invalid's Story" was passed over for publication both here and in A Tramp Abroad (1880), until the tale was finally included five years later in 1882's The Stolen White Elephant, Etc.. . . In his 1966 article in Midcontinent American Studies Journal, critic Floyd R. Horowitz notes the reason why the story was removed from its initial publication, saying that it had been withheld, perhaps, "for fear of piercing the reader's sensibility." This is mild compared to some critics' negative assessments of the story and its dark humor. In his The Authentic Mark Twain: A Literary Biography of Samuel L. Clemens, Everett Emerson refers to ' 'The Invalid's Story" as one of the "disasters" that Twain has created in his short fiction, and calls the story's humor "unspeakable."
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and doctors can prolong patients' lives for long periods of time, even patients with life-threatening illnesses. As a result, the average life span continues to increase. • 1870s: Gustavus Franklin Swift makes his first successful shipment of fresh meat in a refrigerated railroad car that his company has developed. The refrigerated car—which works by circulating air over ice to cool it—revolutionizes the food industry, which can now ship perishable items across the country, where they arrive fresh for the consumer. Today: Fresh meat, dairy, and produce is shipped from meat-packing companies and farms across the country using various forms of refrigeration and air conditioning, most of which rely on liquid chemicals to cool the air. Many local grocery stores throughout the nation carry these products, which are sometimes stamped with an expiration date to let consumers know how long the product will be fresh.
Some critics note, as Bernard DeVoto did in his Mark Twain's America, that the story was "grotesquely awful in its insistence on smells." In her book, Mark Twain as a Literary Artist, Gladys Carmen Bellamy surmises that Twain's story has more than humorous intentions, and that ' 'by emphasizing the stench of corpses, Mark Twain seems also to emphasize the indignity of human life." Horowitz notes the story "appears to contain, or at least give evidence of a rather closely worked Christian symbolic level," which he believes is "quite in keeping with Twain's later feeling about institutionalized religion." Looked at this way, Horowitz says, many aspects become symbols, such as the corpse, which "is very suggestive of Christ," and the express car, which "is like the Church." Steven E. Kemper, in his article "Poe, Twain, and Limburger Cheese," notes the parallels in
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This American express-car platform, circa 1900, sets a scene similar to the one experienced by the narrator and Thompson in ' 'The Invalid's Story"
structure between the story and the Gothic fiction of Twain's predecessor, Edgar Allan Poe, and suggests that the story is a parody: "By burlesquing many of Poe's techniques, themes, and character types, Twain punctures the pretensions of Gothicism." Still, some positive notes have been made about the story. For example, DeVoto says that while ' 'the sketch is not describable as lovely . . . it is immensely true to one kind of humor of the frontier and of Mark Twain.'' And Kemper notes that while the tale is "preposterous" and "outrageous," it is, "of course, hilarious." The relative lack of critical studies on ' 'The Invalid's Story"—compared to Twain's other works—points to the fact that most Twain critics have simply ignored the story. Of course, even though many critics have found it distasteful, Horowitz notes that "The Invalid's Story" has survived the test of time, while ' 'Some Rambling Notes of an Idle Excursion"—the larger work that originally contained it—has not. ' 'Contemporary editors tend to agree with this abridgment, perhaps because the literary merit of the formal story has triumphed over the anecdotal narrative of a ramble."
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Criticism Ryan D. Poquette Poquette has a bachelor's degree in English and specializes in writing about literature. In the following essay, Poquette discusses Twain's use of shifting points of view and expressive descriptions to create a magnified humorous effect in Twain's story. Mark Twain was a master when it came to employing various writing techniques for humorous effects. This is definitely true in "The Invalid's Story," a tale that while funny, was almost universally panned by Twain's contemporary critics for its in-depth treatment of death smells—which was considered an exercise in poor taste. However, as E. Hudson Long suggests in his Mark Twain Handbook, Twain had gotten used to writing such "bawdy" tales, which ' 'had been too enthusiastically greeted by his readers" in the Western United States, so the author probably did not' 'realize entirely that such things might give offense." Long further notes that Twain was adept at knowing not to cross the line, and that he "realized
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What Do I Read Next? • In Laughter: A Scientific Investigation, published in 2000, neurobiologist Robert R. Provine examines humor as a function of social relationships. Using research from various social field experiments and exploring past ideas from such noted psychoanalysts as Sigmund Freud, Provine presents laughter in all its forms and even distinguishes between laughter and smiles. It also includes a section on neural disorders that are associated with laughter and the types of laughter therapy used by some psychologists today. • Twain was one of the most noted American humorists during the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, when many of his writings were published in magazines like the Atlantic Monthly. In 1925, ten years after Twain's death, Harold Ross founded The New Yorker, a magazine that would help to define humor in the modern era. In Fierce Pajamas: An Anthology of Humor Writing from ' 'The New Yorker,'' editors David Remnick and Henry Finder collect the writings of more than seventy New Yorker contributors, including such noted humorists as Woody Allen, James Thurber, Dorothy Parker, and Steve Martin. • Although Jon Scieszka' s The Stinky Cheese Man and Other Fairly Stupid Tales (1993) is technically a children's book, its brand of unique and irreverent humor has delighted people of all ages. The book parodies well-known fairy tales and themes, such as the ugly duckling, through the use of a mischievous narrator who even parodies the book itself. • The Bible according to Mark Twain: Irreverent
the impropriety of bringing smoking-room humor into the drawing room." Since this is the case, "The Invalid's Story" can be taken as an intentional exercise that was meant to amuse, not offend. By employing a first-person narrator who periodically draws attention to the reality of the situation, and by
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Writings on Eden, Heaven, and the Flood by America's Master Satirist, published in 1996, collects a number of Twain's irreverent views on institutionalized religion. However, even though they are staged in a humorous context, Twain's parodies of religion pose some serious, thoughtprovoking questions, and reveal Twain's intimate knowledge of the Bible. • Although Twain's dark side normally manifested itself through his biting humor, sometimes the author was just plain dark. In The Devil's Racetrack: Mark Twain's Great Dark Writings, published in 1981, the author explores the less pleasant aspects of humanity, such as disease and death, in a realistic fashion—without the humor that normally made these topics palatable to his readers. • Some of Twain's short stories were not wellreceived by the critics because of their raucous and bawdy content, which sometimes broke social taboos. In fact, Twain was noted for misbehaving in real life, a fact that showed up in his writings. Mark Twain's Book for Bad Boys and Girls, published in 1995, collects many of Twain's essays, sketches, and stories that exalt misbehaving. • Mark Twain's Roughing It, published in 1872, is one of his many semi-autobiographical accounts that he wrote about his travels. In this case, Twain writes about his journey to and daily life in the developing American West. The book displays the rustic, Western style of humor that would characterize many of Twain's later stories.
describing smells in progressively more expressive language, Twain pushes the boundaries of humor in "The Invalid's Story." When the narrator of "The Invalid's Story" is introducing his tale, he builds up to it, making it
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When Twain applies the word 'sublime' to the smell, he is attempting to express that the smell is larger than anything ever before experienced. Like nature, which often overpowers man in literature, the stench overpowers the two men."
seem like it will be a grand story by insisting that' 'it is the actual truth." Steven E. Kemper notes in his article "Poe, Twain, and Limburger Cheese" that this style of opening mimics the stories of Edgar Allan Poe, which in turn adds additional humor for those readers who notice the parody. In this first paragraph, Twain's narrator briefly mentions "a box of guns'' as the cause of his weak condition, something that he then explains in the second paragraph of his story, where Twain mimics ' 'another of Poe's techniques," clarifying "the factual mystery for the reader by flatly explaining it." It is this explanation of the narrator's "prodigious mistake," the fact that he is "carrying off a box of guns" instead of his friend's corpse, that gives the reader inside knowledge that the narrator did not have when he was taking his fateful train trip two years ago. This inside knowledge is increased a few lines later, when the narrator notes how a stranger "set a package of peculiarly mature and capable Limburger cheese" on the coffin-box. After he says this, the narrator backtracks, drawing the reader's attention to the fact that he did not know about the cheese at the time. He says that, "I know now that it was Limburger cheese, but at that time I never had heard of the article in my life, and of course was wholly ignorant of its character." Throughout the story the narrator repeats this trend of giving inside information, through the use of a specific viewpoint. The majority of the story is told in a first person, limited viewpoint, where the narrator says only what he knew at the time of the
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fateful events. He tells his story as if he is there, and has no knowledge of the future that he has already lived. However at certain points, the narrator uses a first person, omniscient, viewpoint, letting his hindsight influence the narrative and giving the reader knowledge that the narrator himself did not have during the train ride. After these first references to the gunbox and cheese, Twain's narrator resumes his tale in the first person limited viewpoint, and waxes on about his sadness over his friend's death, which increases when he smells the cheese and thinks it is his friend's corpse: "There was something infinitely saddening about his calling himself to my remembrance in this dumb, pathetic way." However, Twain periodically brings the reader's attention back to the reality of the situation—the corpse is really a box of guns with smelly cheese on top—so that he can be sure that his audience does not start thinking there is a real corpse in the train, as the narrator and Thompson do. If this were to happen, the humorous comedy of errors that exists with the gunbox and cheese would change to a morbid drama about a poor corpse that torments two men. The next instance where Twain has his narrator refer to the guns and cheese takes place after Thompson first notices the smell. "He gasped once or twice, then moved toward the cof—gunbox, stood over that Limburger cheese part of a moment, then came back." At this point, the narrator catches himself before he says "coffin," noting that it is in fact a' 'gunbox'' with a piece of' 'Limburger cheese'' on top. Twain needs this reference here to break up the long stretch of narrative where the narrator refers to the "corpse." The next reference takes place when the two men are getting ready to attempt to move the box of guns: ' 'We went there and bent over that deadly cheese and took a grip on the box." During this moving attempt, Thompson slips, falling "down with his nose on the cheese." The reader, now once again assured that the smell is from the cheese, can continue to enjoy the story. The final reference to the gunbox and cheese on the train trip occurs when Thompson attempts to mask the smell with carbolic acid. As the narrator notes, "He sprinkled it all around everywhere; in fact he drenched everything with it, riflebox, cheese and all." With this last reference, the narrator names everything as they are in real life, without slipping and almost referring to the two items as the corpse, as he did before.
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Twain's strategic system of references to the gunbox and cheese serves a purpose; it allows the reader to get involved in the story enough to be amused by it, while pulling them back out into reality every once in a while so they are still aware of the joke. By taking the reader to the edge of propriety and then back several times, Twain reaches a greater intensity of humor, and a potentially depressing tale becomes laughable to the reader. With this elaborate system in place, Twain then employs progressively more expressive descriptions of the stench in the train, which magnify the humorous quality of the smells even more. Like the references to the gunbox and cheese, the descriptions of the odor start out relatively tame when the narrator notices,' 'a most evil and searching odor stealing about on the frozen air." The narrator's next description of the smell is a little more graphic, saying that the ' 'odor thickened up," and that it' 'got to be more and more gamy and hard to stand." By describing the odor as being "thick" and "gamy," it sets up an image in the reader's mind of something palpable, something that could be touched and felt, a particularly unpleasant thought. Also, although the smell is "hard to stand," for the time being the two men are coping. As the smell increases, so does the narrator's use of more expressive language. After Thompson has noted that the corpse should have been buried the past summer, the narrator describes the increased potency of the stench in semi-ironic terms: "By this time the fragrance—if you may call it fragrance—was just about suffocating." By calling the smell a ' 'fragrance,'' the narrator is being ironic, because he is saying something that is the opposite of what he means. However, like the second reference to the gun box, where the narrator almost slips and says "coffin," he qualifies his ironic statement by saying, "if you may call it a fragrance." The effect of the smell can be seen in the two men's facial color, "Thompson's face was turning gray," and actions, ' 'Thompson rested his forehead in his left hand." The next reference to the smell also uses ironic language. After the carbolic acid only serves to increase the potency of the smell, the narrator notes that "the two perfumes began to mix," and that ' 'pretty soon we made a break for the door." Twain is slowly but surely increasing the potency of the smell both in the story and as an image in the
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reader's mind. A reader can only imagine how bad something must smell to refer to it ironically as a "perfume," and to be strong enough to make two men run outside. The narrator's final reference to the stench pulls out all of the stops, using ironic language that places the stench on a new scale of potency. After the final bonfire of smelly items is lit in a desperate attempt to mask the cheese smell with other smells, the narrator notes that' 'all that went before was just simply poetry to that smell." Poetry is one of the highest forms of artistic expression, so by using it in an ironic sense to denote the smell, the stench transcends all previous boundaries, setting up an almost unfathomable image in the reader's mind. The poetic language continues, as the narrator notes that "the original smell stood up out of it just as sublime as ever." The word "sublime" is used by poets to denote something that is larger than man, and which should be held in awe. It is usually reserved for mountains, forests, and other large forms of nature that make man feel small. When Twain applies the word "sublime" to the smell, he is attempting to express that the smell is larger than anything ever before experienced. Like nature, which often overpowers man in literature, the stench overpowers the two men who almost suffocate from it as they run outside onto the train's platform. Although "The Invalid's Story" was received badly by critics such as Everett Emerson, who calls the story's humor ' 'unspeakable,'' and Gladys Carmen Bellamy, who notes that Twain's emphasis on the stench of corpses seems to "emphasize the indignity of human life," it does not appear that Twain meant to offend with his story. In fact, Twain structures the story so that the reader is free from any moral obligation to feel sorry for the ' 'corpse,'' which is really a box of guns with a piece of cheese on top. This knowledge, which is repeated at various points throughout the tale, helps to increase the level of humor associated with the smells. Likewise, through his use of increasingly more potent descriptions of the "corpse" odor, Twain magnifies the humor even more, as readers get an increasingly more palpable mental image. And even though many critics do not like these images, the story has stood the test of time with popular audiences. Long notes that ' 'many present-day readers find pleasure" in these improper writings, and that "we frankly delight in much that offended past sensibilities."
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Source: Ryan D. Poquette, Critical Essay on "The Invalid's Story," in Short Stories for Students, The Gale Group, 2002.
James D. Wilson In the following essay, Wilson explores the origin of' 'The Invalid's Story'' and its relationship to other works by Twain.
Publication History "The Invalid's Story," sometimes referred to as "The Limburger Cheese Story," was first published as a three-thousand-word addition to "Some Rambling Notes of an Idle Excursion" in the 1882 Stolen White Elephant volume (Brownell 2). It remained part of the excursion narrative in Merry Tales (1892). In its 1896 collected edition of Mark Twain's works, however, Harper and Brothers separated the two, printing "The Invalid's Story" and ' 'Some Rambling Notes of an Idle Excursion'' in different volumes. Subsequent editions sustained this separation, reprinting "The Invalid's Story" without indication of its original context. The Neider edition of The Complete Short Stories is based on the thirty-seven volume Stormfield edition.
Circumstances of Composition, Sources, and Influences ' 'Some Rambling Notes of an Idle Excursion,'' a fictionalized account of Mark Twain's travel to Bermuda with Joe Twichell in May 1877, was originally published as a four-part serial in the Atlantic Monthly beginning October 1877, and in book form, An Idle Excursion and Other Papers, by London publishers Chatto and Windus in 1878. A study of the manuscript paper and ink suggests that ' 'The Invalid's Story'' was written in the late 1870s, probably 1877; Emerson contends that Mark Twain heard the story from Twichell during their Bermuda travels. The scholarly assumption, supported by Mark Twain-Howells correspondence, is that it was intended to be part of''An Idle Excursion'' but was excised because William Dean Howells thought the piece to be indelicate. Manuscript evidence further indicates that Mark Twain had requested the story be inserted "at page 90" of Punch, Brothers, Punch! (1878), and later intended to include it as a separate chapter in A Tramp Abroad (1880); in both instances, however, the story was deleted prior to publication, again probably as a result of Howells's objections. Evidently Mark Twain liked the story and was anxious to have it published; at the same time, it is equally evident that he valued highly the critical judgment of his good friend Howells, whose achievements as editor and author had made him for
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Mark Twain a representative of the genteel literary tastes and standards the western author believed he must satisfy. DeVoto and Blair report that "The Invalid's Story" may have been based on an antebellum sketch by the southwestern humorist J. M. Field,' 'A Resurrectionist and His Freight." Field's sketch appeared in the Saint Louis Reveille (9 March 1846), was reprinted in The Spirit of the Times (21 March 1846), and appeared in books of 1847 and 1858. A similar story is printed in the 13 July 1865 issue of the Carson, Nevada, Daily Appeal. A more likely source is Artemus Ward, who included a variant of the story as part of his lecture program sometime between 1862 and 1864. Austin conjectures that Mark Twain heard Ward tell it during the "Babes in the Wood" lectures Mark Twain attended in Virginia City, Nevada, in December 1863, and that Ward's oral rendition was "evidently the 'germ' of Twain's" story written some fourteen years later. Austin compares "The Invalid's Story" with a printed reconstruction of Ward's oral anecdote published by James F. Ryder in Voigtlander and I (1902). Such comparison reveals not only the generic differences between Yankee and southwestern humor but also Mark Twain's method of developing a story from scant source materials. Ward's anecdote, genteel in comparison to Mark Twain's lurid story, is a brief straightforward narrative with no dialogue until the climax; everything moves rapidly to a punch line that becomes justification for the whole tale. The prominent punch line of Ward's joke becomes merely a minor detail in Mark Twain's story, which is built on comic exaggeration. "The Invalid's Story" is much more substantially developed fiction than is the Ward source: additional plot details, extensive characterizing dialogue, and lurid, explicit description of odors push the story to over twenty-six hundred words; moreover, firstperson point of view and substantial development of both the railway passenger, who serves as narrator, and Thompson the baggageman provide aesthetic interest and complexity to a story that makes a shambles of genteel sentimentality about death. The Gothic fiction of Edgar Allan Poe, specifically "A Descent into the Maelstrom," is offered by Kemper as an influence on "The Invalid's Story." An "elaborate spoof" of Poe's fictional themes and characteristic techniques, Mark Twain's story takes "the Gothic tuck out of his predecessor" in its parody "of Poe's tone, character, and situation."
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The opening paragraphs of the two stories follow parallel paths as Mark Twain spoofs the overheated imagination of Poe's neurotic narrator: each refers rather vaguely to some traumatic, mysterious past event that the story will proceed to explain; moreover, the first-person engaged narrator—who has aged prematurely as a direct result of what he is about to rehearse—assures the reader that the fantastic tale to follow is true and hence, of course, all the more horrifying. The Poe protagonist characteristically narrates retrospectively, Kemper points out, informing us at the outset of the story's conclusion and thereby sacrificing suspense to heighten a psychological effect, usually terror. In "The Invalid's Story" Mark Twain employs this same technique, but he does so to generate a comic effect; indeed, if the reader were to believe that the obnoxious odors so vividly rendered actually emanated from a decaying corpse rather than from limburger cheese, he would be less amused than disgusted. The language and structure of Mark Twain's story, Kemper concludes, "undermines and mocks the gothic subject it describes."
Relationship to Other Mark Twain Works "The Invalid's Story" is among Mark Twain's "scatological" pieces, "immensely true," DeVoto writes,' 'to one kind of humor of the frontier and of Mark Twain." Gibson links it to "1601," though he claims that more notorious piece is "formless and even mild" when read juxtaposed to "The Invalid's Story." Additional parallels might be drawn to "Cannibalism in the Cars" (1868) and "The Great Prize Fight'' (1863), sketches that depend for their effect on what Bellamy calls "the primitive humor of cruelty." Horowitz sees in the story a preview of the cynicism characteristic of Mark Twain's later writings on institutionalized religion. The indelicate—some would say offensive—subject and tone of the story, written in 1877, should give pause to those who emphasize Mark Twain's overzealous desire to placate his wife's genteel tastes or his surrender to her heavy editorial hand in the decade following their marriage. The most secure link to other Mark Twain writings, in fact, lies in the story's assault on genteel sensitivities, particularly as they govern our attitudes toward death. Its grotesque humor is reminiscent of "Cannibalism in the Cars," "Aurelia's Unfortunate Young Man"—the 1864 "condensed novel" that chronicles a young lady's wavering devotion to a lover who seems to disintegrate before
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The most secure link to other Mark Twain writings, in fact, lies in the story's assault on genteel sensitivities, particularly as they govern our attitudes toward death."
her eyes—and "Lucretia Smith's Soldier" (1864), which exposes the sentimental excesses of a young woman who discovers she has ' 'fooled away three mortal weeks here, snuffling and slobbering over the wrong soldier." In all four instances, reality intrudes to shatter genteel illusions and expectations that are comically inappropriate to the situation at hand. The story also provides an interesting counterpart to the Emmeline Grangerford section of Huckleberry Finn (1885); although the tone and language of the two differ, their satiric intentions are essentially the same; each employs irony to carry an extended joke at the expense of conventional attitudes toward death.
Critical Studies Although Baldanza claims that in "The Invalid's Story" Mark Twain "rises to the heights of comic invention," scholars generally condemn the story. Bellamy recoils from the "repulsive humor," arguing that by giving undue attention to the stench of corpses Mark Twain emphasizes ' 'the indignity of human life." Emerson flatly labels it a "disaster," its humor "unspeakable." Most other Mark Twain scholars simply ignore the story that Howells thought would "challenge all literature for its like." Yet Mark Twain carefully structures the story to minimize the offense to his readers' sensibilities and to maximize comic effect. The dying narrator informs us at the outset that his fate is the result of a ' 'prodigious mistake'': planning to accompany the remains of his "dearest boyhood friend and schoolmate, John B. Hackett" by train from Cleveland, Ohio, to ' 'his poor old father and mother in Wisconsin," the narrator in fact sits in a heated baggage car with a crate of rifles on which a stranger has placed "a packaged of peculiarly mature and capable
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limburger cheese." The narrator tells of the obnoxious odors that emanated from what he thought was the apparently rotting corpse of Mr. Hackett; however, because the story is told retrospectively, we know the true contents of the box and that the actual source of the vile stench is the cheese. Part of the humor thus arises from dramatic irony: steps taken to defuse the smell of a corpse—pouring carbolic acid over it, making a fire of' 'chicken feathers, and dried apples, and leaf tobacco, and rags, and old shoes, and sulphur, and asafetida"—serve only to intensify the peculiar fragrance of the cheese. The narrator is accompanied on his journey by the baggageman Thompson, whose "vernacular understatement" in describing the unmodifiable smell, Gibson argues, contributes largely to the story's comic effect. It is Thompson who first broaches the indelicate subject of the corpse's smell: "He's pretty ripe, ain 't he!" Trying to be asunderstanding as possible under the circumstances, Thompson attempts to comfort the narrator over the loss of his friend with the observation that "sometimes it's uncertain whether they're really gone or not"; yet before long he asserts, "But he ain't in no trance!" After spouting a few homiletic sentiments—"We've all got to go, they ain't no getting around it. Man that is born of woman is of few days and far between, as Scriptur' says"—Thompson succumbs to his overwhelming discomfort, disputing the narrator's claim that his friend had been dead only "two or three days" giving "his views at considerable length upon the unwisdom of putting off burials too long." When the smell of shared cigar smoke fails to "modify him worth a cent," serving only "to stir up his ambition," Thompson decides to take more forceful action. But his attempt to overpower the smell with carbolic acid proves futile: "It ain't no use. We can't buck agin him. He just utilizes everything we put up to modify him with, and gives it his own flavor and plays it back on us." In utter desperation, Thompson builds the bonfire; its own odor proves so powerful that the narrator wonders "how even the corpse could stand it," yet "the original smell stood up out of it just as sublime as ever.'' Thompson dejectedly surrenders:' 'we got to stay out here... The Governor wants to travel alone, and he's fixed so he can outvote us." Ultimately death has triumphed over the living, leaving the two men "prisoned": "Yes, sir, we're elected, just as sure as you're born." Horowitz provides the most extensive and ingenious analysis of "The Invalid's Story," arguing that it is ' 'a particularized symbolic commentary on
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the Church, a broad farce . . . of what has generally happened as the body of Christ . . . progresses through time." Germane to Horowitz's argument is the story's original context: it was positioned at the end of the Bermuda travel narratives that collectively develop an Easter motif introduced as the visitors arrive on Sunday, the third day of their voyage, at "the resurrection hour" when "the berths gave up their dead." Horowitz identifies the corpse in the story—on its way to reunion with its parents in the fictional city of "Bethlehem," Wisconsin— with Christ; as a result of the "prodigious mistake," of course, the corpse goes instead to the very real city of Peoria, Illinois, its place of honor usurped by a crate of rifles and packet of limburger cheese. Thompson, the baggageman who hums "Sweet By and By" while tending to the assumed coffin, is Saint Thomas Aquinas—the emissary of the church who tends to the bedrock of Christian faith. The railway car, ' 'embodying a Christ, ministered by a Tom's son," symbolizes the church as the tale "takes on the form of an unorthodox trope." The Calvinistic language of the story's conclusion— "we're elected," the discovery of the truth about the cheese coming "too late to save me"—testifies to the pernicious, deadly hold of Mark Twain's early training in the Presbyterian church. The discovery of the fraudulent basis of church belief has come "too late to save" Mark Twain; hence the secular Bermuda experience,' 'with all its heavenly aspects,'' Horowitz concludes,' 'has proved insufficient balm." Source: James D. Wilson, '"The Invalid's Story,'" in A Reader's Guide to the Short Stories of Mark Twain, G. K. Hall and Co., 1987, pp. 147-52.
Steven E. Kemper In the following essay, Kemper explores how Twain parodies themes and techniques of Edgar Allan Poe in "The Invalid's Story." Twain was a superb and deadly parodist of various literary figures and genres that he found pretentious or absurd. Cooper takes a severe drubbing more than once. Romantic poetry and fiction come in for some licks, too, most notably in Huck Finn. Detective fiction was another favorite target. Edgar Allan Poe should be added to the list of victims, too. Jack Scherting suggests that Poe's "The Cask of Amontillado" may be a source for "The Man That Corrupted Hadleyburg," and that Pudd'nhead Wilson resembles "William Wilson" in some ways. But this note concerns an elaborate spoof of Poe, not an emulation of him.
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A comparison of Twain's "the Invalid's Story" with some of Poe's fictional themes and techniques, and particularly with his story, "A Descent Into the Maelstrom," shows Twain purposefully taking the Gothic tuck out of his predecessor. "The Invalid's Story" (1882), you will remember, involves a fellow who narrates a story about his attempt to transport a dead friend to relatives in Wisconsin via train. At the beginning of the trip, the coffin gets switched with a box of guns, and a shady character puts a bag of ripe Limburger cheese atop the "coffin." The narrator does not realize these facts until later. The major portion of the story details the narrator's and expressman's growing olfactory unease, and their frantic but unsuccessful attempts to "modify" the "corpse's" seemingly conscious assault on their noses. At the end of the story, the narrator says that the cheese proved to be a fatal opponent because, by forcing them to ride outside the car on a bitter night, it has ruined their healths. In the last line of the story the narrator moans, ' 'this is my last trip; I am on my way home to die." The story is preposterous, outrageous, and of course hilarious. For the most part, its humor, like Limburger cheese, is robust and difficult to miss. But Twain's parody of Poe adds a subtle flavor for those who recognize it. "The Descent Into the Maelstrom," like "The Invalid's Story," is a tale told by an old man to a younger listener. The man had been caught in a deadly maelstrom while out fishing but had managed to survive its terrors by applying common sense, scientific observation, and imagination. Unfortunately, the price of survival is steep; the man is shattered physically and perhaps psychologically. The story begins, We had now reached the summit of the loftiest crag. For some minutes the old man seemed too much exhausted to speak. "Not long ago," said he at length, "and I could have guided you on this route as well as the youngest of my sons; but, about three years past, there happened to me an event such as never happened before to mortal man—or at least such as no man ever survived to tell of—and the six hours of deadly terror which I the endured have broken me up body and soul. You suppose me a very old man—but I am not. It took less than a single day to change these hairs from a jetty black to white, to weaken my limbs, and to unstring my nerves so that I tremble at the least exertion, and am frightened at a shadow ..." Twain's story begins,
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The story is preposterous, outrageous, and of course hilarious. For the most part, its humor, like Limburger cheese, is robust and difficult to miss. But Twain's parody of Poe adds a subtle flavor for those who recognize it."
I seem sixty and married, but these effects are due to my condition and sufferings, for am a bachelor and only forty-one. It will be hard for you to believe that I, who am now but a shadow, was a hale, hearty man two short years ago—a man of iron, a very athlete!—yet such is the simple truth. But stranger still than this fact is the way in which I lost my health. I lost it through helping to take care of a box of guns on a two-hundred mile railway journey one winter's night. It is the actual truth, and I will tell you about it.
Besides the obvious parodies of Poe's tone, character, and situation, Twain adopts one of Poe's favorite opening-paragraph techniques in order to spoof it: he gives a vague description of a mysterious event that the rest of the story will explain, and the protagonist insists that everything about to be related, though beyond belief, is actually adorned truth. Parrotting another of Poe's techniques, in the next paragraph Twain's narrator quickly clarifies the factual mystery for the reader by flatly explaining it: The fact is that without my suspecting it a prodigious mistake had been made. I was carrying off a box of guns which that young fellow had come to the station to ship to a rifle company in Peoria, Illinois, and he had got my corpse! . . . As the train moved off a stranger skipped into the car and set a package of peculiarly mature and capable Limburger cheese on one end of my coffin-box—I mean my box of guns. That is to say, I know now that it was Limburger cheese.. .
Poe's narrators often speak retrospectively and tell the reader straight off how the story will end and what events constitute the factual "mystery" in the story. Poe virtually eliminates plot suspense in
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order to make psychological suspense primary. He reveals the story's climactic event at the outset in order to force the reader to experience his characters' psychological responses more acutely. Twain uses the same technique for comic purposes: people in the know find ignorance more amusing than do other ignoramuses. If we suspected that the odiferous antagonist was really a rotting corpse rather than Limburger cheese, we would scarcely laugh as much. The plot itself suggests Poe: Twain's narrator and his companion Thompson are confined in a small boxcar with a rotting corpse on a wild, stormy night. Thompson expresses familiarity with an event common in Poe's stories; sometimes, he remarks, seeming corpses will rise and confront their watchers. But Ligeia and Madeline Usher were never described in this way: Sometimes it's uncertain whether they're really gone or not—seem gone, you know—body warm, joints limber—and so, although you think they're gone, you don't really know. I've had cases in my car. It's perfectly awful, becuz you don't know what minute they'll rise up and look at you! . . . But he ain't in no trance! No sir, I go bail for him!
The language undermines and mocks the Gothic subject it describes. The two living characters are soon locked in a terrific struggle with the corpse—with death—which seems to attack them and refuses to grant them peace and comfort. "Ligiea" and "The House of Usher'' again come to mind, as do ' The Masque of the Red Death," "The Tell-Tale Heart," and "The Black Cat." But for Twain, to animate a corpse in one's imagination and then struggle against it is ludicrous. Poe's supernatural premise, Twain suggests here, cannot be taken seriously (though Twain does sometimes give credence to folk superstitions, as in Huckleberry Finn). Like many of Poe's characters, Thompson and the narrator show more respect for the dead than is healthy. Twain's treatment of Emmeline Grangerford and the boy in "The Good Little Boy" make plain his opinion about such morbidity. Finally, Twain parodies the typical Poe character's perverse over-exercise of imagination. Scores of Poe's characters accept as reality the distortion created by their excessive imaginations. In this way, Twain insists, absurdity defeats simple common sense. Thompson sticks his nose right in the cheese but does not even realize it. The narrator knows his friend is freshly dead and could not be decaying already, but his imagination betrays his common
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sense. To paraphrase an adage, they can't smell the Limburger for the cheese. As in Poe, unregulated imagination does them in, but Twain emphasizes the absurdity and humor of such excess, not its pathos and troubled genius. By burlesquing many of Poe's techniques, themes, and character types, Twain punctures the pretensions of Gothicism, throwing his sharp darts at America's most capable and sophisticated practitioner in the genre. Twain is no more fair to Poe than he is to Cooper. But though he does tell some stretchers in order to make his point more vivid and humorous, well, he also tells the truth, mainly. Source: Steven E. Kemper, "Poe, Twain, and Limburger Cheese," in Mark Twain Journal, Vol. XXI, No. 1, Winter 1981-1982, pp. 13-14.
Sources Bellamy, Gladys Carmen, "The Humorist as Technician," in Mark Twain as a Literary Artist, University of Oklahoma Press, 1950, p. 123. DeVoto, Bernard, Mark Twain's America, The Riverside Press, 1951, p. 253. Emerson, Everett, "A Backward Glance," in The Authentic Mark Twain: A Literary Biography of Samuel L. Clemens, University of Pennsylvania Press, 1984, p. 272. Horowitz, Floyd R., '"The Invalid's Story': An Early Mark Twain Commentary on Institutional Christianity," in Midcontinent American Studies Journal, Vol. 7, No. 1, 1966, pp. 38^tO. Kemper, Steven E., "Poe, Twain, and Limburger Cheese," in Mark Twain Journal, Vol. XXI, No. 1, Winter 1981-1982, pp. 13-14. Long, E. Hudson, "Mind and Art," in Mark Twain Handbook, Hendricks House, 1957, p. 341.
Further Reading Ambrose, Stephen E., Nothing Like It in the World: The Men Who Built the Transcontinental Railroad, 1863-1869, Simon & Schuster, 2000. In his book, Ambrose, a noted historian, examines the political and social efforts that helped to build the transcontinental railroad, including Abraham Lincoln's driving desire to see it built, the government members and brilliant entrepreneurs who invested in it, the Irish and Chinese laborers who did most of the construction work, and the Army soldiers who stood guard, protecting the rail crews from attacks.
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Bondeson, Jan, Buried Alive: The Terrifying History of Our Most Primal Fear, W. W. Norton & Co., 2001. This fascinating study gives a thorough exploration of the factual history of, and urban legends about, premature burial, including the increase of associated tales in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. It also discusses the development of many safeguards such as waiting mortuaries, where corpses were kept until they either started to rot or came back to life. Twain visited one of these in the 1880s. Budd, Louis, ed., Critical Essays on Mark Twain, 1867-1910, G. K. Hall & Co., 1982. This collection features a number of the key criticisms of Twain's works during his lifetime. Taylor, Mark A., Computerized Shipping Systems: Increasing Profit & Productivity through Technology, Angelico & Taylor, Inc., 1995. Although Taylor's book is primarily intended as a guide for businesses, detailing what to look for when buying a new computerized shipping system, it also serves as a primer for anyone interested in learning how modern shipping works. Written in a consumerfriendly style, the book notes the many advantages of
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a computerized shipping system, including massive savings. Ward, Geoffrey C., Dayton Duncan, and Ken Burns, Mark Twain: An Illustrated Biography, Knopf, 2001. This biography is a companion to the PBS series that aired in January, 2002. Complete with humorous Twain quotations, selections from his correspondence that reveal his more realistic side, and literary selections from Twain admirers and critics, the book also gives a cohesive overview of current Twain scholarship. The companion film—directed by Burns—is also available on DVD from PBS. Ziporyn, Terra, Disease in the Popular American Press: The Case of Diphtheria, Typhoid Fever, and Syphilis, 1870-1'920, Contributions in Medical Studies, Greenwood Publishing Group, 1988. Ziporyn's thoroughly researched study analyzes how three diseases—typhoid fever, diphtheria, and syphilis—were treated in the United States mass media from the late nineteenth century until the early twentieth century. The author finds that typhoid fever was covered in the press more than the other two diseases, which she attributes to the social values associated with each disease.
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Kitchen Banana Yoshimoto
1988
Kitchen, published in 1988 in Japan, made Mahoko "Banana" Yoshimoto an overnight celebrity and caused "Bananamania" to sweep Japan's media and youth culture. The book, Yoshimoto's first, contains two stories about life, love, and loss in contemporary Japan: "Kitchen," and "Moonlight Shadow." The originality, style, and subject matter of the stories helped make the book a literary phenomenon, selling over six million copies in its first two years and winning several literary awards in Japan. The book was translated into English and published by Grove Press in 1993 in America, where it reached the best-seller lists and garnered mixed reviews. "Kitchen," the title story, is told from the perspective of a young woman in Tokyo; her name is Mikage Sakurai. Her distinctive narrative voice can be serious, ironic, and confidential in turns. This young woman has just lost her grandmother, who was the last living member of her family. She now finds herself all alone in the world and filled with pain. As the story progresses, Mikage thinks about and confronts major issues in life: death, hope, friendship, loneliness, and love. Despite her pain, she is helped along in her healing process by new friendships and a love interest. She also finds that kitchens are particularly positive places for her, and she puts her time and energy into learning how to cook, which becomes a symbolic part of her recovery.
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Author Biography Banana Yoshimoto was born in Tokyo, Japan, on July 24, 1964. She is the daughter of Takaaki "Ryumei" Yoshimoto, a famous philosopher and literary critic in Japan. She graduated from Nihon University and worked as a waitress in Tokyo before establishing herself as a writer. Yoshimoto came to fame in Japan in 1988 with the publication of Kitchen, a book that contains two short works about life, love, and loss in contemporary Japan: "Kitchen" and "Moonlight Shadow." The originality, style, and subject matter of the book made it a literary phenomenon, selling over six million copies in Japan during its first two years and winning several literary awards there. Yoshimoto became an overnight celebrity in the media and "Bananamania" swept Japan and its youth culture. Kitchen was translated into English by Megan Backus and published in 1993 in the United States, where it made appearances on the best-seller charts. Yoshimoto attributes the success of Kitchen to its appeal to young readers, particularly women in their twenties. Yoshimoto has gone on to publish several novels, a book of short stories, a collection of essays and criticism, and a book of novellas, showing her range as a writer. Among her works translated into English are N. P.: A Novel, published in America in 1994; Lizard, a book of short stories published in 1995; Amrita, a 1997 novel; and Asleep, consisting of three novellas collected in 2000.
Plot Summary Part One: Kitchen "Kitchen" begins as Mikage Sakurai, a young woman in Japan, is taking refuge in her kitchen. It is a few days after the death of her grandmother, who was her last living relative. Suffering from grief and loneliness, Mikage knows that she must pull herself together and search for a new apartment. Suddenly the doorbell rings, and it is a young man named Yuichi Tanabe, whom Mikage recognizes from the funeral. Yuichi invites her over to his apartment, where he lives with his mother, Eriko. At Yuichi's home, Mikage is introduced to Eriko and soon finds out that Yuichi's mother was once his father; she is a transsexual who runs a club
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of some sort. Yuichi hints that she has undergone a sex change, when he tells Mikage that she has ' 'had everything 'done.'" Dazzled by her beauty and sparkling energy, Mikage immediately admires Eriko and identifies with Eriko's sensitivity and independence. Returning her admiration, Eriko shows care and concern for Mikage and her difficult situation. Mikage accepts Eriko's invitation to move into their apartment for a while, where Mikage sleeps on a sofa in the living room and cooks food for her new friends in the kitchen. Their kitchen becomes her favorite room in the house, a place where Mikage becomes creative and optimistic. One day as Mikage is moving her things from her grandmother's apartment, she gets a call from Sotaro, her ex-boyfriend. They decide to meet in a park, where Sotaro questions Mikage about her life and her new living arrangement. Sotaro distrusts her relationship with Yuichi. Sotaro thinks that Yuichi is a strange young man and also mentions that Yuichi has a girlfriend at school that he has been with for a year. The conversation convinces Mikage that she no longer has feelings for Sotaro, and she also realizes that she must move out of Yuichi's home in order not to interfere with his life. Later that night, Yuichi helps Mikage make new address cards, which locate the story in Tokyo. In her new home, Mikage begins to feel better, although she still feels lonely and depressed at times and subject to intense moods. On the bus one day, after she has left her grandmother's apartment for good, she observes a young girl and a grandmother, which causes her to break down in tears. She gets off the bus in despair and is only cheered up when she looks into the window of a kitchen, which reminds her how much she wants to live. In the next scene, Mikage has a dream in which Yuichi asks her to stay at their home longer and in which Mikage's grandmother is still alive. Mikage wakes up to find elements of the dream coming true in real life, and that Yuichi might have had the same dream. While Mikage thinks of this mystical and foreshadowing event as "utterly amazing," she does not dwell upon it. As Mikage lives in their home, her friendship deepens with Yuichi and Eriko, and she gets stronger. Still, she understands that she will have to move out one day.
Part Two: Full Moon The second part of the story begins with a shock: Eriko died in the autumn. A man at her club
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has stalked and killed her in a hate crime. Mikage finds this out several months after the fact, when Yuichi phones in the middle of an early-winter night to inform her. Mikage has by this time moved out of Eriko and Yuichi's home, into her own apartment. Upon hearing of Eriko's death, Mikage goes immediately to see Yuichi. He tries to explain why he has not told her of his mother's death because of denial and of not wanting to hurt her. Mikage and Yuichi console each other, realizing that they are both all alone in the world now. Mikage reads Eriko's will, which contains premonitions of her death. The next day, Yuichi asks Mikage to stay at his home and cook a big dinner. As Mikage cleans the kitchen, she reminisces over the six months she lived with Eriko and Yuichi. She also reflects on the past summer when she energetically taught herself to cook while living there. She now has a job as an assistant at a cooking school run by a famous teacher. Mikage cooks a feast, and she and Yuichi have a long, deep conversation. Mikage feels close to Yuichi, and he asks her to move back in, although they are both unclear about the nature of their relationship, as it is filled with shared pain. Mikage goes to her cooking school the next day where she is asked to go on a business trip. During work, Okuno, who identifies herself as Yuichi's classmate, shows up and angrily confronts Mikage, asking her to leave Yuichi alone, for his own good. That night, Mikage and Yuichi go to a tea shop together, and Mikage tells him that she is leaving town for a few days. She agrees to bring him back something from her trip, and she feels strong emotions for him, including jealousy over Okuno. Later that night, alone, Mikage recalls a conversation she had with Eriko, during which Eriko explained why she became a woman. While doing laundry before her trip, Mikage runs into Chika, a transsexual from Eriko's club. They have lunch together and Chika tells Mikage that she is worried about Yuichi, who seems depressed and unhappy. Chika asserts that the two of them must be in love and gives Mikage the address of a hotel to which Yuichi is going away. Chika wants to help Yuichi because she feels that a little help could have saved Eriko's life. Mikage goes on her trip and reflects, from a distance, upon her life and its changes. The first night away, she phones Yuichi, who is alone in a hotel room, which makes Mikage feel sad and
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worried about him and their relationship. After eating a delicious, hot meal that lifts her spirits, Mikage gets an idea. She hires a taxi for the long ride to Yuichi's hotel and then climbs a balcony to present Yuichi with the same food that she had enjoyed. This moment is a critical point in their relationship; they discuss their situation and their trust for each other deepens. Mikage convinces Yuichi not to disappear or succumb to depression. Mikage spends the rest of her trip sampling food and walking near the sea. On her last night away, she gets a phone call from Yuichi, who has gone back to Tokyo. Yuichi sounds happy, and both of them look forward to the next day, when they will meet at the train station for Mikage's return to Tokyo.
Characters Chika Chika ("Chih-KA"), a transsexual, is the head "girl" at Eriko's club, which Eriko gives her when she dies. Chika is sensitive and confident at the same time, and her cheerful presence makes Mikage happy. Near the climax of the story, Mikage runs into Chika at a laundry. Chika, playing matchmaker, brings up the topics of Yuichi and love, and gives Mikage the address and phone number of Yuichi's hotel.
Kuri Kuri ('' KOO-ri'') works with Mikage and Nori at the cooking school. She has a "sunny disposition" that makes her cute and pleasant to work with.
Mikage's Grandmother Mikage's grandmother died a few days before the story begins, so the reader only sees her through Mikage's narration and memory. Her grandmother had been Mikage's last living relative and caretaker; "my family consisted of only one other person," she says. Mikage describes her grandmother as kind and sweet, who was ' 'pretty relaxed'' when Mikage wanted her freedom. They would spend time together in the evenings, talking and relaxing over tea and snacks. The sudden death of her grandmother takes Mikage by surprise. Her grandmother has left her some money and an apartment that is too big and
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expensive. Her grandmother had loved flowers, and had visited a flower shop a few time per week, where Yuichi Tanabe was working.
Media Adaptations
Nori Nori ("NOUGH-ree") works with Mikage and Kuri at the cooking school. Mikage describes her as a "proper young lady," which means that she is attractive, tastefully dressed, and well-mannered.
Okuno Okuno ("oh-KOO-no") is a young woman who describes herself as a "classmate" of Yuichi's. According to Sotaro, she has been Yuichi's girlfriend for a year. Okuno confronts Mikage with strong emotions one day at the cooking school. She claims that she has helped Yuichi and loves him, and seems threatened by Mikage.
Mikage Sakurai Mikage Sakurai ("MEE-ka-gee Sah-KOOrye"), a young woman in Tokyo, is the protagonist and narrator; the story is told from her first-person perspective. Mikage has recently lost her grandmother, and has no more living relatives. The sadness about her grandmother's death, as well as the realization of being alone in the world, threaten to overwhelm Mikage. Indeed, her grandmother's death causes a "sadness so great" that she "could barely cry." In the midst of her pain, she also wants to "wake up in the morning light," free of the despair that plagues her. Mikage has recently been a student. After her grandmother dies, Mikage moves in with Eriko and Yuichi and sleeps on their couch, a situation that becomes the "talk of the school," according to Sotaro, her ex-boyfriend. After living with them for six months, she moves into an apartment of her own. By this time, she has a job as an assistant at a cooking school. Ruminating on death and loneliness frequently, Mikage says in the beginning, "I often think that when it comes to die, I want to breathe my last in a kitchen." When she hears of Eriko's death, Mikage states, "I wanted to give up on living." Sheremarks to Yuichi, "there's always death around us." She also sees despair in others; noting Eriko's beauty and charm, she also sees "an ice-cold loneliness." Her fear of death is related to her fear of losing loved ones. The minute she realizes that she could fall in love with Yuichi, she decides to move out of his home.
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"Kitchen" has been adapted into film twice. It was made into a Japanese television feature and was produced as a full-length film in 1997 in Hong Kong. Directed by Yim Ho, the film / Love Kitchens has limited availability in English translation.
Despite her pain, Mikage shows elements of strength and independence. She cooks for Eriko and Yuichi. She successfully finds a job and an apartment. She seems to have the stronger position in her relationship with Yuichi, taking the initiative and helping him overcome his difficulties. Mikage is not religious, but believes in elements of the mystical and superstitious. When she first meets Yuichi, she says, "I think I heard a spirit call my name." She "can't believe in the gods," but for a warm bed, she "thanked the gods— whether they existed or not." In despair, she "implored the gods: Please, let me live." She also has a dream that comes partially true. Mikage relates to American culture; a conversation between Eriko and Yuichi was "like watching Betwitched," an American sitcom that was frequently re-run in the 1970s. She describes a hotel garden as resembling the "Jungle Cruise at Disneyland." Mikage mentions Helen Keller, the American author who overcame severe disabilities. Mikage is ironic and self-conscious. When she hires a taxi, she compares herself to Joan of Arc, the French revolutionary. She looks up to Eriko as an ideal of feminine beauty, charm, and strength, although Eriko was once, or still is, a man. In the midst of a dynamic scene, when Mikage is dangerously climbing a balcony to reach Yuichi, she interrupts her narrative by ironically saying: "Look at you . .. You've really outdone yourself this time." Realizing her self-consciousness, she calls herself an "action philosopher," and goes on to muse about fate and her path in life.
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Sensei Sensei ("SEN-say") is the cooking teacher whom Mikage assists. She has impeccable style and manners, and is famous from television and magazine features. She invites Mikage to go away on a business trip.
Sotaro Sotaro ("soh-TAH-roh") is Mikage's old boyfriend, who reaches her over the phone one day when Mikage is visiting her old apartment. Sotaro loves plants and the outdoors, so he and Mikage meet in a park. He is tall, cheerful, and the eldest son of a large family. At one time Mikage loved Sotaro's "lively frankness," but his straightforward manners have become "obnoxious." Sotaro's aggressive personality bothers Mikage because she "couldn't keep pace with it." Sotaro says derogatory things about Yuichi, and informs Mikage that Yuichi has a girlfriend.
Mikage relates with the qualities of despair and perseverance that she sees in Eriko's beauty, noting that "the brilliance of her charm . . . must have condemned her to an ice-cold loneliness." Eriko gives Mikage sisterly advice, telling her: "It's not easy being a woman." She gives Mikage hope in overcoming her own pain, telling her that "if a person hasn't ever experienced true despair," they will never understand "what joy really is." Eriko frequently shows genuine care for Mikage, telling her: ' 'You're a good kid"; calling her ' 'daughter''; and mentioning her as "a very precious child of mine" in her will. Other characters share admiration and respect for Eriko. Yuichi takes a gleeful pride in Eriko's unconventionality and dynamic attitude. He notes that she "hates to do things halfway," and says that ' 'As soon as she gets an idea in her head, she does it." Chika says of her: "Eriko always handled her own problems no matter what they were," although remembering that there was a ' 'dark side of that independence," which may have led to her death.
Eriko Tanabe Eriko ("Eh-REE-koh Tah-NAH-bee") is Yuichi's mother, who invites Mikage to stay at her home. Eriko is a transsexual and had previously been Yuichi's father. Mikage's first impression of Eriko is "overwhelming." Mikage describes her as "an incredibly beautiful woman" who "seemed to vibrate with life force." Eriko represents an ideal of feminine beauty, charm, and strength for Mikage. At times, Mikage finds it hard to believe that this woman had once been a man, or is still a man— some ambiguities over Eriko's gender remain, both for the reader and for the characters. Yuichi refers to Eriko as both his mother and father, and other characters refer to Eriko as both "she" and "he." Eriko's unconventional life story is interesting to Mikage and Yuichi. When she was a man, Eriko was taken in by a family whose daughter he married and with whom he had a child, Yuichi. When Yuichi's mother died, Eriko decided to become a woman. With the money she'd saved, she "had everything 'done,'" according to Yuichi, implying she'd had a sex change operation, but not stating it outright. She also started a nightclub. Becoming a woman helped her with the pain of her wife's death, and liberated her. Before developing her charming female personality, she had been "very shy." In her will, she wrote, "I have cheerfully chosen to make my body my fortune," taking full responsibility for her life.
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Yuichi Tanabe Yuichi ("Yoo-EE-chee Tah-NAH-bee") is a young man who befriends Mikage after her grandmother's death, and suggests that she move into the apartment he shares with his mother, Eriko. He worked in the flower shop that her grandmother had frequented. Mikage was touched by his grief at the funeral. When he shows up at her door, Mikage is taken by his "bright" smile and describes his appearance as "a long-limbed young man with pretty features." She feels enough of a connection with him that she sees ' 'a straight road leading from me to him," foreshadowing their relationship in the story. Yuichi is a person who is hard to figure out. Mikage notes that he gives an "impression of aloofness" and that "he seemed like a loner." Eriko tells Mikage that Yuichi is "confused about emotional things and he's strangely distant with people." According to Sotaro, Yuichi is "pretty weird," and his girlfriend at school apparently said that he was ' 'incapable of caring more for a girl than he did for a fountain pen." Mikage recognizes and respects the depth of Yuichi's personality, noting that: "If you're not in love with him, you can understand him." Because of his ambiguities, she is reluctant to fall in love with him. When Eriko dies, Yuichi becomes more emotionally distant, and avoids informing Mikage of the
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death until months later. He also begins drinking and becomes depressed, admitting to Mikage that he's "in a bad way." Like his mother, he prefers to handle his problems on his own, telling Mikage that he "was hoping to spare you this misery." Chika says of him,' 'That boy has never, ever, let anybody see a weakness in him." Yuichi goes off by himself to a hotel room to suffer in private. Yuichi can seem emotionally passive in the story. In their relationship, Mikage takes the initiatives and asks the difficult questions. On the nature of their relationship, Yuichi answers Mikage, ' 'I myself don't even know." Okuno tells Mikage that she has so confused Yuichi that he is only ' 'half a man.''
Themes Cooking and Cuisine Cooking and cuisine are mentioned throughout the story. Kitchens have a special meaning for the protagonist Mikage; they are refuges and sanctuaries. Mikage energetically begins cooking as part of her healing process and to show her appreciation for her new friends Yuichi and Eriko. She eventually gets a job in a cooking school. While eating a delicious meal one night, Mikage is inspired to share it with Yuichi in a climactic scene.
Death The story begins a few days after Mikage's grandmother has passed away; death pervades Mikage's narration. Indeed, much of the action that follows could be seen as Mikage's response to dealing with the pain and despair of losing her loved ones. Just when Mikage seems to be getting back on her feet, death re-enters her life, when Eriko gets killed. "There's always death around us," she exclaims. Other characters are also plagued with death. Yuichi Tanabe enters the story because Mikage's grandmother has died and is devastated when he loses his mother, Eriko. Eriko changed her life because of death; when her wife died, she decided to become a woman.
Gender and Identity Some critics attribute Kitchen's fame in Japan to the fact that it contains some of the first popular
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Topics for Further Study • Research the traditional religions of Japan. In what ways do the characters in "Kitchen" reflect the values of these religions? In what ways do they go against them? • Banana Yoshimoto' s book, Kitchen, was so popular in Japan that it caused "Bananamania" to sweep the country, particularly the youth culture. What makes the book appealing to young readers? Should the book be equally appealing to all age groups? Why or why not? • "Kitchen" raises questions about gender and personality. Consider the main characters of the story. If these characters were not specifically identified in the narrative by name and gender, would the reader still be able to see them as male or female? Find examples of language or description that serve to define, or confuse, gender identification for these characters. • Suppose you are a writer hired to create the sequel to "Kitchen." Write an outline of a new story, taking up where this one ends. Feel free to keep the same characters or think of new ones who might make the story interesting.
transsexuals (people who assume the roles and appearance of the opposite gender) in Japanese literature. Eriko represents an ideal of feminine beauty, charm, and strength, but she was once a man. Eriko comes across clearly as a woman, but other characters get confused about her identity. Yuichi thinks of her at times as both his mother and his father, and Mikage refers to her as both a woman and man. Eriko herself claims that she identifies with both genders, when she writes in her will, ' 'even though I've lived all these years as a woman, somewhere inside me was my male self." Eriko's personality remains consistent, regardless of whether people see her as a man or woman. Eriko is murdered by a crazy man who was ' 'shocked to find out this beautiful woman was a man."
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Chika is another transsexual who is portrayed positively in the story. Although she "was undeniably a man in appearance,'' she has the manners and personality of a woman and makes Mikage feel ' 'masculine'' around her.
Loneliness When Mikage loses her last living relative, she realizes her essential loneliness, which she feels throughout the story. She is constantly reminded of how alone she is in the world by encounters with people and places: her old apartment, strangers she sees on the bus, and dark winter nights. Mikage slowly learns that it is important for her to confront her loneliness to find a more joyful life. At one point, she writes that she may never be "happy" because happiness is living a life untouched as much as possible by the knowledge that we are really, all of us, alone. Mikage is attracted to Yuichi, who, described as a "loner," seems to be more at peace with his loneliness, or equally as aware of it. She also takes strength from Eriko, whose unconventional life has given her the courage of independence.
Mysticism Although Mikage does not "believe in the gods," she sometimes shows a mystical awareness. When she meets Yuichi for the first time, she claims, "I think I heard a spirit call my name." There is also a scene in which Mikage and Yuichi appear to share the same dream, which comes partially true in real life. Yuichi notes the dream and its relation to real events later in the story, when he says, "something like this happened . . . [during] our dream conversation."
Premonition Mikage claims to have premonitions about the future. When she first meets Yuichi, she says that she "saw a straight road leading from me to him." When she searches for Yuichi in a strange hotel, she is able to find his room by luck. "I had an uneasy premonition and it didn't prove wrong," she explains. Eriko's will contains a premonition of her death.
Style Love While Mikage lives in the same home as Yuichi, their friendship develops deeper feelings. Strong emotions caused by love enter into the story when Yuichi's girlfriend confronts Mikage; when Mikage has feelings of jealousy; and when Mikage spontaneously travels a long distance in the middle of the night to find Yuichi. Through their relationship, Mikage and Yuichi seem to find strength and healing.
The Meaning of Life In the face of death and loneliness, Mikage searches for meaning in her life. She tries to overcome the "leaden hopelessness" that plagues her. Mikage "can't believe in the gods," and thus does not have the religion that gives many people meaning in life. Instead, she looks to the other characters and to herself for meaning. Eriko is a model of strength and gives Mikage advice on how to handle despair and the loss of meaning. Yuichi gives meaning to Mikage in the form of relationship, of having someone to care for. At times in the story, Mikage thinks about fate and freedom while searching for meaning. Despite believing in premonitions, she does not believe in fate, but in the individual freedom of "constantly making choices."
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Climax ' 'Kitchen'' is narrated in a manner that leads to a climax, or a dramatic point in which an increasing conflict gets resolved. From the beginning, relationships and events unfold and gain momentum in the story. Mikage acknowledges that the story is approaching a climax when, deliberating over what to do with Yuichi and his seclusion in a hotel room, she states: "I had a thrillingly sharp intuition.... we were just at the point of approaching and negotiating a ... curve." Conflict has arisen because Mikage and Yuichi must decide what their relationship means. The situation calls for drastic steps, which Mikage takes.
Narrative Structure "Kitchen" unfolds chronologically for the most part, although the narrative does jump back and forth in time occasionally. The narrative uses flashbacks to describe characters and events of the past, such as the description of Mikage's grandmother and her death. The story also speeds up in places; between Part One and Part Two several months have passed and Eriko has died. After this, the narrative relies on flashbacks to inform the reader of the events that have taken place.
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Point of View ' 'Kitchen'' is told from the first person point of view, which is the point of view of the protagonist, Mikage Sakurai. The author's choice of the perspective from which to tell the story has advantages and disadvantages. The first person gives the reader an intimate, personal view of the main character. At the same time, the representation of other characters becomes filtered through the protagonist's eyes, so objectivity may be sacrificed.
Symbolism Symbolism appears throughout Yoshimoto's story. For the protagonist, kitchens symbolize places of contentment, safety, and healing. Mikage claims, "to me a kitchen represents some distant longing engraved on my soul." When she is despondent, her dreams of kitchens keep her going. She takes to the kitchen and learns cooking as a way of overcoming feelings of meaninglessness and despair; cooking represents her new attitude toward life. Like kitchens and cooking, food also plays a symbolic role in the story. Mikage is constantly presenting her friends with food; her life changes when she takes a job at a cooking school; and the climax of the story occurs when Mikage brings a dish of special food to Yuichi in his secluded hotel room.
Voice When a story is told in the first person, the voice of the main character contributes greatly to the work's overall style. The voice of Mikage Sakurai can be described as a combination of the urban, sensitive, feminine, young, and open—all the things that Mikage seems to be. Mikage's voice can be complex as well, which keeps the reader intellectually engaged. She can go from the light and ironic, talking casually about herself and her situation, to the literary and complex, making more formal and generalized statements, such as this musing on fate that begins: "We all believe we can choose our own path from among the many." The other characters have voices that reflect and characterize them as well, although their voices are filtered and described by the narrator. Eriko, although a man, has a distinctive voice that is as skillfully portrayed by the author. Like Eriko's character, her voice blurs the lines of gender and raises questions for the reader; Eriko writes in her will: "Just this once I wanted to write using men's language... and the pen won't go." Yuichi's voice
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has a vagueness that can be hard to understand, but this portrayal is effective because his character can be incomprehensible to the narrator, Mikage.
Historical Context In "Kitchen," Yoshimoto does not provide an abundance of description of the time and culture in which the story takes place. The reader is casually informed, after several pages, that the setting is Japan, which is narrowed down to Tokyo several pages after that. From the characters and their customs, it can be inferred that the time is contemporary, most likely the mid-1980s, when the story was conceived and written. Yoshimoto may intentionally keep the time and place of the story vague in order to convey a certain effect; critics have remarked on the work's portrayal of characters who are suffering the alienation and loneliness associated with the modern urban setting. Tokyo in the mid-1980s is a huge sprawling city of over eight million people. Its architecture is modern and industrial, and the population density of the city has created high costs of living and cramped living conditions. Some of the characters in "Kitchen" reflect this environment. Sotaro, Mikage's ex-boyfriend, is noted for his uncommon love of green spaces and nature, which pegs him as slightly eccentric to the other students. When Mikage has deep thoughts, she often looks up at the sky, the only direction that supplies her with adequate space. In the mid-1980s, Japan has a booming industrial economy, bolstered by its exports of automobiles and electronics to the West. Japanese society has become more materialistic than ever, influenced by its wealth and the consumerism imported from America. Mikage acknowledges this consumerism when she says of her friends, ' 'these people had a taste for buying new things that verged on the unhealthy." Mikage's generation has been brought up on television and American culture; she mentions an American sitcom and Disneyland in her narrative. One character in the story is wearing "what is practically the national costume, a twopiece warmup suit," a style imported from America. In Japan, Yoshimoto's generation is called the shinjinrui, a generation that has grown up in a wealthy, technological society exposed to American values. Culturally, Japan has undergone tremendous changes in the past century. After World War II, the
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Compare & Contrast • 1980s: Laws are passed in Japan to encourage equal opportunities for women and to help female workers with the demands of motherhood. Women hold one of every forty management positions, and the Japanese workforce is about 35 percent women. Today: Women make up 40 percent of the Japanese workforce and hold one of every twenty-five managerial positions. Sexual discrimination laws have become more favorable to women. In 1996, the Japanese stock exchange hired its first female floor trader. Japanese women have started a sumo wrestling circuit, a sport that has long been for men only. The birth control pill has recently been legalized in Japan. • 1980s: Japan is undergoing an economic boom that has lasted several decades, making jobs plentiful, unemployment low, and providing a high quality of life. Consumerism is in style. Today: A stock market crash in Japan and changing economic conditions in southeast Asia have
Marshall Plan brought Western ideas and a free market economy to what had been an old and traditional culture. Traditional Japan had strict roles and standards of behavior for men and women that have since become more liberal and open. Things have changed, particularly for women. A few generations ago, women were subordinate to men in social status and economic power, not having many career options besides being housewives. Arranged marriages were common, in which young women were given away by their families to husbands. In the past, Japanese literature was characterized by works of philosophy and poetry. Japanese poets were famous for the haiku, short poems often concerning nature and change. The novel as an art form is relatively new in Japan, imported from Europe in the late 1800s. The novel brought new ideas to an old culture. One Japanese writer, Tanizaki
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put a slight damper on the economic optimism of the Japanese. Jobs are less plentiful and unemployment has increased. Consumerism is as stylish as ever, for abundant products ranging from robotic pets to electronic music. • 1980s: In parts of Japan, particularly smaller cities, children still grow up surrounded by traditional extended families, including their grandparents, aunts, and uncles. Today: As a higher percentage of Japanese have moved to urban areas for employment and because parents are working longer hours, Japanese children are spending less time with family members. • 1980s: American styles and cultural trends are prized throughout Asia, including Japan. Today: Japanese style and pop culture has become more innovative and independent. Other Asian countries are increasingly looking to Japan for the latest trends and styles. Japanese pop stars are famous throughout southeast Asia.
Junichiro, wrote in 1932 that European literature liberated the concept of love for the Japanese. By this, he meant that Western values changed the idea of marriage from an economic arrangement to a romantic possibility between two people. Japanese writers, including Yoshimoto, have continued to explore the theme of love in literature. By the mid-1980s, Japanese women have much more freedom and power. As one example, at the turn of the last century, women in Japan did not have the right to ask for divorces, but by the late 1980s, more women than men initiated divorce proceedings in Japan. Economic status has changed for Japanese women as well. Modern Japanese women have their own careers and living independently has become socially acceptable. A few generations ago in Japan, food preparation was considered a lower class occupation; in
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economically advantaged households, servants frequently provided the cooking. By the mid-1980s, and as reflected in ' 'Kitchen,'' food preparation has become a respectable career as well as an art form. Kitchens are now the showcases of Japanese consumer wealth, filled with new technologies and electronic gadgets, and artful cuisine reflects social sophistication.
ible pancake, charming and forgettable . . . The release of information to the reader seems unskilled, or immature, weak in narrative or plot." Elizabeth Hanson of the New York Times Book Review took issue with the overall effect of the book, writing that "the endearing characters and amusing scenes in Ms. Yoshimoto's work do not compensate for frequent bouts of sentimentality." Hanson added that the book's main appeal for English-language readers "lies in its portrayal of the lives of young Japanese.
Sexual roles have become more liberal in contemporary Japan. Young Japanese idolize androgynous Western rock stars like Michael Jackson and David Bowie (who is famous for dressing up as a woman in his concerts). A popular theater company for Japanese girls is the Takarazuka, in which an allfemale cast acts out roles of both men and women in a dream-like atmosphere that challenges gender boundaries.
Douglas Dupler
Critical Overview
Dupler has taught college English and has published numerous articles. In this essay, Dupler discusses how a short story shares ideas with the philosophical movement of existentialism.
Kitchen was received enthusiastically in Japan, while critics in the English-speaking world gave mixed reviews of the anticipated translation. On the positive side, critics praised the work's youthful look at modern Japanese life, the author's blending of Japanese and Western cultures, the charming style, and the eccentric characters. Georgea Kovanis of the Detroit Free Press praised Yoshimoto's "observation and rich detail" that make the work "sad and witty and introspective and observant and dreamy. And a wonderful read." Michiko Kakutani of the New York Times lauded Yoshimoto's "wit, her clarity of observation and her firm control of her story," as well as her "wonderful tactile ability to convey a mood or a sensation through her description of light and sound and touch." The New Yorker's Deborah Garrison wrote that "Yoshimoto's attraction to weirdness and her unpretentious approach to it—she's not trying to be hip, just faithful to her sense of people as they are—are what might make Western readers want more of her." The book was also noted for its portrayal of people who are alienated and lonely in the modern urban setting. Scott Shibuya Brown remarked in the Washington Post that Yoshimoto's characters are "alienated and withdrawn . . . grappling with the transition from order into emotional chaos." Some reviewers thought Kitchen was superficial in style and substance, and overly sentimental. Todd Crimson in the Los Angeles Times Book Review wrote that, '' 'Kitchen' is light as an invis-
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Criticism
Existentialism is a philosophical movement that flourished in Europe after World War II. It is a system of thinking and questioning that arose in response to major changes occurring in European society. These changes included changes in religious belief systems; upheavals in political and economic life; increases in urbanization and the loss of nature; and individuals' isolation in the modern industrial society. The existential system of philosophy also concerns itself with the question of freedom and the meaning of life, or existence. The ideas of existentialism permeate world literature of the twentieth century, as cultures around the world have faced similar changes and conflicts. Existentialism was influenced by the writings of Friedrich Nietzsche (1844-1900), the German philosopher who coined the famous phrase that "God is dead" in the late 1800s. By this statement, Nietzsche meant that centuries-old ideas of religion and the meaning of life had changed because of the new ideas of science, rationality, and modernization. These changes caused a crisis in European thinking because people could no longer rely on the old belief systems to provide meaning. At the same time, this new situation called for deeper questioning of existence, and finding new levels of personal freedom. This crisis of religious meaning is echoed by the protagonist of "Kitchen," Mikage Sakurai. Several times in the story, Mikage mentions that she has trouble accepting the common religious belief in God, although she is confused on the matter.
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What Do I Read Next? • Amrita is Banana Yoshimoto's second novel published in America (1994). It tells the story of an actress who loses her memory in an accident and struggles to piece her life back together. • Marguerite Duras's The Lover (1985) is a coming-of-age story about a young French woman in Vietnam. Yoshimoto's "Kitchen" has been compared to this internationally famous French novel. • "Moonlight Shadow" is the other story in Yoshimoto's Kitchen. Like the title story, it is set
Mikage states, "I can't believe in the gods," but at the same time she admits her confusion when she implores the "gods—whether they existed or not," to "please let me live." Mikage does not have a solid religious belief system to provide meaning for her life, so she turns to other sources for meaning, including friends and her own inward search. Existential heroes in literature have often been plagued with despair and profound loneliness. Another philosopher that existentialists have turned to is S0ren Kierkegaard (1813-1855), who called this despair "the sickness unto death." Kierkegaard wrote that the first step toward living a better life, toward overcoming the common "sickness" of despair, was acknowledging that despair may automatically accompany existence. Mikage practically embodies this idea; her journey in "Kitchen" is one of confronting the despair that constantly accompanies her life and fills her with pain. Indeed, everything around her reminds Mikage of her pain and loneliness. One night, looking out her window, she says, "I couldn't bear it. It oppressed me, and I felt like I couldn't breathe." "It" is her general feeling for the world. Granted, Mikage has good reasons for her despair—her grandmother's death and later Eriko Tanabe's death—but this pain is solidly entwined with her own existence, and she realizes that it is her responsibility.
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in contemporary Japan and told from the perspective of a young, sensitive woman. • Norwegian Wood, by Haruki Murakami, was a major bestseller when published in Japan in 1987. This story of love, loss, and cultural change in the early 1970s is narrated by a young Japanese man. • Shlzuko's Daughter, by Kyoko Mori (1993), is a novel about a young woman facing loneliness and pain in contemporary Japan. It contrasts the present day with glimpses of traditional Japanese culture.
Existential characters in literature tend to be lonely and find little help from mainstream society for their problems. Mikage, likewise, draws no solace from society when facing her pain and loneliness. She looks at the majority of women and thinks that she is "completely different" because she will never know, or accept, the "happiness" that seems to come easily to other people. This happiness is "living a life untouched as much as possible by the knowledge that we are really, all of us, alone." Mikage does not envy the happiness of the crowd because she has crossed a line that makes it inaccessible to her; she desires ' 'to continue living with the awareness that I will die." Mikage believes that this attitude may cause her at times to "despise" her life, but it also opens up the possibility of joy because she has more honestly faced her own existence. The French writer and philosopher Jean-Paul Sartre (1905-1980), perhaps the most famous existentialist, used the phrase "existence comes before essence'' as one description of the existential philosophy. By this, Sartre meant that each person's existence has the ultimate meaning for them because there are no essential truths that can be handed down. Finding truth, which may vary from person to person, is each person's responsibility. Sartre urged the personal freedom of choice in the face of
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life's unknowns, and claimed that seizing freedom was each person's duty. These ideas of free will and personal responsibility are also introduced in "Kitchen." Mikage makes the statement: "People aren't overcome by situations or outside forces; defeat invades from within," when she begins to realize that she has responsibility for her own life and its pain. Other people can no longer help her; she must take charge of things herself, "with or without" Yuichi. Toward the climax of the story, when Mikage is climbing a hotel balcony in a daring moment of "utter desperation," she contemplates the concept of free will. Up to this point in the story, Mikage has tended to believe in fate and in premonitions, which are beliefs that other powers are making decisions for her. She has also stated that "we have so little choice," and that "we live like the lowliest worms." Undergoing an existential change, Mikage finally admits to herself and the reader that human beings are ultimately free because "we're constantly making choices. With the breaths we take every day, with the expression in our eyes, with the daily actions we do over and over, we decide.'' She states that even when people think that they are being acted upon by outside forces, they are in reality choosing their situations and actions, sometimes subconsciously. One person that gives Mikage help and advice is Eriko, whom Mikage idealizes as a figure of feminine strength. Eriko is attractive to Mikage because of her courage and independence, particularly in the face of social convention. Eriko has taken charge of her own existence so much that she has defied the common behaviors of society and become a transsexual. Eriko writes in her will that she has ' 'cheerfully chosen to make my body my fortune." But the same things that give Eriko her beauty—her courage and individuality—also sentence her, in Mikage's mind, to "an ice-cold loneliness." Once again, the existentialist idea appears that personal freedom comes at the expense of going against the mainstream crowd. Eriko plants the ideas of personal freedom and choice in Mikage's mind, which ultimately help her overcome her despair. Eriko tells her, ' 'if a person hasn't ever experienced true despair, she grows old . . . never understanding what joy really is." Furthermore, overcoming the pain of life means making informed, free decisions; for Eriko, a positive choice is the "undertaking the care and feeding
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Existential heroes in literature have often been plagued with despair and profound loneliness. . . . Mikage practically embodies this idea; her journey in 'Kitchen' is one of confronting the despair that constantly accompanies her life and fills her with pain,"
of something." Doing this, one begins to understand freedom, "or your own limitations," Eriko tells Mikage. Mikage makes the free choice of learning how to cook, which is also a step she takes in overcoming her despair. "Angry, fretful, or cheery, I cooked through it all," Mikage says. Cooking becomes a way in which Mikage can understand her limitations and consciously rebuild herself; "when I finally learned to correct my mistakes coolly," she states, "it was truly as if I had somehow reformed my own slapdash character." Cooking also represents an act of freedom for Mikage.' 'Having known such joy," or the joy of taking responsibility for her life, Mikage claims that "there was no going back" to the ways of the crowd. Yoshimoto has written "Kitchen" in a manner that leaves the setting vague, both in time and place. Mikage mentions casually, after a few pages, that the story is taking place in Japan, and then narrows down the setting to Tokyo several pages after that. The time of the story is presumably contemporary, given the customs and habits of the characters. Other than this, the story could be taking place in almost any urban setting and at any time during the past few decades. This has the effect of portraying the alienation that the characters have with their immediate environment. Furthermore, the reader can extrapolate that contemporary Japan is a culture facing many of the factors that Europe faced when existential philosophy developed: it has recovered from a devastating war; political and economic
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institutions have dramatically changed; old belief systems are being replaced with new ones; and the country is undergoing rapid industrialization and urbanization. The fact that the main characters in "Kitchen" do not speak of these huge cultural trends may be a significant omission; cultural changes have become so large that these characters instead focus on the immediate problems of their own lives. This relates to existentialism because existential characters tend to focus on the personal rather than the political, and existential characters are alienated by the size and scope of the modern state. The characters in "Kitchen" are also disconnected with nature; the natural world is not frequently mentioned. When Mikage turns to the outside world, she often looks toward the sky, the only direction that affords her space, but at the same time the infinity of the sky increases her feelings of insignificance and loneliness. Sotaro, a minor character, is the only person in the story who has a deep connection with nature, and Mikage considers him slightly eccentric because of this. Still, nature only exists for Sotaro in parks and gardens, which are man-made. Otherwise, the characters in ' 'Kitchen" are mostly concerned with human culture and their lives within this environment. Source: Douglas Dupler, Critical Essay on "Kitchen," in Short Stories for Students, The Gale Group, 2002.
Joyce Hart Hart has degrees in English literature and creative writing and focuses her writing on literary themes. In this essay, Hart looks at the theme of food as love in Yoshimoto 's short story. Yoshimoto's character Mikage Sakurai begins the short story "Kitchen" with the statement, "The place I like best in this world is the kitchen." However, as the story unfolds, it becomes obvious that the reason why this place of appliances, tableware, and the aroma of cooking is Mikage's favorite place has nothing to do with the hum of the refrigerator or the cool surface of the linoleum floor and everything to do with food. In this strange story, an orphaned young woman meets an equally orphaned young man; the most prevalent metaphor throughout is that of food as the language of love. Mikage is emotionally lost when her grandmother, her last surviving relative, dies. Several days after the funeral, Yuichi Tanabe, a somewhat distant acquaintance, invites Mikage to stay at his home, which he shares with his father (who has had
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a sex change and currently presents himself as Yuichi's mother). The relationship between these three people quickly develops a bond mostly through Mik&ge's cooking. Yuichi and his father/mother, whose name is Eriko, are seldom home at the same time and have grown accustomed to eating out. However, when Eriko suggests, on the first morning that Mikage sleeps over, that they order a take-out brunch, Mikage's spirits perk up. Up until this point in the story, she has been rather lethargic and depressed; but with the mention of food, she is enlightened, almost as if she had been living in a foreign country and someone finally spoke in a language that she comprehended. "I stood up," Mikage relates, and then adds:' 'Would you like me to make something?" With this question, the relationship between Mikage and her newly adopted family is off on a fast but good step. After eating the "cucumber salad and soupy rice with eggs," Eriko invites Mikage to stay at their home as long as she wants and then suggests that in lieu of rent, ' 'just make us soupy rice once in a while." The bond is sealed, and Mikage's use of food as means of expressing her emotions has just begun. Mikage struggles through her depression in the ensuing weeks, doing not much more than cooking. Cooking is the only thing that gets her out of bed. The meals she prepares are very appreciated by Eriko, who, in a show of gratitude, buys Mikage a pretty glass, which brings Mikage near to tears. "I'm so happy!" she exclaims. Then in an aside to the reader, Mikage confesses that she had wanted to express her emotions to Eriko by stating that even after she moved away, she would like to return "again and again to make soupy rice." Here, the reader grasps Mikage's inability to^speak her thoughts and to display her emotions. Evert in her thoughts, Mikage is unable to say that she loved or cared for Eriko. Instead, she thinks of food. It isv through food, as is shown in this scene and many scenes to follow, that Mikage finds her voice. As Mikage and Yuichi's relationship develops, one of the first signs that they are drawing closer is a shared dream that they experience. In the dream, Yuichi tells Mikage that he has a desire to eat ramen, a noodle soup. Shortly after awakening from the dream, Yuichi, in real life, acknowledges his hunger. "I just woke up and I'm starving. I was thinking, hmm, maybe I'll make some ramen noodles." Yuichi's aroused appetite and the coincidental mentioning of ramen soup in both the dream and Yuichi's awakened state stirs Mikage's curiosity, as well as a developing compassion, for the
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young man. She vaguely discusses the elements of the dream with Yuichi while she makes the soup. Then, in a slightly sensuous tone, she tells the readers that there in the ' 'middle-of-the-night kitchen, I slipped the noodles into boiling water." Things are obviously beginning to heat up. Eriko is murdered about halfway through the story, and when Mikage remembers the last night that she saw Eriko, she remembers it through food. The two of them had coincidentally met at a convenience store in the middle of the night. Mikage had gone out to buy a "pudding cup," and Eriko had stopped by after work and was eating ' 'fish balls in broth.'' The first thing that Eriko says when she sees Mikage is "you've gotten so thin since you left our house!" This statement implies that in moving away from both Eriko and Yuichi, Mikage has obviously lost her appetite for food. While she lived with them, she was happy. She exhibited her happiness by making them great meals. She became so inspired that she tried every recipe she could find, no matter how difficult. She had a need to express her feelings for them through the preparation of food. Having moved back into an apartment of her own, she has no one to share meals with, no one to express her love with, and thus she stops eating well. When Yuichi telephones Mikage to tell her that Erika has been murdered, Mikage goes over to comfort Yuichi. The first thing that she comments on is the fact that Yuichi has also lost weight. She spends the night at his place. Upon awakening and seeing one another the next day, one of Yuichi's first comments is to ask Mikage to make him "a professional dinner!" This request excites Mikage, and she decides to "make a dinner to end all dinners." When she gives a list of ingredients to Yuichi and tells him to go out and buy them, Yuichi chides her with the words: "Ordering me around like a new bride." Neither of them is willing to admit that they have feelings for one another, but despite their inability to come out and declare their love, they flirt around the edges of the concept by playing house, especially in relationship to food. The "dinner of all dinners" that Mikage and Yuichi create is done with almost as much enthusiasm and relish as a sexual encounter. After the dinner, Yuichi admits that during the interval when he had not been in touch with Mikage, he had missed her. He confesses that every time he passed a phone booth, it seemed to glow, as if beckoning him to call her. He was afraid to be
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L It is through food . . . that Mikage finds her voice."
turned down by her, so he did not give in to his urges. Then he tells her, ' 'food, too, was giving off light, like the telephone." In other words, he describes food in terms of a medium of communication between the two of them, similar to the telephone. Just as he did not respond to the "light" of the telephone, he also stayed away from food, because it was too closely related to Mikage. Instead, he drank and lost weight. Their relationship grows more intense as Mikage becomes more self-assured. Her confidence is developed through her decision to take her cooking to another level. To do this, she applies for a job with a caterer and upon acceptance, learns the artistry of cooking. Balancing neatly with her growth in the area of preparing food is the growth of her relationship with Yuichi, which Mikage is forced to more clearly define when she is confronted with a young woman who has obviously fallen in love with Yuichi. This woman knows about Mikage and decides to meet her face-to-face at Mikage's place of employment. It is in this scene that Mikage asserts herself for the first time in the story. Until this point, she is more or less passive in reference to her fate. She goes where the wind blows her, in a matter of speaking. When her grandmother died, she slept in the kitchen and did little to carry on with her life. When Yuichi invited her to stay with him and Eriko, she followed him without question even though she barely knew him. It was her decision, however, to take the job with the caterer; and it is in this position that she has gained a sense of self-identity. So when the young woman, Okuno, who has fallen in love with Yuichi, comes to Mikage's job, and demands that Mikage stop seeing Yuichi, Mikage takes a rather powerful stand. Okuno yells at Mikage and describes her as being cold-hearted for toying with Yuichi. Okuno wants to continue berating Mikage, but Mikage finds her nerve and shouts, "Stop!" With her confidence all-aglow, she all but chases Okuno away, but she cannot rid the feelings that Okuno has stirred. In this new position of strength, Mikage must reflect on her true feelings for Yuichi.
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Both Mikage and Yuichi, at this point in the story, have been granted opportunities to leave Tokyo, at least temporarily. Mikage takes a business trip to learn about more exotic foods, and Yuichi decides to try to get away from his depression over Eriko's death by taking a trip to the countryside. As they part, Yuichi, instead of kissing her good-bye or even touching her hand or giving her a hug, asks that Mikage bring something back from her trip for him. Mikage's response is:' 'An eel pie." Yuichi does not like eel pie (a type of pastry) and suggests yet another food: "pickled wasabi root." Although Mikage "can't stand the stuff," she agrees to bring it back for him. On Mikage's first day away from the city and also from Yuichi, Mikage has trouble eating. Even though she is on a trip to learn about new foods, she is unable to eat the items that are offered to her. Instead, at the end of the day, she tells her boss that she is starving and then goes off to find something "heavy and filling" to eat. She finds a restaurant and orders "deep-fried pork in broth over rice," a dish that is very contrary to the vegetarian meals that had been placed in front of her during the day. While her food is cooking, she calls Yuichi, who is staying at an inn that serves only "monk" food, which translated means entrees that are all made with tofu, or soybean curd. Through their conversation, Mikage and Yuichi discover that neither of them has been enjoying the meals that they have encountered. The options available to them have been foods that are marked with a sense of abstinence;—in this case, the omission of meat. Of course, the distance between them also marks an abstinence of physical contact between them. Most of the dialogue of their phone call is focused on food, and when Mikage hangs up and begins to eat her pork dinner, she feels guilty. The next thing she knows, she is requesting a similar meal be prepared to go. As impossible as it may seem, Mikage takes a cab to where Yuichi is staying, finds the inn, and despite the fact that both the front door and the back door are locked, she intuitively guesses which window belongs to Yuichi's room, climbs up the first story and knocks on the glass. Mikage, once inside the room, senses that Yuichi does not want to return to the city. She feels that their relationship has reached a point where their paths will slowly stray from one another. She hides her despair, however, and pulls out the take-out dinner and hands it to him; and "Yuichi guiltily took" it. "Although he still
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looked as if he did not understand what was happening,' ' Yuichi takes the lid off the carton and begins to eat. Mikage and Yuichi appear to be so unaware of their emotions that it is painful just reading about them. They yearn for something that they cannot describe. However, once Yuichi begins to eat, Mikage states that her "spirit began to lift," for she had done everything that she could possibly do (mostly through food) to let Yuichi know her feelings. As Yuichi eats, Mikage flashes back to some memorable moments that they have shared. During one of those times, she remembers that Yuichi had once said: "Why is it that everything I eat when I'm with you is so delicious?" Interestingly, Mikage's response is:' 'Could it be that you're satisfying hunger and lust at the same time?'' Yuichi is still eating his dinner when Mikage announces that she must leave. After a brief statement about where she is going, and why she felt she had to come, Yuichi lays down his chop sticks, looks into her eyes and says: "This is the best katsudon I've ever had in my life," referring to the pork dinner that Mikage has just brought him. This is his response to Mikage's statement that she does not want to lose him. At this point, readers might think that maybe Mikage has put a little too much reliance on food. Maybe she should have been more open and direct about her feelings. However, the story is not quite finished. There is the possibility that Yuichi is just a little slow in understanding. After he has digested the pork dinner, maybe he will comprehend the message that was subtly infused in the meat. Mikage returns to her hotel depressed. Everything she describes in the following scene is cold and dark. She barely mentions food. Then there is a phone call. Yuichi is calling from Tokyo. He has decided to return to the city; this means there is still hope for Mikage. Her spirits once again lift, as Yuichi asks her what she had to eat that day. She tells him the details of the French cuisine and then informs him that she has mailed a package to her apartment in Tokyo. In the package is both the eel pie and the wasabi root. She then gives Yuichi permission to go to her apartment and pick it up. Yuichi, in turn, teases her. "Why didn't you send sashimi and prawns?" Mikage insinuates that she could not have sent them because they would have become spoiled as they sat in her apartment, waiting for her return. Continuing in their coded language of food, Yuichi informs her that the food would not have spoiled had she carried them with her instead
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of mailing them. Then, adding the final words that Mikage was waiting to hear, Yuichi tells her that he will be picking her up at the station upon her arrival. So ends the story and begins the love affair of Mikage and Yuichi. Readers might imagine that as the affair gains in strength, so might the young couple gain in weight, unless they learn to speak of love through something other than the consumption of food.
Despite their strange reputation, she makes a judgement not on Yuichi's transvestite father turned mother, but instead chooses to base her feelings for the
Source: Joyce Hart, Critical Essay on "Kitchen," in Short Stories for Students, The Gale Group, 2002.
Tanabes on their kitchen."
Laura Kryhoski Kryhoski is a former English as a Second Language (ESL) teacher and is currently a freelance writer. In this essay, Kryhoski considers the symbolic role both food and the kitchen play in Yoshimoto 's work. ' 'The place I like best in the world is the kitchen''— these are the words of Mikage in the opening of Mahoko "Banana" Yoshimoto's Kitchen. "If it's a place where they make food, it's fine with me," Mikage adds. Like the kitchen, food becomes a source of comfort for Mikage. At the outset of the story, she embraces a gleaming silver refrigerator "stocked with enough food to get through a winter." Having enough food instills a sense of confidence, it is safe, and it assures a successful survival. It is also a symbol of activity, of a house filled with inhabitants, a house filled with life. Throughout Yoshimoto's story, this assertion proves to be consistently true for Mikage. Both the kitchen and the food within it prove to nourish her, body and soul. The kitchen is a source of communion at the beginning of the novel—communion between Mikage and the spirit of her grandmother. Small traces of life with her grandmother, an ' 'oil-spattered burner" and a "rusty kitchen knife," comfort her. She states that "now only the kitchen and I are left. It's just a little nicer than being alone.'' Mikage also shares that' 'the hum of the refrigerator kept me from thinking of my loneliness." The rusty knife and the drone of the refrigerator are both tangible, real artifacts from a happier past. Memories of another life with her Grandmother in the apartment, replete or overflowing with "the smells of our life there," are Mikage's consolation, her means of coping with grief. Such emotive power carries over in her description of the Tanabe kitchen, in which
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Mikage discovers, "a delightful German-made vegetable peeler—a peeler to make even the laziest grandmother enjoy slip, slipping those skins off." The kitchen is also the gauge by which Mikage initially defines the Tanabes' character. Despite their strange reputation, she makes a judgement not on Yuichi's transvestite father turned mother, but instead chooses to base her feelings for the Tanabes on their kitchen. She indeed reacts to Yuichi's story with some reservation as to his true character. In the same breath, however, she adds ' 'but I trusted their kitchen." To elaborate on her impression, Mikage takes a mental inventory of the Tanabes' cooking utensils, affirming that "it was [indeed] a good kitchen." This impression provides Mikage with a sense of stability in an unstable environment. Nowhere is this idea more evident than during her first evening spent in the company of the Tanabes. After taking a shower, Mikage goes to the living room to sleep, but does not go to bed immediately, claiming,' T just had to go back for one more look at the kitchen. It was a really good kitchen." Her life still swirling from the day's events, she manages to comment on her proximity or closeness to the kitchen as being the best place that she could possibly be. Overpowered by her feelings on a final visit to the apartment, Mikage rushes off the bus, tears streaming down her face. What snaps her to her senses is the image of steam rising from a brightlylit window above her, drawing her attention to the sounds of "happy voices," and of "pots and pans clanging." At this moment, the kitchen soothes Mikage. She goes from a place of intense despair to one of happiness in the blink of an eye and marvels at the transformation. The sight of the kitchen revives her. The sight of the kitchen inspires Mikage
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to go on, as reflected in her plea to the gods that she wants to live. The kitchen proves to be her spiritual connection with the living world. Mikage also shares her thoughts about her "dream kitchens," either real or born out of fancy or imagination. Some will take shape in her heart—in others she will find comfort in a crowd of people. Likewise, Mikage believes she will continue to have difficulties, that she will suffer, but that her spirit will survive—she will not be defeated. In the juxtaposition or comparison of the kitchen to the struggles in her life, a more concrete idea takes shape. Mikage will always find a kitchen; therefore, she will always find a place of solace, whether she creates one within herself (her heart), a kitchen she can go to in order to feel safe, or a kitchen in the company of others. No matter how often the struggles come, there will always be a safe haven for her somewhere. One of the first connections Mikage makes with the Tanabe family also involves food. She cooks breakfast for Eriko, stating "I couldn't have dreamed of having breakfast at the house of someone I had just met, and it felt very strange." For Mikage, eating is sacred, it is intimate, and demands a deeper relationship between participants, deeper than one between strangers. But her breakfast with Eriko, no matter how awkward, signifies a turning point for Mikage. As a result of a simple morning ritual, Mikage's heart is transformed, and she begins to feel connected to something or someone again. In another instance, Eriko brings Mikage a juicer as a gift, claiming "I hear fresh-squeezed juice gives you beautiful skin." For Eriko and for Mikage, food symbolizes vitality, life. In Mikage's response, she recognizes the spiritual transformation that has taken place within her own heart. After receiving this gift, Mikage vows to never forget the Tanabes. She acknowledges the bond she has formed with the family in her thoughts of coming back "again and again to make soupy rice for them." In fact, many if not all of Mikage's encounters with the Tanabes are related in terms of food, and she often comments on them. Eriko's story of the pineapple plant that he gives to his dying wife, is a very powerful recollection of Mikage's. Eriko admits that in choosing the plant for his wife he felt that it was a "plant that I could understand, it had fruit on it and everything." There is reciprocity or give and take established between both Eriko and the plant in relating to his dying wife. He shares, In this world, tonight, only the pineapple and I understand each other—that thought came straight from my heart. Closing my eyes, as if against the cold wind, I
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felt we were the only two living things sharing that loneliness.
Eriko claims to have taken the plant away from the hospital at his wife's request before it becomes "infused with death." His relationship with this fruit-bearing plant is a function of the spiritual connection he has with his dying wife. The plant is removed, not as the result of any discussion, but, according to Eriko, because of a certain intuition shared between husband and wife. This special connection will resurface later in communication between Yuichi and Mikage. Specifically, after ordering katsudon (fried pork served over rice), Mikage has a revelation with regard to Yuichi. The katsudon becomes more than just a meal, it is a means to reach out to Yuichi, to relate to him, to acknowledge both Mikage's and Yuichi's connectedness as two lovers starving under the same night sky. Food is a turning point for their relationship because it is this idea of' 'starving together" that inspires Mikage to make their fate one and the same. She suddenly recognizes by what she describes as "thrilling sharp intuition" that the relationship has come to a fork in the road, that it could blossom into something meaningful or they could remain "forever friends." Upon delivery of the katsudon she says' 'I came to deliver the katsudon, it seemed so delicious," to which Yuichi replies "Our dream conversation. Isn't this like that?" Accusing him of trying to forget his old life, of an unhealthy escape, Mikage then adds ' 'but right now there's this katsudon. Go ahead, eat it." She wants to pull him out of the nightmare, ground him in the reality of what is going on, and she sees food as a way to accomplish this. In a dreamlike state, he eats the katsudon, Mikage stating "my spirits began to lift. I had done all that I could." She feels that food is the tonic to ground Yuichi, to spark happier memories between the two. It is both Yuichi and Mikage's solace or comfort, their connection to each other, and quite literally, to life itself. The idea of sustenance or nourishment as a means for emotional survival intensifies the nature of both Yuichi and Mikage's grief as being a "life and death" matter, one that impacts the nature of their very souls. There is reciprocity going on between the two of them, as Mikage exchanges food with Yuichi to bring him out of his dreamlike state. So has Yuichi done the same, in a dream, by pulling Mikage away from subconscious thoughts that her grandmother is still alive, to ground her in the reality of the ramen noodle stand, a source of nourishment. Such an activity is one of normalcy, of routine, and
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signifies that life is moving forward. Symbolically, it is a means of proceeding past a dangerous emotional place for both Yuichi and Mikage. Mikage also has a flood of memories associated with food at this point, all happy. Yuichi breaks through with "Why is it that everything I eat when I'm with you is so delicious?" Mikage is his sustenance, like the food itself. She breathes life into him, returning him to the most simple of pleasures. Mikage makes an interesting observation, stating "Yuichi eating his katsudon, me drinking my tea, the darkness no longer harboring death." Yoshimoto, at this point, employs a rather interesting word choice—the word harboring, by definition, is to entertain or to nourish a thought or feeling. The darkness, then, is death's nourishment. Food, however, represents the nourishment of life, and of the soul. It is as if the katsudon and tea have infused light and life into both Yuichi and Mikage. Earlier in the text, Yuichi also speaks of "food" that "was giving off white light, like the telephone. So I wondered if eating it would put out the light." The importance of food in contemporary Japanese culture mirrors many of the sentiments of Yoshimoto's book. John Ashburne, in "World Food Japan,'' emphasizes that Japan is a nation characterized by its obsession with food. He also asserts that an invitation to eat in Japan is more than a simple affair. A Japanese lunch invitation cannot be likened to the statement, "let's grab a burger." Ashburne offers the opinion that "it's an invitation to commune over food, to bond in a primal act of mutual celebration, to reinforce group identities, or welcome outsiders into the fold." Preparation and presentation, as well as etiquette figure prominently in the Japanese dining world. In the religious practice of a Zen monk, food and the act of eating also play an important role. The art of cooking, and that of eating, is practiced only by Tenzo, or monks already on a strong spiritual path, and is seen as an opportunity for both meditation as well as learning. Quoting Zen master Dogenzenji's "Instructions for the Zen Cook," (circa 1237), Ashburne relays the words of the great Zen master on the simple act of washing rice and cooking it. Dogen-zenji states, "Keep your eyes open. Do not allow even one grain of rice to be lost. Wash the rice thoroughly, put it in the pot, light the fire and cook it.'' He then adds,''There is an old saying that goes, 'see the pot as your own head; see the water as your life-blood.'" Dogen-zenji also comments on '' whipping up a quick lunch,'' stating that
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one should ' 'maintain an attitude that tries to build a temple from ordinary greens . . . Handle even a single leaf of green in such a way that it manifests the body of the Buddha." Dogen-zenji's ideas form the basis for much of Yoshimoto's text. Mikage's process of self-discovery is facilitated or aided by her desire to cook, as is her sense of spirituality and connection with others. In the end, the infusion of light and life into Yuichi's soul compels him to return to Tokyo and to track down Mikage. Upon calling Mikage, he asks her if she as eaten "a lot of good things," and Yuichi then quips jokes that she should have sent "sashimi and prawns" (raw fish or meat) back to Tokyo. This display of lightheartedness between the two signifies a turning point in their relationship, a return to some sort of normalcy, a movement towards the future, and a chance for happier memories, as symbolized yet again by food. Banana Yoshimoto's Kitchen is simply an elaboration on the idea of spiritual rebirth. Over and over, people begin again, not unlike the chef in a kitchen. A new day, a new dish—it is all in the routine, and in routine comes constant renewal. Source: Laura Kryhoski, Critical Essay on "Kitchen," in Short Stories for Students, The Gale Group, 2002.
Ian Buruma In the following essay excerpt, Buruma claims that ' 'Kitchen'' draws upon aspects of traditional Japanese literature and current popular tastes. Japan can easily give the impression of a country of fag hags. Comic books for young girls feature beautiful youths falling in love with aristocratic men, or androgynous rock stars. Japanese girls like David Bowie at his most camp. The film of E. M. Forster's Maurice played to full houses, mostly of young girls. Luchino Visconti was a teen-age idol, as was his star, Helmut Berger. The most popular theater company for young girls is the all female Takarazuka, based in a dreamlike little spa near Osaka, with pink bridges and pink houses, and a large pink theater. One of the most popular Takarazuka roles—apart from Rhett Butler and Lieutenant Pinkerton—is that of a young woman at the court of Louis XVI, who grows up as a boy named Oscar. As a dashing military officer, Oscar falls in love with a Swedish aristocrat, who is already in love with Marie-Antoinette. But Oscar in turn is adored by her/his groom, who is unaware of his master's female identity. The play is entitled Rose of Versailles.
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The tone of Yashimoto's stories is strange, for it veers from childlike naivete to flights of bizarre fancy, which is just like most of Japanese comic books for teenagers."
All this would be camp, if it were knowing. But it is not. Young Japanese girls appear to find the pink bridges, the gay romances, the rock stars in drag, the girls dressed as boys who fall in love with other boys, beautiful. Akogare, romantic longing, is the term they use for this dream world, far removed from the demands of reality. What would be the highest of camp in another context can become cute in Japan, redolent of childhood. It is rather like the chosen name of [Yoshimoto Banana]. Banana is the kind of sobriquet that would suit a Brazilian drag artist. But the publicity photograph of Yoshimoto Banana, hugging her little puppy dog, is cuteness personified. The fact that her father is the most famous philosopher of the 1960s new left gives her name an extra air of incongruousness, as though there were a young German novelist called Banana Habermas. Yoshimoto Banana's extraordinary success— more than six million books were sold in two years, and she is still in her twenties—has made her so famous that the Japanese foreign ministry was handling out copies of her book to foreign visitors at the G-7 Summit in Tokyo. They may not realize what peculiar fantasies lurk behind Yoshimoto's cute exterior. Yoshimoto Banana's stories are clearly related to the androgynous teen-age universe of Takarazuka and girls' comic. The characters in Kitchen, a book of two short stories, include a transsexual father and a boy who dresses up in his dead girlfriend's school uniform. Yet there is nothing overtly kinky about these transformations. In the first story, entitled ' 'Kitchen,'' a young girl called Mikage, who is left alone in the world after her grandmother dies, goes to live with Eriko, the transsexual, and his/her son, Yuichi. She more or less lives in their kitchen,
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cooking delicious food, trying to soothe her lonely heart. In a way, the kitchen is to Mikage what drag is to Eriko: a refuge from loneliness after the death of a loved one. Yuichi explains how his father became his mother: "After my real mother died, Eriko quit her job, gathered me up, and asked herself, 'What do I want to do now?' What she decided was, 'Become a woman.' She knew she'd never love anybody else. She says that before she became a woman she was very shy."
In the second story, entitled "Moonlight Shadow," Hiiragi's taste for wearing his dead girlfriend's clothes is equally matter-of-fact. And it, too, is an escape from loneliness. His girlfriend, Yumiko, died in a car crash, together with his brother Hitoshi. Hitoshi's girlfriend is called Satsuki, and the story is told in her voice. She wants to know why Hiiragi insists on going around in Yumiko's school uniform: When I asked him if he wore it for sentimental reasons, he said that wasn't it. "Things are just things, they can't bring back the dead. It just makes me feel better."
What cooking is to Mikage, jogging is to Satsuki. As Satsuki says: "His sailor outfit—my jogging. They served exactly the same purpose... Neither recourse was anything more than a way of trying to lend some life to a shriveled spirit. It was a way to divert our minds, to kill time." The Italian scholar Giorgio Amitrano pointed out the connection with girls' comics in his introduction to the German edition of Kitchen. He wrote that Yashimoto's stories, with their odd sexual disguises and morbid emotions, are not only like many Japanese girl's comics, but also owe much to horror movies and the impressionistic style of Kawabata Yasunari's novels. This is more weight than the book can possibly carry, but the point is well taken. For a fascination for horror and death is as much part of girls' comics as the cuteness and androgynous fantasies. The tone of Yashimoto's stories is strange, for it veers from childlike naivete to flights of bizarre fancy, which is just like most of Japanese comic books for teen-agers. Sometimes her prose is direct and simple, and sometimes it reads like a young girl's diary, filled with poetic sadness: "Suddenly, to see that the world was so large, the cosmos so black. The unbounded fascination of it, the unbounded loneliness ..." Children often dream of flying out the windows of their bedrooms, following some fairy or another,
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to a never-never land without parents, to a new family of children and freaks. Yoshimoto's characters are a bit like the children in such tales—except that they are not children; they just dream like children. Instead of fathers and mothers, there are the surrogate fathers and brothers, dressed in women's clothes. But neither of her stories celebrates or even suggests new sexual possibilities, as one might assume. Indeed, sex, like real parents and siblings, is absent. Yuichi never becomes Mikage's lover, and neither does Hiiragi in Satsuki's case. Not sex but death permeates both tales: the death of Eriko, stabbed by a mad suitor; the death of Mikage's grandmother; and the deaths of Satsuki's boyfriend and Hiiragi's girlfriend. Death, loss, the melancholy fleetingness of life, these are brooded over endlessly with the feverish sensibility of Victorian children's tales. This is where Kitchen is both contemporary and very traditional—hence, perhaps, the perceived shades of Kawabata, who, incidentally, wrote some of his stories for an audience of young girls. But is a pop version of Kawabata, as though The hu Dancer, or Snow Country, were written for the Takarazuka theater. The two most common phrases in classical Japanese literature, as well as in modern pop songs and in Yoshimoto's book, are sadness (kanashimi), and nostalgia (natsukashisa). Translated into English, this can sound odd: ' 'The sound of his voice made me want to weep with nostalgia." Or: "Somewhere deep in my heart I felt I had known her long ago, and the reunion made me feel so nostalgic I wanted to weep tears of joy." Weeping tears of nostalgia is not something one comes across often in Western literature. Not that the emotion doesn't exist, but it is not usually so histrionically expressed; or rather, what sounds histrionic in English is perfectly ordinary in Japanese. Perhaps nostalgic isn' t even quite the right word for natusukashii, but I wouldn't know of a better one. Nostalgia is closely linked to that other key element of Japanese aesthetics: mono no aware, the sadness of things, lacrimae rerum. Sadness about the transience of life, is, in Japanese art, a thing of beauty. Again, like nostalgia, it is not easy to translate. But you find instances of it all through Yoshimoto's book: "When I finished reading I carefully refolded the letter. The smell of Eriko's favorite perfume tugged at my heart. This, too will disappear after the letter is opened a few more times, I thought. That was hardest of all."
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Nostalgia is one reason why so much in Japanese art is about reliving the past, or fixing the flow of time, as in a haiku. The ghosts of the dead appear in Noh plays, rather as Christ did to his disciples after the crucifixion. Sometimes they return to torment or exact their revenge, and sometimes to liberate the living from being haunted by death. And sometimes just to say goodbye. In "Moonlight Shadow," Satsuki sees her dead boyfriend for one last time, when he appears one night on a river bank: "My tears fell like rain; all I could do was stare at him. Hitoshi looked sadly back at me. I wished time could stop—but with the first rays of the rising sun everything slowly began to fade away." The beautiful sadness of things is linked to the Japanese cult of purity, of uncorrupted youth, of the cherry blossom in full bloom. It is the fleetingness of the cherry blossom's life (about a week in Japan), and the speed at which decay and corruption spoil the pure beauty of a young boy or girl, that bring on the sense of exquisite sadness. Here is where classical Japanese aesthetics meets the world of Takarazuka, girls' comics, and Yoshimoto's stories. For in all these instances, there is a deep nostalgia for the purity of youth, before sex roles are clearly defined, before social hypocrisy corrupts, before the rot sets in. In Japanese fiction of the seventeenth and eighteenth century, homosexuality was often celebrated for this reason: boys' love was considered to be purer than the heterosexual kind; it was uncontaminated by the demands of reproduction and other family duties. Since family duties are (or at any rate were) particularly onerous in Japan and the sexes so rigidly defined, it is no wonder that young girls so often long to stop time, and retreat into a fantasy world of purity, androgyny, and prepubescence. Yet, of course, women have written about sexual love. Lady Murasaki wrote about little else in her Tale ofGenji. But even she, who still enjoyed a high status in the rarefied sphere of the Heian court, was filled with sadness: she pined, she longed, she was nostalgic. Since then the status of Japanese women steadily declined and women's stories, whether written by women or men, became sadder and sadder. Love so often ended in tragedy, because there was no room in Japanese society for love. Marriage had nothing to do with romantic love. And women who loved outside the home, in fiction and in fact, overstepped their social borders, and their passion had to end in death. Sex, in the fiction of the Edo period (1603-1867), was almost entirely confined to the licensed quarters. But only men wrote
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about this floating world of paid love. Ihara Saikaku's The Life of an Amorous Woman (1686) is one of the masterpieces of this genre. Women, being confined to the brothel or the home, hardly wrote anything at all. They were the sacrificial victims of love in the male imagination, and often in reality too. Love, wrote Tanizaki Junichiro in 1932, was liberated for the Japanese by European literature. He meant that romantic love in modern Japan had become a serious subject, not an excuse for dramatic suicide. Before there was only sex, with prostitutes, actors, boys; now sexual love would strike a blow for individual freedom. Women writers took up this theme too. But it is interesting that one of the greatest literary masterpieces of the early modern period (and indeed of modern Japanese literature tout court) should still be so traditional, in content and in form. It is a novella, entitled Growing Up, written by Higuchi Ichiyo and published in 1895. It is the story of a young girl growing up in a licensed quarter of Tokyo. What makes her sexual awakening, her growing up, so sad is that we know how she will end up, in the brothel with her elder sister. Freedom, as this story shows, belongs to the child. The loss of innocence means bondage not freedom. To become a woman is to enter the prison that society has provided, in this case a whorehouse, but it could just as well have been the home. Things have changed since 1896, to be sure. Japanese women have more freedom than ever before. One of the most remarkable statistics of modern Japan is that since a few years ago, more women than men initiated divorce proceedings. (In Higuchi Ichiyo's time, a woman did not even have the right to ask for a divorce.) And yet, as far as sexual love is concerned, things have not changed as much as it may seem. For the alternative to pure sex is still very often a sad nostalgia for lost innocence. What has changed is that the description of sex, from a predatory point of view, is no longer a male preserve. A young woman writer called Yamada Emi made her reputation by writing novels about working as a dominatrix in an SM club, and her passion for black men. In Bedtime Eyes, she describes her lover, a black GI, as a sweating sex object. His character is as flat and featureless as the courtesans in pornographic wood block prints of the Edo period. Foreigners, and especially black men, have taken the place of prostitutes in the Japanese erotic imagination. A recent nonfiction best seller, entitled Yellow Cab, by leda Shoko, featured examples of wild sexual adventures enjoyed by Japanese
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women visiting New York. This is not the love that Tanizaki talked about. But at least it is women doing all the talking. Sex with foreigners, in fantasy or in fact, is a long way from the pink dreams of innocent genderbending. And yet there is a connection. Just as the licensed quarters were a traditional escape for men from the duties of family life, sexual adventurism overseas has become a modern escape for many independent women. Marriage for most Japanese women is still a social trap, commonly known as "the graveyard of life." It means the end of a career, of economic independence. And since heterosexual love in Japan usually means marriage, an increasing number of career women are stuck with celibacy, with or without trips abroad. The alternative is of course the sexless intimacy of the fag hag and her chosen friends. The heroines of Yoshimoto's fiction are not exactly fag hags, nor are they innocent. Mikage and Satsuki are young women. But grown-up sexual relationships are still beyond their grasp. Instead, in the security of their private kitchens, they dream nostalgic dreams, and shed melancholy tears about the passing of time. This is the stuff of great Japanese poetry, and absolute kitsch. Yoshimoto Banana is not yet a mistress of poetry, but she is a past master of kitsch. Source: Ian Buruma, "Weeping Tears of Nostalgia," in the New York Review of Books, Vol. XL, No. 14, August 12, 1993, pp. 29-30.
Sources Ashburne, John, and Yoshi Abe, World Food Japan, Lonely Planet, 2002. Brown, Scott Shibuya, "Adrift in the New Japan," in Book World—Washington Post, January 10, 1993, p. 8. Garrison, Deborah, "Day-O!," in the New Yorker, Vol. LXVIII, No. 49, January 25, 1993, pp. 109-10. Crimson, Todd, in the Los Angeles Times Book Review, January 10,1993, pp. 3, 7. Hanson, Elizabeth, "Hold the Tofu," in the New York Times Book Review, January 17, 1993, p. 18. Kakutani, Michiko, in the New York Times, January 12,1993. Kovanis, Georgea, in the Detroit Free Press, April 2, 1993, pp. 1G-2G.
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Further Reading De Mente, Lafayette, The Japanese Have a Word for It: The Complete Guide to Japanese Thought and Culture, McGraw Hill, 1997. De Mente provides readable and detailed information to those unfamiliar with life and culture in modern Japan. Kaufmann, Walter Arnold, ed., Existentialism: From Dostoevsky to Sartre, Meridian, 1988.
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This collection of essays provides analyses and examples of the themes of loneliness and despair in world literature. Keene, Donald, ed., Anthology of Japanese Literature from the Earliest Era to the Mid-Nineteenth Century, Grove Press, 1988. This anthology provides an introduction to and history and selections of Japanese literature. Tanaka, Yukiko, ed., Unmapped Territories: New Women's Fiction from Japan, Women in Translation, 1991. Fresh and innovative writing by contemporary Japanese women is sampled in this anthology.
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Menagerie, a Child's Fable Charles Johnson
1984
' 'Menagerie, a Child's Fable,'' by Charles Johnson, was first published in a magazine in 1984, and reprinted in the short story collection The Sorcerer's Apprentice in 1986. Although it is subtitled "A Child's Fable," "Menagerie, a Child's Fable" is aimed at the adult reader and addresses serious social and political issues. "Menagerie, a Child's Fable" takes place in a pet store where the main character, a German shepherd named Berkeley, works as a watchdog. One day the owner of the shoppe does not show up as usual, and the animals conclude that he is dead. After several days, Berkeley, who is the only one not confined to a cage, frees the other animals so they can get to the food supplies. Once all of the animals are released from captivity and must learn to live together, they begin to compete for the food supplies, to threaten one another with violence, and even to prey on one another. Berkeley tries to keep the peace, and to protect the more vulnerable animals from the predators, but the situation becomes more and more chaotic. Berkeley finally falls asleep from exhaustion and has a dream that the owner has returned to the shoppe and praises the dog for doing a good job of keeping the peace. When Berkeley wakes up, Monkey is holding a gun and shoots him in the chest. As Berkeley lies on the floor bleeding to death, a fire spreads throughout the shop. "Menagerie, a Child's Fable" is a fable using animal characters in the setting of a pet shoppe to
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comment on the state of humanity as a diverse global community. The story addresses themes of freedom and oppression, racism and pluralism, democracy and fascism, and war and peace.
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MacArthur Fellowship, also known as the ' 'genius grant," which recognizes exceptional individuals with a personal gift of over $300,000.
Plot Summary Author Biography Charles Richard Johnson was born in Evanston, Illinois, on April 23, 1948. Johnson graduated with a bachelor's degree in journalism from Southern Illinois University in 1971. While attending college, he worked as a journalist and cartoonist for the Chicago Tribune. In 1973, he completed a master's degree in philosophy from Southern Illinois University. During his graduate study, Johnson began writing fiction under the mentorship of the novelist John Gardner, who taught creative writing at Southern Illinois University. From 1973 to 1976, Johnson attended graduate school in philosophy at State University of New York at Stony Brook, but left before completing his Ph.D. Since 1976, he has taught as a professor of English, in creative writing, at the University of Washington in Seattle, Washington. Johnson was twenty-six years old and had written six unpublished novels by 1974, when his seventh novel, Faith and the Good Thing, was his first to be published. His next novel, Oxherding Tale, was published in 1982. In 1990 Johnson received the National Book Award in Fiction for his third published novel, Middle Passage (1990). Johnson was the first African-American author to receive this award since Ralph Ellison won it in 1953. Johnson's next novel, Dreamers, was published in 1998. He has published two collections of short stories, The Sorcerer's Apprentice (1986), which includes the story "Menagerie, a Child's Fable," and Soulcatcher and Other Stories (2001). Johnson has also written and co-authored a number of non-fiction books, mostly concerning various aspects of African-American history and the African-American experience. Among his nonfiction books are Being and Race: Black Writing Since 1970 (1988), Africans in America: America's Journey through Slavery (1998; co-author), / Call Myself an Artist: Writings by and about Charles Johnson (1999; co-author), and King: The Photobiography of Martin Luther King, Jr., (2000; co-author). In 1998, Johnson was granted a
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Berkeley, a German shepherd, works as the watchdog at Tilford's Pet Shoppe, owned by Mr. Tilford. Berkeley is proud of his work, and is considered one of the best watchdogs in Seattle. Although Mr. Tilford is unkind to the animals and never shows any affection or appreciation for Berkeley, the dog remains faithful to his master. One day Mr. Tilford does not show up at the pet shop. Monkey tells Berkeley that Mr. Tilford has obviously died of a heart attack and is never going to return, but Berkeley has faith that the owner will eventually come back. After several days go by, all of the animals begin clamoring in their cages, demanding that they will starve to death if no one feeds them. Monkey convinces Berkeley to let all of the animals out of their cages so they can get to the food. Berkeley reluctantly frees Monkey and the other animals. The only one who does not want to be released is Tortoise, who had escaped from the pet shoppe a year earlier but returned of his own accord. At first the animals are united by their common purpose of obtaining food, but soon animosity develops between the various species. Some of the animals become greedy and don't care if other animals get enough food or not. Berkeley tries to keep constant watch over all the animals in order to maintain the peace. The fish and birds are afraid of being eaten by the predatory animals and Berkeley promises to protect them. But, while Berkeley isn't looking, Siamese the cat assaults and rapes Rabbit. In response, Rabbit organizes the other females to protest against male aggression. Meanwhile, Frog gets ill and his infection spreads to Iguana. Monkey becomes increasingly greedy and threatens to eat the fish when the food runs out. Berkeley loses weight and becomes exhausted, afraid to go to sleep for fear of what might happen if he does not keep watch over everyone. Finally, Berkeley allows himself to fall asleep. He dreams that Mr. Tilford has returned to the pet shop. In the dream, Mr. Tilford strokes Berkeley's head and tells him he's done a good job. Berkeley is awakened from his dream by Parrot, who tells him Monkey has gotten a hold of a
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gun. Monkey is pointing the gun at the glass display case that holds the dog collars. Parrot tells Berkeley to take the gun away from Monkey, in order to protect the other animals. Berkeley jumps at Monkey, but Monkey shoots him in the chest, and he falls back against Tortoise's cage. As Berkeley lies on the floor bleeding to death, a fire that has started in the storage room begins to spread throughout the shop. He realizes that Tortoise is the only one who will survive the fire, because of his ancient armor. Berkeley tries to explain his dream to Tortoise. He tells Tortoise, "We could have endured, we had enough in common—for Christ's sake, we're all animals." "Indeed," Tortoise replies. "Indeed."
Characters Berkeley Berkeley, a German shepherd "with big shoulders, black gums, and weighing more than some men," is the protagonist, or main character, of "Menagerie." Berkeley is the watchdog at Tilford's Pet Shoppe, and is known as one of the best watchdogs in Seattle. At the beginning of the story Berkeley is proud of, and content with, his job as watchdog. Although the owner of the shop isn't particularly nice to him, he remains faithful to his master. When Mr. Tilford does not show up at the shop for several days in a row, Berkeley reluctantly lets the other animals out of their cages so they can get to the food supply. Berkeley tries to make sure all of the animals get their share of food, and to protect the vulnerable ones from being attacked by the predatory animals, but the animals become more and more violent and nasty toward each other, and he has trouble keeping the peace. Exhausted from his efforts, Berkeley finally allows himself to fall asleep and has a long, meaningful dream. When Berkeley wakes up he finds that Monkey is holding a gun. Berkeley attacks Monkey in order to save the other animals, but Monkey shoots him. The story ends as Berkeley lies on the pet shop floor, bleeding to death.
cines on Frog but his infection soon spreads to Iguana. By the end of the story, Frog lies dead on the floor and Tarantula is crawling over his corpse.
Goldfish Goldfish is one of the animals in the pet shop. Like all of the fish, Goldfish is among the most innocent and most vulnerable of the animals. Goldfish depends on Berkeley to feed him and protect him from the animals who threaten to eat him when the food supply runs low.
Iguana Iguana is one of the animals in the pet shop. After all of the animals are set free, Iguana catches an infection from Frog. At the end of the story, as Berkeley lies bleeding to death, he sees Tarantula crawling over the corpse of Iguana.
Monkey Monkey is one of the animals in the pet shop. Berkeley had never liked Monkey, and considered him a "clown" who would do anything to get a laugh out of the other animals. When Mr. Tilford does not show up for several days in a row, Monkey concludes that the owner has died of a heart attack. He insists that Berkeley help him and the other animals out of their cages so they can get to the food. Once all the animals are released, Monkey behaves selfishly, not caring whether or not the other animals have food and indicating that he intends to eat the fish when the other food runs out. Eventually Monkey convinces Berkeley to go to sleep. When Berkeley wakes up, Monkey is holding a gun and pointing it at the glass display case that holds the dog collars. It appears as if Monkey intends to shoot open the display case, take one of the dog collars, and use it to restrain Berkeley. That way, Monkey would be able to take control of the pet shop. Berkeley jumps at Monkey in an effort to take the gun away from him, but Monkey shoots Berkeley in the chest and the dog falls back onto the floor, bleeding to death.
Parrot Frog Frog is one of the animals in the pet shop. Frog begs Berkeley to let all of the animals out of their cages so they do not starve to death. After all the animals are set free, Frog becomes ill from an infection. Berkeley tries to splash various medi-
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Parrot is one of the animals in the pet shop. Toward the end of the story, Parrot wakes Berkeley out of his slumber, telling him that Monkey has gotten a hold of the gun. Parrot tells Berkeley to take the gun away from Monkey, reminding the dog that he had promised to protect the rest of the animals.
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Rabbit Rabbit is one of the animals in the pet shop. As the situation among the animals becomes more chaotic and lawless, Rabbit is assaulted and raped by Siamese, the cat. In protest, Rabbit organizes the other female animals. As a result of the rape, Rabbit becomes pregnant with a new kind of animal that is half-rabbit and half-cat—a "cabbit." Rabbit considers aborting the "cabbit," and is not swayed by Berkeley's efforts to convince her not to. Rabbit represents the feminist element in the pet shop. Her efforts to organize the other female animals represents the efforts of the Women's Liberation Movement to fight for women's rights.
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most ancient of all the animals, is the only one who will survive the fire that is spreading throughout the shop. At the end of the story, as Berkeley lies on the floor bleeding to death, he tries to explain his dream to Tortoise. Berkeley says to Tortoise that they all should have been able to live together peacefully since they are all animals. Tortoise's reply, "Indeed,' ' is the final word of the story.
Themes Freedom and Oppression
Siamese Siamese is a cat who inhabits the pet shop. After Siamese rapes Rabbit, Rabbit organizes the other female animals in protest. By the end of the story, Siamese has been torn to pieces by the females.
Tarantula Tarantula is one of the animals in the pet shop. Berkeley is uncomfortable about letting Tarantula out of his cage, but Monkey insists that all the animals have a right to be free. At the end of the story as Berkeley lies on the floor bleeding to death, he sees Tarantula crawling over the corpses of Frog and Iguana.
Mr. Tilford Mr. Tilford is the owner of Tilford's Pet Shoppe. Mr. Tilford regards the animals as objects he can sell in order to make money. He is described as ' 'stubborn, hot-tempered, a drunkard and a loner'' who was becoming increasingly senile. He is cruel to the animals and only feeds them minimal amounts of food. One time, while drunk, he put a cat he was not able to sell into the blender. When Mr. Tilford does not show up at the shop for several days, Monkey concludes that he has died, but Berkeley continues to believe he is alive and will soon return. In Berkeley's dream, Mr. Tilford returns to the shop and praises the dog for doing a good job.
Tortoise Tortoise is one of the animals in the pet shop. He is the only one who does not wish to be released from his cage like the others. Tortoise had escaped from the pet shop once, a year earlier, and been gone for a week. However, he returned to the shop of his own accord, and has not spoken a word since. By the end of the story, Berkeley realizes that Tortoise, the
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Freedom and oppression are central themes of "Menagerie, a Child's Fable." Johnson uses the setting of the pet shoppe as an analogy for the status of oppressed peoples in any society in which they have little control over the conditions of their own lives and are kept down by those in power. Mr. Tilford represents the oppressive attitudes of people who hold power over others in an undemocratic society. In the beginning of the story, the animals in the pet shoppe are not free. They are under the control of Mr. Tilford, who keeps them in captivity and oppresses them by exerting complete power over them. All of the animals in the shop, except Berkeley, the German shepherd guard dog, are imprisoned either behind bars or in tanks. Mr. Tilford is stingy about feeding the animals, and only provides them with minimal amounts of food. The status of the animals is thus equated with the status of poor people in any society, who are prevented from seeking greater opportunities. Mr. Tilford does not value the lives of the animals; he is cruel to them and even put a cat he could not sell into a blender on one occasion. His treatment of the cat symbolizes the willingness of people in power to use violence against the less powerful in order to serve their own ends. When Mr. Tilford does not show up at the pet shoppe for several days, a power vacuum is created and the animals demand to be set free from their cages.
Racism and Pluralism Johnson refers to the different species of animals in the pet shoppe as if they represent different races and ethnic groups among human beings. After Berkeley releases the animals from their separate cages, they come together as ' 'an entire federation of cultures . . . a plurality of so many backgrounds, needs, and viewpoints." This description represents the variety of human cultures on the planet. Monkey, when trying to convince Berkeley to set the
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Topics for Further Study • Johnson's story "Menagerie, a Child's Fable" is a fable about social inequality and power struggles between different identity groups. Learn more about a societal conflict currently taking place anywhere in the world. This could include any group of people organized to struggle against legal, governmental, or societal powers to which they are opposed. (Examples might be the struggles between Israelis and the Palestinians, or between Catholics and Protestants in Northern Ireland.) Try to explain the perspectives of all parties involved in this struggle. What does each group wish to achieve through this struggle? What are the major points of disagreement between the various sides in this conflict? What do you see as a possible solution that might be fair and satisfactory to all sides?
• Johnson's major literary influences include the authors Jean Toomer, Ralph Ellison, Richard Wright, and John Gardner. Learn more about one of these authors. Provide a brief overview of his life and literary career. What are his major works? What themes and concerns does he address through his fiction?
animals free, makes an argument for what is called "pluralism"—the idea that a diversity of people can live peacefully and prosperously in the same society, and that this diversity in fact enriches the culture. Monkey tells Berkeley, "we all have different talents, unique gifts. If you let us out, we can pool our resources." In their efforts to convince Berkeley to release them from their cages, the animals shout "Self-determination!" "Self-determination' ' is a slogan from the 1960s and 1970s that refers to the rights of every racial, ethnic, religious, and national group of people to determine the conditions of their own lives; it is a call for equal rights and equal opportunity for all people of all backgrounds and an end to inequality.
siders itself to be naturally superior to another group. Monkey even accuses Berkeley of being a traitor to his race when he tries to defend the fish; he tells Berkeley "It's unnatural to takes sides against your own kind." Berkeley's plea as the story ends— that they all should have been able to survive together in harmony—is a plea for the possibility of a world in which the diversity of human cultures can live harmoniously. Berkeley's last words are, "for Christ's sake, we're all animals." Through Berkeley, Johnson expresses the idea that, regardless of racial or ethnic difference, we're all humans, and should therefore be able to respect each other's right to self-determination. "Menagerie, a Child's Fable" is thus a call for pluralism and diversity over racism and intolerance.
After all of the animals are released, however, various conflicts of interest among the different species begin to emerge. These conflicts represent racial tension in a diverse society. In ' 'Menagerie, a Child's Fable" Monkey is the primary proponent and leader of racist ideas. The mammals in the shop, led by Monkey, consider the non-mammals to be "lowlifes on the evolutionary scale." This suggests racist theories in which one group of humans con-
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• In "Menagerie, a Child's Fable" the animal society inhabiting the pet shop ends in violence, chaos, and disaster. Write an alternative version of the story in which the various characters take a different set of actions that result in a happy, peaceful outcome for everyone involved. • "Menagerie, a Child's Fable" is written in the form of a fable. Write your own original fable, using animals as the main characters.
Democracy and Fascism The pleading of the animals to be released from captivity is a bid to change the pet shoppe from an oppressive society to a democratic society. The term "fascist" is used in this story to refer to any oppressive society in which one person, or small group of people, exerts absolute and oppressive
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control over the majority of the people in that society. Monkey tells Berkeley, "I'm asking you to be democratic! Keeping us locked up is fascist!" Once all of the animals are released from captivity, the pet shoppe becomes an experiment in democracy. At first, Berkeley and the other animals are hopeful that they will all be able to live as one community. They are all "united by the spirit of a bright, common future." But the experiment fails as the animals turn against one another. The result is not democracy but chaos, death, and destruction.
War and Peace "Menagerie, a Child's Fable'' is also a parable about war and peace. Through the animals, Johnson suggests that the power to wield physical violence is ultimately the determining factor in who runs a society. After the animals are released, Berkeley worries about keeping the peace among the different species. But what he observes of the animals' behavior toward one another is "no sight for a peace-loving watchdog." Nevertheless, Berkeley tries to maintain the peace by promising to protect the more vulnerable animals against attacks by the more predatory animals. Berkeley is shamefully aware of the fact that he holds the most power in the pet shoppe because he has the greatest capacity for physical violence. Berkeley realizes that "For all his idealism, truth was decided in the end by those who could be bloodiest in fang and claw." He is proven correct in this assessment when, in the end of the story, Monkey gets hold of a gun. The gun shifts the power balance in the store so that Berkeley is subjected to Monkey's greater capacity for violence. Johnson employs the image of Monkey wielding a gun as a metaphor for superpowers, such as the United States, whose world dominance is based on the fact that they have the most powerful military with the greatest capacity for destruction.
Style Allegory and Fable An allegory is a story in which the surface-level events are meant to be interpreted on a secondary level of meaning. The fable and the parable, though similar in many respects, are two different types of allegorical story. Johnson's story "Menagerie" is subtitled "a Child's Fable." Fables often include
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animal characters that exhibit human traits, and are usually meant to be interpreted as a moral lesson or commentary on human behavior. Most people are familiar with the ancient Aesop's fables, which include animal characters and usually end with a clearly stated moral to be derived from the story. "Menagerie, a Child's Fable" is an allegorical fable using animal characters to express a commentary on social struggles over freedom and oppression, racism and pluralism, democracy and fascism, and war and peace in the modern world.
Personification Personification is a literary device by which animals or inanimate objects exhibit human qualities. Fables and fairy tales often personify animals, as do many children's stories. In "Menagerie, a Child's Fable" Johnson utilizes personification to endow his animal characters with human thought and speech patterns. All of the animals have the ability to speak in human language and to communicate with one another in the same language, regardless of differences in species. Yet while these animal characters exhibit human speech patterns, they are represented naturalistically as real animals in terms of their physical traits and physical abilities. For example, Monkey is the only character who has hands that can be used for wielding a gun or for unlocking the cages in which the animals were kept. Johnson uses the literary device of personification in order to comment on the brutal, animalistic elements of social power in human society. Although Berkeley, the German shepherd and hero of the story, is idealistic about wanting to maintain a democratic society, he is aware that his influence over the other animals is ultimately based on the fact that he weighs more, and has bigger fangs and claws, than they do. Thus, Johnson points out that in human society, as in the animal world, those who wield the greatest capacity for brute force can always maintain the position of power. Berkeley's statement at the end of the story, that they should have been able to co-exist peacefully, because after all, "we're all animals," is meant to be interpreted as a statement that human beings should be able to coexist peacefully in a global community because, after all, we're all humans.
Setting "Menagerie, a Child's Fable" is set in a pet store in Seattle, Washington, a small city on the northwest coast of the United States. Although the year in which the story is set is not indicated, there
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are various clues that suggest it is probably during the 1960s, 1970s, or early 1980s. Various references to American popular culture indicate to the reader that the story is set in modern times, in the post-World War II era. There are several references to television, such as Mr. Tilford, the pet shoppe owner, watching television. This indicates to the reader that the story certainly takes place at some point after television sets became readily available to middle-class people in the United States, which was during the late 1940s and early 1950s. Other references within "Menagerie, a Child's Fable" place it some time during or after the era of widespread political activism in the United States during the 1960s and 1970s, sometimes called the Civil Rights era. For example, the animals, while still in their cages, demand that Berkeley release them by crying "Self-determination!"; "self-determination" was a popular slogan during the 1960s and 1970s among groups of people struggling for greater social equality. Another clue that "Menagerie, a Child's Fable" takes place during the Civil Rights era is the fact that Rabbit organizes the other female animals in protest against the threat of rape by the males; rape was a key issue in the Women's Liberation movement, beginning in the late 1960s, in which women began organizing for equal rights. Thus, Johnson's story seems to be set anywhere between the late 1960s and the early 1980s (when the story was first published). However, the fact that the story is called a "fable," and includes animals that can talk, suggests that it is meant to have a timeless quality, such as fairy tales that begin, "Once upon a time."
Historical Context African-American Leaders in the Civil Rights Era Although "Menagerie, a Child's Fable" was first published in 1984, its setting evokes the era of social and political turmoil in the United States of the 1950s, 1960s, and 1970s, known as the Civil Rights Era. The Civil Rights Era was characterized by massive efforts on the part of the Civil Rights Movement to gain greater social equality for African-American citizens in the United States. Beginning in the 1950s, the Civil Rights Movement focused on efforts at desegregation of public schools and other public institutions, particularly in
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the American South. In addition, the Civil Rights Movement worked toward the enforcement of equal voting rights for African Americans in the South, where local authorities often went to great lengths to prevent blacks from voting in political elections. Passage of the Civil Rights Act of 1964 was one of the greatest achievements of the Civil Rights Movement. The Civil Rights Act focused on such concerns as equal voting rights and desegregation of public schools. The Voting Rights Act of 1965 helped to reinforce the principles set forth in the Civil Rights Act. The Reverend Martin Luther King, Jr., was the most prominent leader of the Civil Rights Movement, and an inspiration to many Americans hoping to create a more just society. King was inspired by the non-violent methods of Indian nationalist leader Mahatma Gandhi. Based on Gandhi's principles of nonviolent resistance, King worked through an organization known as the Southern Christian Leadership Conference to stage such events as the famous March on Washington in 1963. King was awarded the Nobel Prize for Peace in 1964. In 1968 King was assassinated. His legacy lives on in continuing efforts to improve the civil rights of all American citizens through nonviolent efforts. The institution of a nationally recognized Martin Luther King Day in the United States is an acknowledgement of the positive influence King and the Civil Rights Movement exerted on American culture. While King is regarded as the leader of the Civil Rights Movement, more politically radical African-American leaders were also extremely influential during the 1960s and 1970s. Malcolm X was the leader of the black nationalist movement during the 1960s. Born Malcolm Little, he converted to the Nation of Islam faith of Black Muslims and later changed his name to Malcolm X. Malcolm X was critical of the Civil Rights Movement of Martin Luther King. By contrast, he advocated black separatism rather than integration and self-defense through violence rather than nonviolent protest. Malcolm X became known as a powerful speaker and effective leader in the Nation of Islam, and was assigned to be the minister at a mosque in Harlem, New York City. He was assassinated in 1965 during a rally in Harlem. The Black Panther Party was another important influence on African-American culture during the Civil Rights Era. Originally called the Black Panther Party for Self-Defense, the Black Panther Party was organized in 1966 in Berkeley, California, by
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Compare & Contrast • 1960s, 1970s, and 1980s: The nations of Europe work increasingly toward peace and mutually beneficial trade relations through various international organizations that change names and merge several times over the decades. The European Economic Community, established in 1957, is designed to facilitate peaceful, mutually beneficial trade relations between the nations of Europe. In 1967 the European Economic Community merges with the European Cole and Steel Community and the European Atomic Energy Community to form the European Communities. In 1979 the European Communities establish the European Monetary System to facilitate international trade between its member nations. In the 1980s the European Communities change its name to the European Community. In 1987 the European Community adopts the Single European Act, declaring the intention of creating a free-trade market throughout Europe. 1990s and Today: The Treaty on European Union, also called the Maastricht Treaty, is completed in 1991. The Maastricht Treaty expands the scope of the European Community, changing its name to the European Union. The European Economic Community is now called the European Community. In 1994 the European Economic Area, an extensive free-trade zone across Western Europe, is created by the European Community. On January 1, 2002, twelve of the fifteen member-nations of the European Union adopt the Euro as their new currency. The Euro represents the increasingly peaceful, cooperative and interdependent relationship between the nations of Europe. The three nations that choose not to adopt the Euro—as well as many individual citizens within the nations adopting the Euro— argue that a single currency will threaten the diversity of cultures represented by the different nations of Europe. However, the terms of the European Union seek to ensure the cultural diversity among its member nations through a
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provision that all national languages represented by the Union will be preserved. • 1960s, 1970s, and 1980s: The United States is in a continuing state of Cold War with the Soviet Union, a communist nation. Various arms treaties between the United States and the Soviet Union are designed to reduce the threat of nuclear war between the two superpowers. Within the Soviet Union, many former nations, such as Poland and Czechoslovakia, struggle against communist rule for the right to self-determination. 1990s and Today: Since 1991 the Soviet Union has been dissolved as a communist nation and separated into some eleven independent nations. The nations of the former Soviet Union belong to the Commonwealth of Independent States, an organization to promote peace and prosperity among its member nations. The dissolution of the Soviet Union ends the era of Cold War. However, the United States and Russia continue to negotiate over treaties aimed at reducing arsenals of nuclear arms. • 1960s, 1970s, and 1980s: The Civil Rights Act of 1964 initiates the implementation of affirmative action policies. Affirmative action policies are designed to help equalize the racial and gender balance in education and employment by allowing women and minorities limited preferential status in hiring and admission to institutions of higher education. In the late 1970s, various court cases arise in which white males claim that affirmative action policies represent "reverse discrimination." 1990s and Today: Beginning in 1989, the Supreme Court makes greater and greater restrictions on the scope of Affirmative Action policies, claiming that they are unconstitutional on the grounds of "reverse discrimination." Various states throughout the United States have passed laws restricting or abolishing affirmative action policies.
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Bobby Scale and Huey Newton. The primary focus of the Black Panther Party was to arm African Americans and patrol the streets of black neighborhoods in order to protect the African-American community from police brutality. Their signature ' 'uniform'' was a black beret. Although many African Americans sympathized with the Black Panthers, others were critical of their militant approach to battling racism. By the early 1980s, the Black Panther Party had essentially disbanded.
African-American Leaders Since the 1970s Since the assassinations of Malcolm X and King and the dissolution of the Black Panther Party, a number of African-American leaders have risen to prominence. These influential figures have worked to strengthen African-American self-determination through their roles in political, religious, academic, and popular cultural institutions. Jesse Jackson, a Baptist minister, was the most prominent African-American civil rights leader of the 1980s. Jackson had been active in the Civil Rights Movement during the 1960s and 1970s. During the 1980s, he became known as the first African American to make a significant showing in his run for the Democratic Party's nomination for the U.S. Presidency, in both the 1983-1984 and the 1987-1988 presidential races. In the process of running for presidential candidacy, Jackson organized a massive voter-registration drive throughout the United States. Jackson's voter-registration drive contributed to the election of Chicago's first African-American mayor, Harold Washington, in 1983. Louis Farrakhan, the African-American leader of his own sect of the Nation of Islam (also known as the Black Muslims) founded in 1978, rose to prominence as an influential black leader during the 1980s and 1990s. Farrakhan advocates self-sufficiency for African Americans and a strong family. Farrakhan, however, has also been accused of promoting prejudice against Jews. In 1995 Farrakhan organized the "Million Man March" of AfricanAmerican men in Washington, D.C. During the 1970s and 1980s, Charles Johnson was active in helping to establish African-American Studies programs in American colleges and universities. Throughout the 1970s and 1980s, the field of African-American studies developed and expanded. Several scholars of African-American Studies rose to prominence on the national scene through the influence of their nonfiction books and their public
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speaking engagements. The most prominent African-American studies scholar is Henry Louis Gates, Jr., a Harvard University professor whose scholarship in the area of African-American literature attracted a broad-based readership. One of Gates's best-known works is the book The Signifying Monkey: Towards a Theory of Afro-American Literary Criticism (1988). Gates has also taught at Yale University, Cornell University, and Duke University. bell hooks (who intentionally spells both her first and last name in lower-case letters) became the most prominent feminist African-American scholar during the 1980s and 1990s. Her best-known work is the book Ain't I a Woman: Black Women and Feminism (1981). hooks has taught at the University of Southern California, Yale University, Oberlin College, and City College of New York. Oprah Winfrey, known primarily as a popular daytime TV talk show host and media personality, is influential as an African-American leader who promotes diversity at the level of the mass media and popular culture. "Oprah," as she is known to fans, is arguably the most influential African-American woman in the United States. She is an influential promoter of African-American writers and film production and engages in a variety of philanthropic efforts, such as speaking out against child abuse. Oprah was awarded the Woman of Achievement Award by the National Organization for Women in 1986, and the Image Award from the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People (NAACP) four years in a row (1989-1992).
Critical Overview Johnson has been granted two of the most prestigious awards available to a fiction-writer in the United States. In 1990 he received the National Book Award for his novel Middle Passage. In 1998, he was awarded a MacArthur Fellowship, commonly known as the "genius grant," a gift of over $300,000 to exceptional individuals for their contribution to society and culture. Johnson's four published novels, as well as his two collections of short stories, have consistently received critical acclaim. Critics praise Johnson for his original use of literary form. They note that he uses traditional narrative forms, such as oral history, the slave narrative, the sea tale, and the fable, in original, transformative works of fiction.
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Critics often praise Johnson for representing African-American history and the African-American experience from a variety of religious and philosophical perspectives. Johnson combines Western intellectual traditions of both Christian thought and modern philosophy with Eastern thought and traditions such as Zen Buddhism. Johnson also includes elements of traditional African myth and spirituality, such as voodoo, in his fiction. However, Johnson's unique blend of narrative elements has been met with mixed critical response. As Maryemma Graham, in Dictionary of Literary Biography, commented, "What some critics find as serious flaws in Johnson's works—the philosophical indulgences, the exploitation of the supernatural for effect, and the balance between fantasy and realism—other critics find fascinating." Despite high praise from the critical establishment, Johnson's fiction has not received as much critical attention or as wide a readership as one would expect, given his status in the literary world. In 1996, however, a special issue of African American Review was devoted to articles and essays discussing Johnson's many works of fiction and nonfiction. Michael Boccia and Herman Beavers, in the introduction to this special issue, commented that Johnson's "work has not, despite a National Book Award, received so much critical attention as it deserves." Boccia and Beavers observed: Like the blues, Johnson's work provides us with protagonists who have a story to tell, and also like the blues, his work insists that each of us can find a place in a community of tellers, if we reorient ourselves toward experience.
Criticism Liz Brent Brent has a Ph.D. in American Culture from the University of Michigan and works as a freelance writer. In this essay, Brent discusses Johnson's story as an allegory for Christian faith in a modem world. Johnson's "Menagerie, a Child's Fable," while an allegory for social conflict in a diverse global community, is also an allegory for the nature of Christian faith in a modern world. Interpreting the story allegorically, one can see that Mr. Tilford, the pet shoppe owner, represents God, and Berkeley, the watchdog, represents a Christ-like figure. Tilford's
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absence from the shoppe thus represents the apparent absence of God in a modern world, where evil and destruction seem to reign free and many people have renounced their faith. Berkeley represents a figure akin to Jesus Christ, who remains faithful to God, despite His apparent cruelties, and maintains blind faith in Him, even in His apparent absence. In "Menagerie, a Child's Fable," Tilford, the pet shoppe owner, represents God, who rules over all creatures of every species, great and small. The type of God represented by Tilford is less akin to the all-forgiving God of the New Testament and closer to the harsh, punishing God of the Old Testament. Some readers may find Johnson's representation of God in the form of Tilford to be offensive because he is by no means an idealized figure. Tilford is cruel, stubborn, hot-tempered, alcoholic, and senile. He is also stingy about feeding the animals, providing them only with minimal amounts of food. Tilford's cruelty goes so far as to include putting a cat he could not sell into a blender. However, this characterization of Tilford as an arbitrarily cruel figure is akin to some modern perceptions of God, given the atrocities of the twentieth century, such as the Holocaust, that caused many people to question a God who could allow such extremes of cruelty to be carried out. If Tilford is interpreted as an allegorical figure for a cruel God, Berkeley represents a Christ-like figure, who maintains complete faith in God, despite His apparent cruelties and oversights. Johnson offers the reader several clues to indicate that Berkeley represents an allegorical Christ-figure. In the second sentence of the story, Berkeley is described as "a pious German shepherd." The word pious indicates someone who is deeply faithful to his or her religious beliefs. Piety is not a trait normally used to describe an animal, and Johnson's use of the term indicates to the reader that the story ' 'Menagerie, a Child's Fable" is meant to be interpreted at an allegorical level, as a commentary on the nature of religious faith among human beings. In addition, the fact that Berkeley is a ' 'shepherd' ' indicates his affinity with Christ, who is often described as a shepherd and his religious followers referred to as his flock. Berkeley is further described as "faithful to his master though he didn't deserve it." Again Berkeley represents someone who maintains complete faith in God, even if there is no concrete evidence to suggest that God has his best interests in mind. Nevertheless, like the faithful who wait in vain for a sign from God, Berkeley remains
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What Do I Read Next? • Cane (1951) is a collection of stories and poems by Jean Toomer, one of the early masters of African-American fiction and a major influence on Johnson. Cane addresses issues of racial oppression and African-American identity in both the South and the North.
• Rites of Passage: Stories about Growing up by Black Writers from around the World (1994), edited by Tonya Bolden, includes short stories about childhood and coming-of-age by writers of African descent from around the world. This book includes a forward written by Johnson.
• Invisible Man (1947), by Ralph Ellison, is a novel treating issues of Black identity in American culture. Johnson considers Invisible Man an important influence on his own fiction.
• Voices of Freedom: An Oral History of the Civil Rights Movement from the 1950s through the 1980s (1990), by Henry Hampton, Steve Payer, and Sarah Flynn, provides a history of the Civil Rights movement through the words of a variety of people who participated in the effort.
• Black Boy (1966), by Richard Wright, is a novel about the coming-of-age of an African-American boy as he develops into a young man. Wright has been a major literary influence on Johnson. • Middle Passage (1990) is Johnson's award-winning novel about an African-American man traveling on a slave ship.
• Freedom's Children: Young Civil Rights Activists Tell Their Own Stories (1993), by Ellen Levine, is a collection of interviews with African Americans from the South who were involved in the Civil Rights movement during the 1950s and 1960s.
• King: The Photobiography of Martin Luther King, Jr. (2000), co-authored by Johnson and Bob Adelman, offers numerous photographs tracing major events in the Civil Rights movement led by Martin Luther King Jr.
• We Have No Leaders: African-Americans in the Post-Civil Rights Era (1996), by Robert C. Smith, concerns the direction taken by African-American political activists in the wake of the Civil Rights era.
hopeful that Tilford will one day show him a sign of love through a gesture of kindness. "The watchdog always hoped for a pat on his head, or for Tilford to play with him, some sign of approval to let him know he was appreciated, but such as this never came."
return to earth. As the other animals continue to insist that Tilford is never coming back, Berkeley tells them: "Be patient.... Believe me, he's coming back!'' Johnson deliberately uses the expression ' 'believe me'' to indicate that Berkeley's insistence on the eventual return of Tilford is indeed a matter of belief, of faith in God.
One day, Tilford does not show up at the pet shoppe. The other animals conclude that Tilford is dead but Berkeley maintains faith that Tilford will return. Those animals who assume Tilford is dead because he seems to have abandoned the shoppe, represent people in modern society who have concluded that God is dead because He seems to have abandoned humanity to its own devices. Berkeley's faith that Tilford will return represents the faith that God has not abandoned humanity, and will one day
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While the animals clamor to be released from their cages, Berkeley remains reluctant to free them, fearing that chaos would result. Chaos suggests a world in which there is no God to impose order. Berkeley fears that the release of the animals will be a violation of the order God (in the form of Tilford) has imposed on the pet shoppe. After several days pass, however, the other animals convince Berkeley that they will starve to death if he does not let them
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out of their cages so they can get to the food supplies. Berkeley does so reluctantly, "praying this was the right thing." After all of the animals are released, it is as if the forces of both good and evil have been set loose on the world. In Johnson's story, certain animals represent the forces of evil, associated with Hell and the Devil, while others represent the meek of the earth, whom Berkeley tries his best to protect. Monkey represents the ringleader among the forces of evil in the pet shoppe. Monkey represents the Devil, a dark parody of God. Berkeley notes that Monkey enjoyed aping the behavior of Tilford, which Berkeley considered a frightening parody, ' 'like playing with fire, or literally biting the hand that fed you." The reference to ' 'playing with fire'' associates Monkey with the fire of Hell and damnation. The idea of biting the hand that feeds you suggests an attack on the hand of God, who gives life to all creatures. The snakes in the pet shoppe are also among the creatures representing evil. In the Bible, the snake represents the Devil. When Berkeley insists that Tilford will come back eventually, one of the three snakes in the shoppe reiterates Monkey's assertion that Tilford is dead. Tarantula is another creature in the pet shoppe who represents the forces of evil roaming the earth. Monkey lets Tarantula out of his cage, but Berkeley questions the wisdom of letting such a creature roam free. Tarantula had been ordered by a Hell's Angel—a member of a notorious motorcycle gang—who never came back to get him. Tarantula is thus directly associated with the forces of Hell—as if he had been ordered forth from Hell to spread evil across the earth. As a Christ-like figure, Berkeley takes it upon himself to feed and protect the meek and mild animals within the pet shoppe. He is particularly protective of the birds and the fish, who fear the threat of the snakes and of Monkey. In the Bible, Jesus is associated with fish, and Berkeley's protective stance toward the fish in the pet shoppe furthers the image of the dog in this story as a Christ-figure. Furthermore, the food provided for the fish is described as "thin wafers," which Berkeley feeds to them. The phrase "thin wafer" suggests the Christian practice of communion, in which thin wafers are used in ritual to represent the body of Christ. One day, Berkeley finds Monkey greedily eating the thin wafers meant for the fish. Berkeley tells Monkey not to eat these, but Monkey crams the
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Berkeley thus subscribes to the belief that, although God may appear to have abandoned humanity, He will one day return, and it is the task of the faithful to carry out His will during His temporary absence from the earth,"
wafers into his mouth. Monkey's disregard for the welfare of the fish and his greedy way of eating the wafers are represented as acts of sacrilege, in which God's meekest and mildest creatures are disregarded and the sacred wafers are sloppily consumed without regard for their significance. Seeing this, Goldfish asks Berkeley, '"What the hell is going on?'" The mention of Hell by the fish indicates that the forces of evil are starting to dominate the pet shoppe. At this point, Berkeley begins to question his faith in ' 'the old man.'' He wonders if Tilford really is dead "or indifferent to their problems." This suggests the idea of a God who, if not dead, is "indifferent" to the suffering of humanity. But Berkeley, though questioning his faith, maintains his belief in Tilford. When Goldfish asks Berkeley if Tilford is ever coming back, the dog replies, '"It's his Shoppe. He has to come back.'" This statement suggests that idea that, since God made the world, it is unthinkable that he would then abandon his creation to the forces of evil. Berkeley later thinks: The owner could not be dead. Monkey would never convince him of that. He simply had business elsewhere. And when he returned, he would expect to find the Shoppe as he had left it. Maybe even running more smoothly.
Berkeley thus subscribes to the belief that, although God may appear to have abandoned humanity, He will one day return, and it is the task of the faithful to carry out His will during His temporary absence from the earth. Berkeley tells himself, ' 'No evil had visited the Shoppe from outside. He'd
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seen to that. None, he vowed, would destroy it from within." Berkeley thus resolves to carry out Tilford's will until he returns to the shop. When Berkeley finally allows himself to fall asleep, he has a religious vision in a dream. In the beginning part of the dream Berkeley remembers his mother telling him about Noah's Ark, the biblical story in which Noah took a pair of every type of animal aboard his ark to save them from the flood. This biblical reference adds to the allegorical meaning of' 'Menagerie, a Child's Fable'' to suggest that the pet shoppe represents the world of animals, or menagerie, Noah saved from the flood. Berkeley then dreams of the return of Tilford to the shoppe—representing the return of God to earth. Tilford threw open the Pet Shoppe door in a blast of wind and burst of preternatural brilliance that rayed the whole room, evaporated every shadow, and brought the squabbling, the conflict of interpretations, mutations, and internecine battles to a halt.
In Berkeley's dream, the return of Tilford is described as the appearance of God on earth, entering in a "burst of preternatural brilliance." Tilford's arrival evaporates the shadows, symbolically ridding the world of evil. His presence also puts an end to the "conflict of interpretations." Johnson doesn't specify what' 'interpretations'' he is referring to but the reader can surmise that he means the conflicting interpretations of various religious texts, as well as interpretations regarding the existence of God. The arrival of God also ends all infighting between the creatures of the earth, all "internecine battles" are brought to a halt. In Berkeley's dream, the return of God (in the form of Tilford) reveals that the apparent differences of form among the animals are unimportant in the light of God: "the colorless light behind the owner so blinding it obliterated their outlines, blurred their precious differences." Berkeley sees that the apparent differences between the animals, the sense of "identity" differentiating the species, is actually just an illusion, and that every creature in the pet shoppe is actually a part of the same God, "as if each were a rill of the same ancient light." As the dream ends, Berkeley receives the acknowledgement from God (Tilford) he had always desired: "Reaching down, he stroked Berkeley's head. And at last he said, like God whispering to Samuel: Well done. It was all Berkeley had ever wanted." Berkeley's dream of the return of Tilford, however, is only a dream. He is awakened from this dream by the sounds of Parrot telling him that
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Monkey has gotten hold of a gun. With the gun, Monkey becomes the most powerful animal in the shoppe; the forces of evil have won out over the forces of good. When Berkeley jumps at Monkey, attempting to take the gun away from him, Monkey shoots the dog in the chest. Berkeley falls back to the floor, bleeding. As he lies there, he sees that a fire has started and is spreading throughout the pet shoppe. The fire in the pet shoppe represents the fires of Hell overtaking the earth. Meanwhile, "in the holy ruin of the Pet Shoppe the tarantula roamed free over the corpses of Frog and Iguana." The pet shoppe is in a state of chaos of biblical proportions, a "holy ruin," in which the forces of evil roam freely over the corpses of the innocent. As the fires of Hell consume the pet shoppe and Berkeley lies on the floor bleeding to death, he tries to explain his dream to Tortoise. Berkeley tells Tortoise they should all have been able to "endure," because they all have plenty in common. Berkeley's last words are,' 'for Christ's sake, we're all animals." Berkeley, whose final words invoke the name of Christ, represents a Christ-like figure who remains faithful to God and dies trying to rid the world of evil. Source: Liz Brent, Critical Essay on "Menagerie, a Child's Fable," in Short Stories for Students, The Gale Group, 2002.
Paul Witcover Witcover is an editor and writer whose fiction, book reviews, and critical essays appear regularly in print magazines and online media. In the following essay, Witcover discusses Charles Johnson's use of postmodern techniques in Johnson's story. What to make of Charles Johnson's "Menagerie, a Child's Fable?" The story saw its original publication in the literary magazine Indiana Review in 1984 but appeared in book form for the first time in Johnson's 1986 collection of short fiction, The Sorcerer's Apprentice. Titles are always a good place to start thinking about a work of fiction, and the title of Johnson's collection suggests elements of magic, moralism, and multiple allusion that find purposeful echoes and variations in the individual stories it contains. The title The Sorcerer's Apprentice is familiar to most people from a sequence of that name in the famous Walt Disney film, Fantasia, in which the cartoon character Mickey Mouse "plays" the role of the overreaching apprentice who triggers disaster by foolishly casting one of his master's magic
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spells—a spell he subsequently proves helpless to undo. But Johnson is alluding to more than just a movie and a mouse in his title. The music for the Sorcerer's Apprentice sequence in the film comes from a work of the same title by the French composer Paul Dukas (1865-1935), who in turn, based his composition upon a poem of that name by the German writer Johann Wolfgang von Goethe (1749-1832), who, in turn, had based his poem on an old tale either first set down or—more likely— borrowed from a still-older written (or oral) source (or sources) by the Greek poet Lucian of Samosata (c. 115-c. 200). Thus, in a mere three words, Johnson has cast his net of allusion across different art forms (films, music, poetry) and as many or more different cultures, continents, and centuries. Nor should readers overlook the fact that Johnson, like Mickey Mouse's creator, Walt Disney, is a cartoonist, or that in Fantasia, the name of the wizard whose spell Mickey appropriates is Yen Sid; that is, Disney backwards. What Johnson pulls back in his net are images, themes, and other flotsam and jetsam of history, art, and philosophy—not just wriggling fish, clawclacking crabs, and arabesque seashells but old rubber boots, plastic six-pack holders, and soggy cigarette butts—out of which he will create works of art that are both original and derivative: derivative because they contain fragments of (or allusions to) other works of art; original because these fragments or allusions are assembled in new and different ways. An important part of Johnson's literary method and intent as a writer involves weaving together—sometimes smoothly, sometimes jarringly—elements derived from a number of different authors, genres, times, philosophies, and cultures, pulling from, pulling apart, and recombining a multitude of sources in a way that is at once homage, parody, metaphor, magic spell, and more. This Frankenstein-like approach to the art of storytelling reveals clear affinities to the loosely constituted, self-contradictory, controversial, and hugely influential literary and philosophical movement known as postmodernism. Definitions of postmodernism are a slippery business, but Patricia Waugh presents a useful outline in her book, Postmodernism: A Reader: Though there are many forms of postmodernism, they all express the sense that our inherited forms of knowledge and representation are undergoing some fundamental shift: modernity may be coming to an end, strangled by its own logic, or rendered exhausted by economic changes which have propelled us into a
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.Johnson turns the weapons of postmodernism against the postmodernist enterprise, arguing that a state of integrative transcendence is not just possible: it's necessary."
new age of information technology, consumerism and global economics which erode the stability of such concepts as nation, state or essential human nature.
Among other things, postmodernism favors concepts of difference and multiplicity above notions of shared or unifying cultural beliefs and commonalities; the mere possibility, let alone the existence, of a single overarching or integrative world-view—such as, to name but a few, capitalism, democracy, Western civilization, Christian morality, the scientific method, and human reason—is greeted with suspicion if not outright hostility because of the plethora of voices such so-called "metanarratives" necessarily exclude; for example, the voices of African Americans and women excluded from thousands of years of patriarchal, white, Western culture. Such exclusion is inherently violent, and thus to be abhorred and all metanarratives are by definition coercive, and thus to be condemned. Yet even excluded voices have no better claim to a privileged status ultimately, for then they, too, would become metanarratives, to be disassembled or deconstructed in their turn. Thus, postmodernism posits a fragmented and endlessly fragmenting world of hyper-relativism and self-referentiality in which ideas of wholeness or identity are illusory and dangerous; the cartoon character who saws off the branch of the tree on which she herself is sitting is performing a quintessentially postmodern act. Turned on itself, postmodern consciousness has, as it were, pulled itself down by its own bootstraps. Nor, once the process has begun, is escape possible. Where would one go to escape both the world and human consciousness? Whether one seeks to overthrow the constellation of metanarratives constituting one's particular culture, modify it, or join in, one is always and already complicit in the illusion. The most one
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can do is to be aware of that complicity and choose to consciously participate in the process of sabotaging all metanarratives from within. As Waugh writes: [W]e can no longer seek transcendence. There is no position outside culture from which to view culture ... no conceptual space not already implicated in that which it seeks to contest. There can only be disruption from within: micropolitics, language games, parodic skirmishes, irony, fragmentation.
This, then, is Johnson's method, but an analysis of the short story "Menagerie, a Child's Fable" will show, his aims are quite different. For postmodernists, the artist is a suspect figure because he or she is attempting to compel people to think or feel in a certain way; attempting, in other words, to impose an elitist metanarrative. The very idea of a "masterpiece," to a postmodernist, carries embedded within it the concept of the master-slave relationship, and as such, is to be rejected. While Johnson would agree, as he does repeatedly in an interview with critic Jonathan Little reprinted in the collection / Call Myself an Artist, that "art is elitist," his use of the term carries no disapprobation; on the contrary, it is the highest praise that Johnson can offer, the artistic goal to which he himself aspires: "I do believe in the masterpiece. I believe that a great work of art is a special appearance in our lives." Johnson turns the weapons of postmodernism against the postmodernist enterprise, arguing that a state of integrative transcendence is not just possible: it's necessary. A menagerie is a collection of wild animals displayed in cages or enclosures for the entertainment of human beings; there is generally a suggestion of the strange or even outlandish in connection with the use of this word that separates it, on the one hand, from ' 'zoo'' and, on the other, from' 'circus.'' Fables, made famous (although not invented) by the Greek writer, Aesop (c. 620-c. 560 B.C.), are didactic stories, often featuring animals in more-or-less human roles, whose purpose is to entertainingly communicate a moral lesson. But Johnson is not content to alert readers that his story is a fable; he goes a step further by labeling it a "child's fable." This seems excessive; after all, isn't every fable a child's fable? In fact, while fables as a literary genre have come to be associated with children, especially in modem times, originally they were intended as much or more for adults, and many fables throughout their long history up to the present day have held true to this original meaning. One thinks, for example, of the dark fables of Franz
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Kafka and George Orwell. Surely, then, Johnson is helpfully informing his readers that his fable is one of those intended for children and should not be confused with fables written for adults. Yet the truth is precisely the opposite. By labeling his story a "child's fable," Johnson is making a doubly ironic statement. First he is commenting upon what is and is not suitable for children in our culture; what one believes children need to be taught, and the kind of knowledge one believes they should be shielded from; in other words, he is attacking a particular metanarrative. Second, Johnson is addressing his readers as children, implying that readers must attempt to read his fable in a childlike way. This does not mean that he wants his readers to put their adult selves aside; rather, he is talking about a particular way of reading, of perceiving the world, analogous to what Jesus meant when he told his apostles that, "Except ye ... become as little children, ye shall not enter into the kingdom of heaven." (Mt. 18.3, King James Bible.) However, Johnson's kingdom is no Christian heaven, but a paradise of art that both dissolves and merges individual identity through a transcendent creative act combining elements of Eastern Buddhism and the Western philosophy of Phenomenology. The story that takes place in "Menagerie, a Child's Fable" is, as befits the fable genre, a simple one yet, as befits Johnson, more complicated than first appears to be the case. The setting is Tilford's Pet Shoppe in Seattle where Berkeley, a "pious German shepherd," serves as watchdog. Berkeley is "not the smartest, but steady," a solid and stolid watchdog who prides himself on never being "asleep at the switch." Mr. Tilford, the owner, is "hottempered, a drunkard and a loner," a cruel man more concerned with profits than the welfare of his animals. He feeds them as little as he can and shows the faithful Berkeley not the slightest sign of appreciation, not even a pat on the head. Yet despite the unpleasantness of Tilford, Berkeley's position is secure enough, and life at the Pet Shoppe proceeds in an orderly routine until one evening, Tilford leaves early, forgetting to feed the animals. And does not return. Johnson's setting and title allude to two familiar stories. The first is the Biblical tale of Noah's Ark, in which diverse animals survive the Flood by living harmoniously under the patriarchal leadership of Noah. Here, obviously, the Noah figure, Tilford, has abandoned ship, as has that other patriarchal figure for whom Noah is merely a stand-in:
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God. The other story is George Orwell's classic novel Animal Farm, in which a group of animals rebel against the human owners of their farm and take control, running it for themselves with horrific results. Animal Farm is subtitled "A Fairy Story" for much the same reasons as Johnson has subtitled his story "a Child's Fable." On Manor Farm, what begins as a democracy in which all animals are equal soon turns into a dictatorship where ' 'all animals are equal—but some are more equal than others.'' At the top of the heap are the pigs, led by Napoleon, and the closing image of the novel, in which arguing pigs and humans have become indistinguishable from each other, provides both an extraordinarily pessimistic portrait of human nature and a devastating argument against the possibility, to say nothing of the morality, of Utopian projects. The fate of the animals in Tilford's Pet Shoppe will be even worse, yet unlike Orwell, Johnson will permit a ray of hope to reach the reader, if not his characters. With Tilford gone, the animals, led by Monkey, a postmodernist "comedian" and "clown" who frightens Berkeley by daring to mimick Tilford, clamor to be released from their cages. Johnson portrays the Pet Shoppe as a microcosm of postmodern America, with its emphasis on diversity and multiculturalism: Tilford had collected everything from baby alligators to zebra-striped fish, an entire federation of cultures, with each animal having its own distinct, inviolable nature (so they said), the rows and rows of counters screaming with a plurality of so many backgrounds, needs, and viewpoints that Berkeley, his head splitting, could hardly hear his own voice above the din.
At last, by calling him a "fascist," Monkey shames Berkeley into releasing the animals so that, "united by the spirit of a bright, common future," they can feed and care for themselves. Instead, chaos and violence ensue as the animals revert to their traditional animosities and alliances, expressing the animal equivalents of racism and sexism. Instead of sharing food equally, the strong prey on the weak. Sickness takes root and spreads. Berkeley pleads for reason and, when that fails, restraint, but the animals, egged on by the trickster figure of Monkey, refuse to cooperate. At last, Berkeley realizes that despite his belief in the humanistic values of cooperation and reason,' 'truth was decided in the end by those who could be bloodiest in fang and claw." Even in the Pet Shoppe, the Law of the Jungle prevails. Berkeley can impose
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a sort of order on the other animals, but only because of his ' 'bigger teeth.'' And even then, it is a precarious order. As Monkey warns, "'Dog,' he said, scratching under one arm, 'you gotta sleep sometime.'" And so, at last, exhausted, he does. Waking after a dream, Berkeley finds the Pet Shoppe in flames and Monkey in possession of Tilford's handgun. Attempting to wrest the pistol away from Monkey, Berkeley is shot. As he lies in his own blood, dying amid the flames that will devour the Pet Shoppe and all within save Tortoise, who can withdraw into his thick shell, Berkeley bemoans their failure: '"We could have endured, we had enough in common—for Christ's sake, we're all animals." To which the Tortoise grimly replies, as if no other outcome had ever been possible, "Indeed." This seems just as bleak a vision as Orwell's, if not more so. As Jonathan Little notes in his booklength critical study, Charles Johnson's Spiritual Imagination, "This fable is an apocalyptic commentary on the contemporary culture wars, a virtual jeremiad against the supporters of ethnic and gender particularization." It depicts American society fragmented into viciously competing subgroups, including but not limited to those constituted by race and gender, each of which will sooner see the whole enterprise go up in flames than submit to any social or political ordering system that would deny the primacy of their own individual concerns. Johnson's alternative is presented implicitly in his literary style and explicitly in a fragment of Berkeley's dream, referred to above. First, reference has already been made to Johnson's postmodernist literary style, his grab-bag mix of high and low culture. The dog Berkeley, for example, the only character in the story to have a nongeneric name aside from Mr. Tilford, is so named in order to punningly suggest the English philosopher Bishop George Berkeley (1685-1753) (pronounced "Bark-lee"). Nor, remembering the character of Yen Sid, should readers forget what the word "dog" spells backwards. Thus, at the same time Johnson references the philosophy of Bishop Berkeley, a precursor of the Phenomenological philosophy that he himself espouses, he undercuts the seriousness of the allusion with the hoariest and most groanworthy of puns. Similarly, at a moment of deep existential angst, when Berkeley begins to consider the possibility that "Tilford was dead, or indifferent to their prob-
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lems," Johnson compares the watchdog to "a mountaintop wolf silhouetted by the moon in a Warner Brothers cartoon." These playful contrasts of high and low call attention to the presence of the author: that is, of Johnson himself. As critic Gary Storhoff notes in "The Artist as Universal Mind: Berkeley's Influence on Charles Johnson" in the African American Review: "In 'Menagerie,' through his many literary jokes and self-reflexive techniques, Johnson calls attention to himself as the creator of the pet store world in which Berkeley participates.'' Tilford may be absent from the world of the Pet Shoppe, but Johnson is not; evidence of his presence is everywhere the reader looks, even though Berkeley and the other animals are blind to it. This is more than a mere conceit, but to understand its full importance, a discussion must be made into the philosophy of Bishop Berkeley. Bishop Berkeley believed that everything in the world exists because of the presence of an apprehending mind. That is, all the objects one perceives around one through one's various senses, including other people, are produced by thought; matter is created by consciousness and cannot continue to exist without it. To avoid conundrums of the ' 'If a tree falls in the forest'' variety, Berkeley (who was, after all, a bishop in a highly religious age) held that matter has continuing existence because a single apprehending mind is responsible for and infinitely aware of the universe and everything in it: the mind of God. The Phenomenologist school, originated by the philosopher Edmund Husserl (1859-1938), removed God from Berkeley's thoroughgoing Idealism and replaced Him with a transcendental human consciousness. Returning to "Menagerie, a Child's Fable," one can see now that Berkeley the dog has placed his faith in what does not exist: that is, God. In the philosophy of Bishop Berkeley, God's presence is proved by the continued existence of the world and everything in it. When Bishop Berkeley sleeps, the world does not cease to exist simply because he is no longer "there" to perceive it; the bishop may be sleeping, but God never sleeps. Yet when Berkeley the dog goes to sleep, the ordered world of the Pet Shoppe falls apart. Tilford is not God; there is no God. But the fact that the Pet Shoppe is destroyed while Berkeley sleeps indicates that the Idealist position, of consciousness creating reality, is correct. The problem is that Berkeley the dog has placed his faith in the wrong thing. Instead of trusting in Tilford, or God,
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he should have faith in the ability of his own transcendental consciousness to imagine the world. According to Gary Storhoff, "Johnson employs Berkeley as an emblem of the ineffectual philosopher who is defeated by the world because he lacks confidence in his own imagination as transforming power." One sees this most clearly in Berkeley's dream. Here the watchdog fantasizes about the return of Tilford: Tilford threw open the Pet Shoppe door in a blast of wind and preternatural brilliance that rayed the whole room, evaporated every shadow, and brought the squabbling, the conflict of interpretations, mutations, and internecine battles to a halt.
So far, this is straightforward enough; it is Tilford's authority that overawes the animals; his presence, and the threat of his power, restores order as Berkeley has always known it. But then a curious thing happens, and something "behind" Tilford intrudes into the dream, with extraordinary results: [T]he colorless light behind the owner [was] so blinding it obliterated their outlines, blurred their precious differences, as if each were a rill of the same ancient light somehow imprisoned in form.
The source of this ' 'colorless light behind the owner'' is none other than Johnson himself. He is showing Berkeley what the power of creative imagination can do, placing the creative artist where Bishop Berkeley had placed God, giving the creative artist the transcendental consciousness of Husserl's Phenomenology, and adding to it the egodissolving transcendence of Buddhism, which recognizes and pierces "the illusion of identity." Yet Berkeley cannot process this insight, and the vision fades ' 'like a dream within the watchdog's dream," until only Tilford and Berkeley remain. This is Berkeley's failure; in the end, he cannot transcend the dualistic, patriarchal limitations of his imagination and accept the dream within a dream offered by his true creator, Johnson. Because of this failure, the Pet Shoppe will perish. But Berkeley's failure is not Johnson's. On the contrary, Johnson has used postmodern literary techniques not to burn down the metanarrative represented by the Pet Shoppe—what would be the point, or indeed, the challenge, in that?—but instead to triumphantly crack it open and reveal the transcendental possibility of what Jonathan Little terms "integration beyond the level of racial, national, and sexual differences."
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Source: Paul Witcover, Critical Essay on "Menagerie, a Child's Fable," in Short Stories for Students, The Gale Group, 2002.
Michelle Prebilic Prebilic is an independent author who writes children's literature. She holds degrees in psychology and business. In this essay, Prebilic discusses why Johnson's pet shoppe effectively illustrates the complexities of balance of power and how it interplays with multicultural tension.
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When cross, alcoholic Mr. Tilford fails to return to his pet shop, Berkeley the German shepherd reluctantly frees all creatures. For five days, they survive as they discover belatedly the disadvantages
Johnson chose Tilford's Pet Shoppe in Seattle as the milieu for his short story "Menagerie, a Child's Fable." He makes an excellent choice. His title cunningly describes his setting—a menagerie represents a place where people keep and train animals especially for exhibition. As animals speak and act like humans in Johnson's story, he transports readers on an adventurous journey. This venue allows Johnson to use philosophical fiction to present the issues of power—the possession of control, authority, or influence over others—and the multicultural tensions of prejudice and discrimination. The pet shoppe setting contains fundamentals similar to society. It symbolizes an "entire federation of cultures, with each animal having its own distinct, inviolable nature." For example, the pet shoppe houses an unlimited number of bird, beast, or fowl species. This structure parallels the limitless cultures of today's cities. Likewise, animals as well as humans speak many languages. The multitude of behaviors, backgrounds, needs, and viewpoints, in conjunction with the pet shop's transient nature, create an atmosphere where negative sentiments would be hard to overcome. Add to this starvation, fear, and a deadly fire to create a state of affairs where gut reaction compels the outcome. Responsible choices for the highest good of all animals cannot be considered because of survival needs. In this setting, Johnson explores power and survival, prejudice and discrimination. Each animal arrives at the pet shoppe for a unique reason. Perhaps they were ordered and not purchased, like Tarantula. Maybe they've been there a day or for weeks. No matter how they arrived, they must learn to coexist in a small location similar to a city. If Johnson had tried to use a zoo to present these issues, its effects would have been limited. For example, zoo owners exhibit their animals daily to a paying public. The animals count on a multitude of
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people to feed, clean, treat them fairly, and comfort them. Neglect and abandonment could not occur at a zoo without earning a spot on headline news. However, a pet shoppe closed indefinitely would hardly stir the public ire, especially if the community saw the owner as a disgruntled hermit. Using the scenario Johnson aptly develops, he establishes the unique and helpless dependence that the animals have on Mr. Tilford. They must rely on him to feed them, clean them, treat them fairly, and comfort them. This situation conceivably parallels the reliance that people place on their government. People look to their government to provide continuous sovereign authority over the making and administration of policy. They rely on it to treat them fairly, provide for them, and establish a level of comfort. Perhaps if the proprietors of a government suddenly disappeared, mayhem would ensue in the community's quest for survival. Using the analogy of animals as the players in this setting, Johnson refers to a multitude of differences without stereotyping and offending readers: fur or scale style and color, eating behavior, grooming habits, personal preferences, and attitudes. He describes how one species may get offended without rhyme or reason by the routines of another. Since animals' offenses and behaviors are nonhuman, readers can examine them objectively without feeling as if Johnson is highlighting human cultural differences. This story serves as a catalyst for cultures to understand how prejudice and discrimination injure a community. Readers can inspect their unrecognized attitudes towards diversity using this unbiased arena.
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In "Menagerie, a Child's Fable," Johnson uses Berkeley as the central character. When cross, alcoholic Mr. Tilford fails to return to his pet shop, Berkeley the German shepherd reluctantly frees all creatures. For five days, they survive as they discover belatedly the disadvantages of abuse of power, prejudice, and discrimination. It is through this pious watchdog's mind that readers experience the plight of the pet shoppe and explore the issue of power. Faithful and reliable Berkeley guards the shoppe for Mr. Tilford.' 'Weighing more than some men" Berkeley feels "confident of his power'' but never flaunts it. Berkeley wants appreciation and a pat on his head. Hottempered, reclusive Mr. Tilford fails to see Berkeley's wish. Eventually, Berkeley turns apathetic, yet continues to do his duty. In Mr. Tilford's absence, bird, beast, and fowl look up to Berkeley and demand an explanation. He has none. He hopes that Tilford will return or someone will rescue them. Attempts to get the attention of passersby fail. Berkeley begins to realize as days pass by that if Tilford is dead and no one rescues them, they all will die. Therefore, with Monkey's prodding and against his better judgment, Berkeley frees Monkey so he can release the others and open the feedbags. Berkeley takes comfort in his power, his "bigger teeth,'' and the fact that he outweighs the other animals. He doubts that the weak sense of procedure and fair play in the shoppe will maintain order, keep the peace, and provide for them as Tilford had. Yet he doesn't know what else to do. He knows they must try to survive. Once Monkey frees the creatures, the lack of a balance of power escalates into mayhem. Ancient blood feuds arise between beasts. Siamese jumps Rabbit with the idea of creating a cabbit with jackrabbit legs and catlike whiskers; the female animals attack and kill the Siamese. Fish drift belly up in a murky tank as lizards suck baby canaries from their eggs. The animals cannot find an organized peace. Perhaps Woodrow Wilson addressed this dilemma admirably when he spoke to the U.S. Senate on January 22,1917, quoted from Bartlett's Familiar Quotations by John Bartlett: "There must be, not a balance of power, but a community of power; not organized rivalries, but an organized common peace." As the imbalance of power plays out, Johnson exposes the idea of prejudice. He shows how the
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disadvantaged, the weaker, the confined, and the young tend to be mistreated. John Langone describes this phenomena in Spreading Poison: A Book About Racism and Prejudice. He notes that prejudice thrives on "those who are physically, emotionally or economically injured.'' He adds that "society's 'outsiders' include the diseased and the mentally unbalanced . . . people in wheelchairs." The pet shoppe enables Johnson to naturally depict the disadvantaged and the outsiders. Specifically, the goldfish fear for their safety as they realize their survival depends on another animal sprinkling food into their tanks. In this disadvantaged state, they realize that when the storeroom supplies deplete, they may soon become food themselves. Likewise, Tortoise bites at Monkey whenever Monkey tries to release him from his cage. Tortoise lives in the shoppe, but' 'you could hardly say he was part of it." He had not spoken in a year after escaping for a week and mysteriously returning. Even kind Berkeley feels apprehensive of the outsider Tortoise. Johnson illustrates how prejudice is an injury resulting from an action of one being that disregards rights of another. For example, Berkeley strives to create a balance—equality among animals. He makes a promise to protect the fish, the pet shop's disadvantaged. For five days, he doesn't sleep until Monkey insists that he get some rest. Berkeley doesn't trust arrogant Monkey who sees nothing wrong with feeding on the fish. This puts Monkey in a power struggle with Berkeley. However, Berkeley must capitulate because he feels exhausted. As he woofs in his sleep in a ravenous slumber, Monkey grabs the Smith and Wesson gun and aims it at Berkeley. Parrot awakens Berkeley in a plea that Berkeley so something to protect them. It is too late. Monkey rips a hole in Berkeley's side, and Berkeley lays bleeding to death. Monkey's prejudice towards Berkeley led to murder, an extreme form of prejudice. Johnson exploits the animals' eating habits to present discrimination, or the act of treating a person less favorably because of gender, race, religion, or another difference. As creatures with different preferences feast, the birds draw away in horror from the reptiles that savor eggs as a delicacy. Coldblooded reptiles feel nauseated at the body heat of mammals and refuse to feed beside them. Johnson illustrates how these natural differences can lead to discrimination. Perhaps, as Langone writes, "distrust of someone who is different" is "part of human nature. Being different" is "a heavy bur-
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den." He continues "beneath our different skins.... We all have hearts and minds... tendencies toward good and evil." Perhaps this idea of being common at a gut level inspired Berkeley to view this mayhem spiritually. During Berkeley's deep sleep before his death, his surreal dream alludes to the greater good in all creatures. As he dreams Mr. Tilford's return, Berkeley experiences a "preternatural brilliance that rayed the whole room, evaporated every shadow, and brought the squabbling, the conflict . . . to a halt." Mr. Tilford reaches down and strokes Berkeley head. Berkeley has achieved what he wanted in life. Later, as he lies dying from the wound afflicted by Monkey's prejudice, a deadly fire burns out of control in the storeroom. It will consume the pet shop. Tortoise alone will survive, protected by his shell. In Berkeley's final transition from naivety to wisdom, he conveys to Tortoise, '"we could have endured, we had enough in common—we're all animals.'" Tortoise agrees. This poignant story parallels Johnson's proclivity towards moralistic themes in his writing. His ' 'works typically explore themes essential to black American history—connections between race and sex, race and class, as well as interpersonal relationships." However, in "Menagerie, a Child's Fable," he takes readers into the global issues of multicultural tension. No longer does Johnson specifically focus on African-American issues but, deliberate in attitude and purpose, he cleverly helps readers walk away with the opinion that we are all people of the world that struggle with multicultural tensions. Langone sums up this struggle properly when he says: The burden, then, is on each and every one of us ... If we can appreciate that each one of us is a product of special cultures, if we can open our minds to the differences and still see that we are all, as they say, brothers and sisters under the skin, and if we renounce acts of racial and ethnic violence whenever they occur, then we will be able to live together.
If readers look at the multicultural tensions of today, they will note that the grotesque tragedies of Jewish concentration camps and sovereign beheading remain only in history. Yet, Johnson creates an awareness that the world cultures must continue to examine their beliefs about equal rights. Prejudice and discrimination based on skin color, economic status, religious affiliation, and gender make headlines news regularly. Murder in the name of God, Allah, or an almighty supreme being still exists.
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People of all cultures make choices to perpetuate multicultural tension. When a person physically beats up another because they don't agree, that community sees prejudice. When a person insults another, that community encounters discrimination. When a person bullies without intervention, that community allows hatred. Johnson reminds readers to keep vigilant. He hopes to impart the knowledge that people can make a choice; they can seek an organized common peace. Source: Michelle Prebilic, Critical Essay on "Menagerie, a Child's Fable," in Short Stories for Students, The Gale Group, 2002.
Sources Bartlett, John, "Woodrow Wilson 1856-1924: Address to the U.S. Senate (January 22, 1917)," in Bartlett's Familiar Quotations, Little, Brown & Co., 1968, p. 841b. Boccia, Michael, "An Interview with Charles Johnson," in African American Review, Vol. 30, No. 4,1996, pp. 611-18. Boccia, Michael, and Herman Beavers, Introduction, in African American Review, Vol. 30, No. 4, Winter 1996, p. 517. Graham, Maryemma, "Charles R. Johnson," in Dictionary of Literary Biography, Vol. 33: Afro-American Fiction Writers After 1955, edited by Thadious M. Davis and Trudier Harris, University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, 1984, pp. 124-27. Langone, John, Spreading Poison: A Book about Racism and Prejudice, Little, Brown & Co., 1993, pp. 15, 91, 156, 164-65. Little, Jonathan, "An Interview with Charles Johnson," in / Call Myself an Artist: Writings by and about Charles Johnson, edited by Rudolph P. Byrd, Indiana University Press, 1999, pp. 242-43. , "Staring into the Abyss," in Charles Johnson's Spiritual Imagination, University of Missouri Press, 1997, pp. 116-17. O'Connor, Maureen, "Being Different," in Equal Rights, What Do We Mean by Human Rights series, Franklin Watts, 1997, pp. 7-10. Storhoff, Gary, "The Artist as Universal Mind: Berkeley's Influence on Charles Johnson," in African American Review, Vol. 30, No. 4, Winter 1996, pp. 543^4. Trucks, Rob, "A Conversation with Charles Johnson," in TriQuarterly, Vol. 107-108, TriQuarterly, 2000, p. 537. Waugh, Patricia, Introduction, in Postmodernism: A Reader, edited by Patricia Waugh, Edward Arnold, 1992, p. 5.
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Further Reading Adams, Janus, Freedom Days: 365 Inspired Moments in Civil Rights History, Wiley, 1998. Adams provides historical information, accompanied by photographs, of major events in a variety of civil rights struggles throughout the world. Carson, Clayborne, ed., The Eyes on the Prize Civil Rights Reader, Penguin, 1991. Carson provides a basic overview of the history of the Civil Rights movement. Carson, Clayborne, and Kris Shephard, eds., A Call to Conscience: The Landmark Speeches of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., Warner Books, 2001. Carson and Shephard provide a collection of major speeches by Civil Rights leader Martin Luther King, Jr. Fairclough, Adam, Better Day Coming: Blacks and Equality, 1890-2000, Viking, 2000. Fairclough provides discussion of the various struggles of African Americans for greater equality throughout the twentieth century.
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Johnson, Charles, and John McCluskey Jr., eds., Black Men Speaking, Indiana University Press, 1997. Black Men Speaking provides discussion by a variety of African-American men on issues of African-American identity and the African-American experience. Robnett, Belinda, How Long ? How Long ? African-American Women in the Struggle for Civil Rights, Oxford University Press, 1997. Robnett provides a collection of essays on the crucial role of African-American women in the Civil Rights movement. Resales, F. Arturo, Chlcano!: The History of the Mexican American Civil Rights Movement, Arte Publico, 1997. Rosales provides a historical account of the struggles of Mexican Americans fighting for greater equality within the United States. Smith, Patricia, and Charles Johnson, Africans in America: America's Journey through Slavery, Harcourt Brace, 1998. Smith and Charles provide an historical account of slavery in the United States.
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The Purloined Letter Modern mystery writers owe a debt of gratitude to Edgar Allan Poe. Although he is primarily known for his horror stories, Poe also wrote a series of what he called, "tales of ratiocination," which helped define the conventions used in Arthur Conan Doyle's Sherlock Holmes detective stories, and which helped influence the development of the modern mystery. One of Poe's most popular detective stories is ' 'The Purloined Letter." Originally published in The Gift: A Christmas and New Year's Present for 1844, an annual magazine, the story was reproduced in Poe's Tales by Edgar A. Poe the following year. Today, a copy of the story can be found in The Fall of the House of Usher and Other Tales, published in 1998 by Signet Classic. As with the other stories that feature C. Auguste Dupin, Poe's famous detective protagonist, "The Purloined Letter" emphasizes the use of deductive reasoning—a specific type of logic that examines all factors in a case objectively— to solve mysteries that have stumped others.
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In this story, as in other Poe detective stories, among the people stumped are the members of the French police force, who attempt to find a stolen letter which is being used for political blackmail. The police launch a series of scientific and precise, but misguided, investigations by using logical methods that are based solely on past experience and established systems of thought. Their investigative methods reflect the types of rational thought prevalent in the mid-nineteenth century. In the end, the police are unsuccessful in finding the letter because
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the thief has hidden it in the most unexpected place—right under their noses. Dupin figures this out and recovers the letter, turning the political tables on the thief.
Author Biography Edgar Allan Poe, one of America's most influential writers, was born on January 19, 1809, in Boston, Massachusetts. His parents, both struggling actors, died when he was only three years old. Poe was raised—though never officially adopted—by John and Frances Allan in Richmond, Virginia. Allan, a prosperous tobacco merchant, sent Poe to the finest schools, including the University of Virginia, where Poe immediately gambled away all of his money, racked up a massive amount of debt, and drank his first semester away. Even so, he managed to do well in his classes and earn the highest university honors. This pattern of producing good work under unfavorable circumstances continued throughout Poe's life. Allan pulled Poe out of school because of Poe's dilettante habits, and the already distant relationship between the two went sour. Poe went to Boston, where he attempted to earn his living by writing. Sales were small, however, and he joined the army to earn his living expenses. He performed well in the army but did not enjoy the experience. After receiving an honorable discharge, Poe entered the United States Military Academy at West Point. Lack of financial support from Allan led to Poe's court-martial and dismissal. Poe, then in his mid-twenties, married his thirteen-year-old cousin, Virginia, and began to support Virginia and her mother. Poe's stories started to sell, but his financial situation never greatly improved. In the following years, he edited and published his work in several journals, which showcased his prodigious talent and innovation in the short story genre, in poetry, and in literary criticism. His work for these journals raised his stature in the literary community, but inevitably, he was fired from each of these jobs, as a result of either a bad economy or his cantankerous disposition. Poe is often remembered for his short fiction, much of which he published while living in Philadelphia in the 1830s and 1840s. These stories include Tales of the Grotesque and Arabesque, which contains many of the supernatural and horror tales that people associate with the author. In 1845, he published his last story collection, Tales by Edgar
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A. Poe, which featured "The Purloined Letter," considered by many critics to be one of the first detective stories. In addition to his short stories, Poe is well known for his poetry, most notably "The Raven." After his wife's death from tuberculosis in 1849, Poe took a trip to Baltimore for unknown reasons. He was found unconscious, and died a short time later on October 3,1849. A brain lesion is the presumed cause of his death, but many critics and fans have speculated otherwise. Like the stories that Poe wrote, the exact cause of the author's death and the circumstances surrounding his last days remain a mystery.
Plot Summary The Prefect's First Visit "The Purloined Letter" begins with a description by the unnamed narrator of one evening in the "autumn of 18 "at C. Auguste Dupin's home in Paris. Both men are sitting silent, smoking, and the narrator is recalling two mysteries that Dupin previously solved—the murders in the Rue Morgue and the murder of Marie Roget. These two mysteries were in fact centerpieces of earlier detective stories written by Poe. Monsieur G— , the Prefect of the Parisian police, calls on Dupin once again for his help, the mystery of the purloined, or stolen, letter. At Dupin's suggestion, the three men sit in the dark to discuss the case. The Monsieur begins by saying that the matter is simple, and yet puzzling, at which point Dupin says that maybe it is too simple. This notion is funny and odd to the Monsieur, who dismisses it and continues with his description of how the letter was stolen. Minister D , a political rival of the French Queen, stole a letter addressed to the Queen from her royal apartment, in plain sight of the Queen. However, the Queen was unable to stop him for fear of drawing attention to the letter and its contents, which contain extremely private information that could be politically damaging to the royal family. The Minister has been using the letter for months to blackmail the Queen, but she has been unable do protect herself from the blackmail, as she cannot openly try to reclaim the letter.
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The Prefect Explains the Police's Methods The Prefect gives a brief overview of the methods he and his police force have used to try to reclaim the letter without the Minister's knowledge, a task that seems as though it should be easy, as the Minister leaves his home every night. Motivated both by political reasons and by the large reward attached to the finding of the letter, the Prefect and his men have spent every night for three months ransacking the Minister's apartment, but have not procured the letter. The Prefect says that the Minister, being a poet, is by extension somewhat of a fool, so the Minister assumes that the police will be able to determine the whereabouts of the letter. He also explains that the letter has to be somewhere near the Minister, since he needs to be able to use it at a moment's notice. The Prefect has even had undercover policemen act like thugs and mug the Minister twice, under the assumption that he might have it with him, but the Minister has not been discovered carrying the letter. The narrator suggests that the Prefect give very specific details about how he and his men searched the Minister's apartment, at which point the Prefect launches into a very detailed description. The police force searched the entire building, focusing on the most secret areas they can imagine. They searched for hidden drawers, took apart chairs, and looked under table tops and within table legs. They searched for hollow spots that could hide the letter, and used microscopes and other scientific methods to unearth clues. Furthermore, they looked around the grounds of the Minister's home, examined every page and cover of every book within his library, searched under the carpets and floorboards, and even searched the cellars. After this exhaustive description, Dupin still tells the Prefect that he needs "to make a thorough research of the premises," but the Prefect assures Dupin that he has done so and that the letter cannot be at the Minister's residence. Dupin asks for a description of the letter, and the Prefect provides the description and takes his leave.
The Prefect's Second Visit One month later, the Prefect returns to visit Dupin, and says that he has examined the Minister's apartment once again, but once again, has found nothing. Dupin asks about the reward, and the Prefect says that it has been doubled, and that he will give fifty thousand francs to anybody who can obtain it. At this point, Dupin has the Prefect make
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out the check, at which point Dupin produces the letter. The astounded Prefect examines it to make sure it is the same purloined letter for which he has been searching, then rushes out without bothering to hear how Dupin obtained the letter.
Dupin's Explanation After the Prefect leaves, Dupin explains to the narrator how he found the letter. First, he notes that the Parisian police made as thorough a search as they could of the Minister's home, given their knowledge of how to do such things. He further notes that the police's methods were carried out perfectly, but that they were the wrong methods to use in such a case. In explaining his meaning, he tells a fable about a schoolboy who was very good at guessing games because the boy knew how to observe his opponents' behavior and figure out how his opponents think. Dupin continues, saying that the Prefect's mistake was in thinking about how he would hide a letter, and assuming that everyone would think about the situation in the same manner. He also explains that the Prefect's assumption that the Minister is a fool because he is a poet is flawed. Dupin knows for a fact that the Minister is both a poet and a mathematician, and it is this combined tendency toward both creativity and reason that has
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allowed the Minister to hide the letter effectively. Furthermore, Dupin notes that the Minister, being a shrewd political opponent, knew about the ransackings, and even encouraged them, because he was sure the police would not know where to look for the letter, and that they would eventually give up their searches. Dupin talks about the concept of hiding something in plain sight by making it extremely obvious— so obvious that no one would ever think to look in that spot. Dupin says that, given his knowledge of the Minister and his ways of thinking, after the Prefect's first visit with Dupin, he had deduced that the letter must, in fact, be hidden in plain sight. With this idea, Dupin went to the Minister's home one morning under the pretense of a social visit. Dupin wore dark eyeglasses—complaining about his weak sight—so that he could survey the Minister's home without the Minister's knowledge. Dupin observed a seemingly unimportant letter sitting in plain view, crammed in a letter rack. The letter bore little resemblance to the purloined letter, because it had been ripped and had a new seal on it. Dupin explains, however, that he was sure that this was the letter in question, especially when he noticed that it showed signs of having been turned inside out. When Dupin leaves the Minister's home, he intentionally leaves behind his gold snuff-box on the Minister's table. Dupin returns the next day under the pretense of picking up his snuff-box, and the two men resume talking. Suddenly, a musket shot rings out in the street. The Minister rushes to the window, and Dupin quickly takes the purloined letter, leaving a fake duplicate in its place. Dupin joins the Minister at the window, observing the disturbance that Dupin himself had planned. The narrator asks why Dupin simply did not take the letter and run, and Dupin explains that the Minister is a powerful political opponent, and that he may have killed Dupin before he left the building. Also, Dupin—a supporter of the Queen—explains that since the Minister did not know that Dupin had returned the stolen letter to the Queen, the Minister will try to use it to blackmail her again. This time, however, it will not work, and it will backfire in the Minister's face—something that appeals to Dupin's political bent. On a personal note, Dupin says that he is also getting back at the Minister for an offense he committed against Dupin a long time ago. Because of this, and because he does not want to leave a
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blank letter in the Minister's letter rack, Dupin tells the narrator that he left the Minister a clue inside the letter, in the form of his insignia.
Characters Minister i Minister D is a daring political opponent of the French Queen; he steals one of her letters, and uses it to blackmail her so that he can achieve his political ends. Although the Queen knows he has stolen it, neither she nor the police Prefect, another one of her allies, can recover the letter openly, for fear of publicizing its contents. The Minister knows this, and he also knows that the police will try to search his home whenever he is away. At one point, he purposefully leaves to let them do this, because he has hidden the letter in an ironically obvious hiding place, where he is certain the police will not look for it. Without the Minister's knowledge, Dupin, the hired detective, deduces that this is exactly what the Minister has done, and on a visit to see the Minister, Dupin notices the letter sitting in a letter rack. On a second visit, the Minister is distracted by a diversion that Dupin has set up, and Dupin secretly switches the purloined letter with a fake letter. Although the Minister's fate is never seen, Dupin tells the narrator that since the Minister does not know about the fake letter, he will try to use it as he has used the real one, and it will backfire in his face, leading to his political downfall.
C. Auguste Dupin C. Auguste Dupin is the detective in the story, whom the Prefect has called upon in past Poe stories to solve mysteries. In "The Purloined Letter," the Prefect visits Dupin to get help in finding a purloined—or stolen—letter. With the help of prompting questions and statements, largely from the narrator—who is a friend of Dupin—the Prefect provides Dupin with the details of the case. The letter has been stolen from the Queen, in her presence, by the Minister D ,a known political opponent. However, due to the sensitive nature of the letter's contents, the Queen and her allies, including the Prefect, cannot seize the letter openly, and so have tried to search the Minister's home in private. Dupin asks questions about the Prefect's search methods to determine if the
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search has been handled correctly. Dupin says that the Minister has conducted a good search, yet he encourages the Prefect to make a thorough search of the premises. The Prefect is confused, but takes his advice. However, a month later, when the Prefect returns to Dupin's home, he has still found nothing. On this second visit, Dupin asks the Prefect about the reward for finding the letter, and the Prefect says that it is fifty thousand francs. Dupin has the Prefect make out the check, then produces the letter. Later, Dupin explains to the narrator the methods of deductive reasoning that he used to figure out where the Minister was hiding the letter. He notes that the Parisian police have done the best that they could, because they and the Prefect are operating on a faulty assumption: they assume that the Minister would try to hide the letter in some "secret" compartment, and thus, all of their efforts are concentrated on searching in hidden places. Dupin explains how, by knowing details about a person's behavior and background, one can figure out his actions. In this case, Dupin knows that the Minister is aware of the police's searches, and knows that the police will look in the most hidden spots, but will ignore any area that is in plain view. Under the pretense of a social visit, Dupin visits the Minister and almost immediately locates the purloined letter in a letter rack on the wall. On a second visit, Dupin creates a diversion, during which time he grabs the stolen letter, replacing it with a fake copy.
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Media Adaptations • "The Purloined Letter" was adapted into an audiocassette version in 1986 by Spoken Arts. • ' 'The Purloined Letter'' was adapted into a fullcast audiocassette production in Edgar Allan Poe 's Stories & Tales II, published by Monterey Soundworks in 2000. The audio collection also includes Poe's "The Black Cat," "The System of Dr. Tarr and Professor Fether," and "The Murders in the Rue Morgue."
that he and the police force have used, and Dupin encourages him to go back and try again. The Prefect returns to Dupin's home a month later, saying that he still can't find the letter, and that the reward is even larger now. At Dupin's request, the Prefect makes out a reward check to Dupin, who promptly produces the letter. The Prefect rushes off to return the letter to the Queen, and does not stay to hear the explanation that Dupin gives to the narrator about how he found the letter.
G See Monsieur G-
The Minister See Minister D
Monsieur G— Monsieur Gis the Prefect of the Parisian police, and a political ally of the French Queen; after the Queen's letter is stolen by the Minister D , the Prefect is charged with finding it. He attempts to recover it on his own by using standard search methods. He and his police force, believing that they are being sneaky, break into the Minister's home every night for three months. On each of these nights, the Prefect and the police perform highly scientific methods in their exhaustive search of potential hiding spots, both in and around the premises. After this dogged search yields no result, the Prefect visits C. Auguste Dupin, a man who has helped him solve cases in the past. He explains the situation to Dupin, including the various methods
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The Narrator The unnamed narrator is a friend of C. Auguste Dupin, the detective in the story, and serves as a foil to Dupin. The narrator's presence enhances the idea that Dupin is an incredibly smart and logical person. When the story begins, the narrator is at Dupin's home, smoking. The narrator is remembering how Dupin has helped to solve two other mysteries, the murders in the Rue Morgue and the murder of Marie Roget. The Prefect arrives, saying that he needs Dupin's help recovering a stolen letter from an already identified thief. Throughout the story, the narrator asks a number of direct questions that help to advance the plot. In this way, the narrator serves as the reader's representative, by asking the ques-
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tions that are on the reader's mind. The narrator's questions are directed at both the Prefect and Dupin. In both cases, the matter eventually comes back to Dupin, who then shows his intellectual prowess through his answers. This trend continues throughout the story, and concludes with the long, final conversation between the narrator and Dupin, after the Prefect has taken the purloined letter and left. Here, as the narrator prompts Dupin with questions and statements, Dupin reveals how he deduced where the letter was in the Minister's home, and how he recovered it.
The Prefect See Monsieur G
Themes Logic The hallmark of "The Purloined Letter" is its use of abstract logic by C. Auguste Dupin. The story is one of what Poe called his "tales of ratiocination," which employed reason—rather than horror, as in many other Poe stories—as a narrative tool. Dupin, who also solves the cases in some of Poe's other tales of ratiocination, is a detective who uses deductive reasoning to solve the case of the stolen letter. In the story, Dupin relies on what he knows of the situation to deduce the correct hiding spot of the letter. Dupin's reasoning is based on three factors: what he knows of the Prefect's behavior and thought processes; what he knows of the Minister's behavior and thought processes; and what he knows of human nature in general. As Dupin explains to the narrator, he knows, both from recent conversations with the Prefect and from past knowledge, that the Prefect follows' 'principles of search, which are based upon the one set of notions regarding human ingenuity" to which the Prefect was accustomed. Dupin notes that the Prefect has ' 'taken it for granted that all men proceed to conceal a letter.... in some out-of-the-way hole." In the Prefect's experience, when somebody wants to hide something, they go to great pains to hide it in a secret compartment or some other hidden area, thinking they are clever. In the past, the Prefect has found many of these compartments, so he assumes that he will do so again. When Dupin tells the Prefect' 'to make a thorough research of the prem-
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ises,' ' the Prefect does not understand that Dupin is referring to the obvious ones, and once again looks for the letter in a secret compartment in which a letter might be hidden. Dupin also knows, given his knowledge of the Minister and his habits, that the Minister is a very clever person. Dupin correctly deduces that the Minister must have known about' 'the secret investigations of his premises," and that if he left his home every night and made it easier for them to search, they would eventually come to ' 'the conviction that the letter was not upon the premises." Furthermore, as Dupin deduces, the Minister has seen that the police would rely on tried-and-true search methods, and that the Minister "would be driven, as a matter of course, to simplicity, if not deliberately induced to it as a matter of choice." The final clue that Dupin uses to figure out where the letter is hidden is his knowledge of human nature, something in which he knows the Minister is also well versed. As Dupin explains to the narrator, some items can "escape observation by dint of being excessively obvious." In his example, Dupin relates a game that is played with a map. The object of the game is to have one's opponent find a specific word somewhere within the map. As Dupin notes, ' 'a novice in the game generally seeks to embarrass his opponents by giving them the most minutely lettered names." Like the Prefect, these novices think they can beat their opponent by focusing on obscurity. However, as Dupin says, "the adept selects such words as stretch, in large characters, from one end of the chart to the other." When someone is specifically looking for something obscure, that person will miss obvious items that do not fit the profile of the search.
Scientific Investigations Although it is Dupin's form of deductive logic— which is bound only by the factors in the particular case—that solves the case, the Prefect also uses logic. However, the Prefect's brand of logic is bound by his past experience—in this case, the investigative methods that normally bring him success. The Prefect gives an exhaustive inventory of these methods, many of which rely on rational, scientific methods of thought. When speaking of the Minister's home, he says, "we divided its entire surface into compartments, which we numbered, so
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Topics for Further Study • Research the methods that modern-day criminal psychologists use to create a psychological profile. Using these methods, choose one of history's greatest criminals and write a profile about him or her in the modern style. • Research the methods of investigation used by the French police in the 1830s and 1840s, and write a three-page paper describing how their investigative methods do or do not correspond with the types of methods described by Poe in "The Purloined Letter." • Although Poe was an American, he chose to place his story in France. Research the political, historical, and social climates of both France and America in the 1830s and 1840s, and pose a theory about why Poe may have chosen to set his
that none might be missed." Within each of these precise areas of searching, they used a "powerful microscope" on such items as chairs and tables, in an attempt to find any hidden compartments. "There is a certain amount of bulk—of space—to be accounted for in every cabinet. Then we have accurate rules. The fiftieth part of a line could not escape us." In other words, by comparing an object's exterior dimensions to the actual interior space that can be seen, the Prefect and the police can determine whether there is any extra space—a hidden compartment. The Prefect's methods are so scientific and precise that he claims that even small signs would tip them off. "A single grain of gimlet-dust, for example, would have been as obvious as an apple." Of course, as Dupin suggests at the beginning,' 'it is the very simplicity of the thing" that thwarts the Prefect, who thinks he has "investigated every nook and corner of the premises in which it is possible that the paper can be concealed." However, in this instance the Prefect's methods are useless, because they only take into account "secret" areas, and ignore the obvious areas.
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story in France. Then, write a plot summary for a different version of the story, which takes place in America at the same time. • Compare C. Auguste Dupin to Sam Spade, the famous detective protagonist of Dashiell Hammett's The Maltese Falcon. Write a scene where the two men meet in a modern-day setting. How would they react to contemporary issues and ways of thinking? • In the story, the French police use a microscope as an investigative tool. Research the history of the microscope. Besides police investigations, find five other ways that microscopes have been used in the eighteenth, nineteenth, and twentieth centuries.
Politics The reason for the letter's theft is political in nature. The Minister, a political opponent of the Queen's, steals the letter, and holds it hostage. As the Prefect notes, "the power thus attained has, for some months, been wielded, for political purposes, to a very dangerous extent." Although the contents of the letter are never explained, it is noted that it could be particularly damaging to the royal family. Dupin, who is an acquaintance of the Minister, is also a political ally of the Queen. As he tells the narrator, "You know my political prepossessions. In this matter, I act as a partisan of the lady concerned." This is one of the main reasons why Dupin is willing to get involved with the case and help find the letter. A savvy political player himself, Dupin knows that if he can take the letter without the Minister realizing it—replacing it with a fake—he can spin the situation to his advantage and bring about the Minister's political downfall. As Dupin notes, the Minister, "being unaware that the letter is not in his possession,. .. will proceed with his exactions as if it was." In other words, by trying to blackmail the
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Queen with the fake letter, the Minister will assume that the Queen will do his bidding, and will undertake the same kinds of daring schemes he has been doing for the past eighteen months, which he would not do without protection of the letter. This action will lead, as Dupin notes, "to his political destruction." Dupin says of this downfall, that, "[i]n the present instance I have no sympathy—at least no pity—for him who descends." In Dupin's mind, the Minister is an "unprincipled man of genius," who deserves harsh punishment for his political transgressions.
Style Detective Story Many critics agree that with tales of ratiocination like ' 'The Purloined Letter,'' Poe earned the title of father of the modern detective story. Three of C. Auguste Dupin's characteristics in particular—his mysterious nature, his civilian position, and his deductive reasoning—influenced the detectives found in both literature and film. When Poe introduces Dupin, he provides very little information about his background. He and the narrator sit in the dark, smoking their pipes. When the Prefect visits him to talk about the case, Dupin purposely does not light the lamp, saying that "if it is any point requiring reflection.... we shall examine it to better purpose in the dark.'' This idea, of the mysterious, silent detective sitting and smoking in the dark while listening to his clients' cases, is one of the hallmarks of future "private-eye" stories. Like these private eyes, Dupin is also a civilian. Although he is outside of the law, the Prefect still comes to talk with Dupin any time he has "some official business" that gives him "a great deal of trouble." In this case, as in many other detective stories, the Prefect gives Dupin privileged information, such as when he is describing the importance of the letter: ' 'I may venture so far as to say that the paper gives its holder a certain power in a certain quarter where such power is immensely valuable." Although the Prefect tries to keep this information vague, he eventually reveals more sensitive information, including the identity of the thief and the specific nature of the stolen item, "the document in question—a letter, to be frank." Using his deductive reasoning, Dupin is able to solve the case with the same information that the
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police have. The difference is that he examines all of the factors of the case holistically, not depending only on factors consistent with established systems of thought. ' 'I dispute the availability, and thus the value, of that reason which is cultivated in any especial form other than the abstractly logical," says Dupin to the narrator. For Dupin, traditional systems of scientific logic, which rely on set rules, do not always help when solving cases about humans, who do not always play by these rules. Therefore, the optimal method of logic that can be used to deduce a solution to a mystery is abstract logic, which takes into account other relevant factors in its analysis.
Foreshadowing Although neither the narrator nor the Prefect picks up on it, Dupin gives them the solution to the case of the purloined letter twice before he explains how he does it. In the beginning, after the Prefect has introduced the mystery but before he has given any details, he says about his police force that "we have all been a good deal puzzled because the affair is so simple, and yet baffles us altogether." Dupin notes that "perhaps the mystery is a little too plain," "a little too self-evident," an idea that the Prefect finds laughable. However, Dupin is giving both the Prefect and the reader a clue as to the solution of this mystery. Dupin does this again at the end of this first visit, after he has heard all of the methods that the Prefect has used to try to find the letter. The Prefect, expecting some good advice, asks Dupin what he should do next, to which Dupin replies, "make a thorough research of the premises." The Prefect does not realize that Dupin is giving another clue to the mystery. Dupin knows that the Prefect has only concentrated on the secret areas of the Minister's home, so he tells the Prefect to check all of the areas, including the obvious ones.
Exposition Most fiction writers attempt to expose facts to the reader, a technique known as exposition, as seamlessly as possible, by bringing the reader up to speed slowly through dialogue and narration. In fact, one of the ways in which some critics and readers measure the worth of a story is in its level of mastery of exposition, considered one of the hardest tasks for a writer. In "The Purloined Letter," however, the exposition is very blatant. An unnamed narrator, acting on the reader's behalf, asks very direct questions—which Dupin's character would not be likely to ask—that advance the plot. It is the
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narrator who asks the Prefect,' 'And what, after all, is the matter at hand?" thereby prompting the Prefect to start his tale. When the Prefect is being vague, the narrator says,' 'Be a little more explicit." When Dupin says something that is even slightly confusing, the narrator repeats the confusing part. An example of this is when the narrator repeats the phrase, "Its susceptibility of being produced?" which Dupin stated to indicate that having the letter handy so that it could be destroyed, if necessary, is equally as important as having the letter at all. This trend continues in the second half of the story, when Dupin is explaining his methods of reasoning to the narrator. "So far as his labors extended?" the narrator repeats, when Dupin is trying to get across the idea that the Prefect and his men have only done everything that they know how to do, and not everything they could do. Once again, the narrator prompts Dupin to explain anything that could possibly be confusing to the reader. However, while many other stories would fail with this type of blatant exposition, which can kill dramatic tension, in Poe's case, it works. The reason it works is that the reader is hooked from the beginning of the story by the mystery: because the reader wishes to know where the letter was hidden, and because Dupin does not reveal until the end where the letter was and how he recovered it, the direct exposition of facts helps to build up the dramatic tension.
Historical Context The Mass-Market Publishing Industry in America In the mid-1820s, Poe was one of many writers on the East Coast submitting his works to the growing mass-market publishing industry. Better transportation and improvements in paper production and printing technologies led to the establishment of several newspapers, magazines, and book publishers, and writers and editors clamored to be a part of it.
Copyright Issues for American Authors In these early years of publishing, American authors were unprotected by any strict copyright legislation, something for which writers like Poe lobbied heavily. Because writers could not protect their works from being plagiarized or reprinted without their permission, they realized that the value of their works would drop after the first
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printing. As a result, many authors guarded their unpublished works closely, so that they could negotiate higher payments for the initial publication. Poe mocked this trend in his story, "The Purloined Letter,'' where the narrator notes that it is the ' 'possession, and not any employment of the letter, which bestows the power." Says Terence Whalen, in his essay, "The American Publishing Industry," "Regardless of what it may have meant to the queen, the stolen letter retains its power only so long as its contents remain secret." Whalen further notes that with this treatment of the letter, Poe "develops the tendencies of the capitalist publishing industry to a logical and perverse extreme."
Political Manipulations The election of President Andrew Jackson in 1828 introduced competitive new methods into presidential elections. Says J. Gerald Kennedy, in his article, "Edgar Allan Poe, 1809-1849: A Brief Biography," "[t]he contest of 1828 had transformed presidential elections forever by introducing national political tactics" and "fierce partisanship." This partisanship carried over to governing itself, Kennedy notes, as Jackson began to "reward allies and punish enemies." In the story, Dupin is also a political manipulator, who uses his recovery of the letter as a political move. "You know my political prepossessions, " Dupin says to the narrator.' 'In this matter, I act as a partisan of the lady concerned." Besides reclaiming the letter so that the Minister will be forced to stop blackmailing the queen, Dupin also sets it up so that the Minister will "commit himself, at once, to his political destruction."
The Rise of Rationalism Poe begins his story by saying that it takes place in the "autumn of 18—." However, since the story was published in 1844, it is likely that this is the general time that he meant for the setting, especially since the story features the type of rational thought that was common in this time. During the 1830s, when Poe began publishing many of his short stories, several developments took place. In England in 1833, English inventor Charles Babbage discovered the principle of the ' 'analytical engine," a theoretical device for performing calculations. The device, which called for using a system of punched cards to give the machine instructions, eventually helped to lead to the genesis of the modern-day computer.
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Compare & Contrast • 1840s: Samuel Morse, American portrait painter, invents Morse Code, a code of dots and spaces that the United States government uses to keep messages secret from its political enemies. Today: The United States constructs increasingly more sophisticated methods of keeping messages secret, and employs mathematicians to try to break the codes of other countries. • Early 1840s: Frenchman Louis Daguerre, a scenepainter, invents the daguerreotype, a method that uses a lens and light, along with a chemical reaction, to capture exact images. The first daguerreotypes are used mainly for landscapes— including the first photograph of Paris—and portraits.
Two years later, in 1838, a New York Scientist, Charles A. Spencer, introduced the first microscope to America. Although microscopes had been around in some form in various parts of the world since the first crude microscope was built in the Netherlands in 1590, its introduction to America led to many applications. In 1839, France's Louis Daguerre introduced the daguerreotype, a primitive form of photography, which gave people the ability to produce exact reproductions of life for the first time. Up until this point, reproductions were subject to the interpretation of the individual artist.
Critical Overview Poe's stories have not always been criticized for their literary merit alone. As Roger Asselineau notes in his entry on Poe for American Writers,' 'the most contradictory judgments have been passed on Edgar Allan Poe's character and works." Asselineau remarks that even Poe's chosen executor, the Rev-
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Today: Photography comes in many types, including digital, and it is used in many educational, artistic, medical, and scientific applications. Photographs are also used as evidence in many police investigations and criminal trials. • Early 1840s: In the absence of any strictly enforced copyright laws, American authors guard their writings to increase the value of their works on first publication, since they are often reproduced by magazines without the author's permission. Today: With the advent of the Internet and online publishing, it is easier than ever to gain free access to many copyrighted works. As a result, legal cases and debates involving intellectual property issues increase dramatically.
erend Rufus Griswold, "branded him a perverse neurotic, a drunkard and drug addict." On many occasions, this negative sentiment about Poe's vices tainted the author's literary reputation. Of course, not everybody thought Poe's writing was degenerate. In 1845, the year "The Purloined Letter" was reprinted in Tales of Edgar A. Poe, reviewer George Colton noted of this story and the other tales of ratiocination that "the difference between acumen and cunning, calculation and analysis, are admirably illustrated in these tales.'' In fact, favorable response to "The Purloined Letter" was widespread. As Eric W. Carlson notes in his entry for the Dictionary of Literary Biography, the story was "immediately popular," and "it was among his first translated into French." The popularity of the story was still evident three decades later. In 1879, Robert Louis Stevenson noted that, "if anyone wishes to be excited, let him read.... the three stories about C. Auguste Dupin, the philosophical detective." On a similar note, a year later, Edmund Clarence Stedman noted in Scribner's Monthly that Poe's "strength is unquestionable in those clever pieces of ratiocination."
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In the twentieth century, the reviews of the story were still largely positive, and many critics, like Vincent Buranelli, noted Poe's role as the father of the detective story, saying that he was "the only American ever to invent a form of literature. "Buranelli notes that Poe "also perfected it," and says that "The Purloined Letter" is one of two detective stories—the other being Poe's ' 'The Murders in the Rue Morgue''—that ' 'may be the best ever written." While "The Purloined Letter" was more consistently well-liked than many of Poe's other works, not everything about the story was approved. G. R. Thompson notes that Dupin's "role . . . is complex and suspect," and that he is set up as "a godlike omniscience, with the T narrator and the reader playing the role of the dull-witted dupes." Furthermore, Thompson notes that "Dupin and D ... are moral doubles, each having a talent for duplicity and malice," and that "Dupin's interest in the case is morally dubious." In spite of the criticism, with detective stories like "The Purloined Letter," Poe helped to influence many later mystery writers, a fact that is emphasized today by the existence of The Edgar, an annual award presented by the Mystery Writers of America to the best writers of detective stories.
Criticism Ryan D. Poquette Poquette has a bachelor's degree in English and specializes in writing about literature. In the following essay, Poquette discusses Poe's theory of the ' 'bi-part soul'' and its application in Poe's story. Throughout his career, Poe was fascinated by the idea of a "bi-part" soul, half imagination, half reason—an idea that was expressed in many of his works. As Roger Asselineau noted about Poe in his entry for American Writers, ' 'His works reflect this double aspect of his personality: the abandonment of the self-destructive romantic artist and the selfcontrol of the conscious and conscientious craftsman." At first glance, somebody looking at Poe's stories may be tempted to label each one as either a horror story—emphasizing imagination—or a detective story, which emphasizes reason. However, with Poe, it is not always that simple, especially
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C. Auguste Dupin, the main character in Poe's ' 'The Purloined Letter,'' is said to have greatly influenced the creation of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's Sherlock Holmes, shown here
with Poe's detective stories. Kenneth Graham notes in the Introduction to Selected Tales that Dupin ' 'is the most famous instance of the fusion of the faculties, in his 'Bi-part soul." The idea of the bipart soul is especially prevalent in ' 'The Purloined Letter," where Poe uses both characterization and dialogue to emphasize and demonstrate the possibilities of this duality. Out of the four characters in Poe's "The Purloined Letter,'' only two of them, Dupin and the Minister, embody the author's idea of the ' 'bi-part soul." Consequently, these two men are the political power brokers in the story, engaged in an intellectual war, while the other two—the narrator and the Prefect—trail along behind, oblivious to what is going on around them. Dupin is a powerful character, who has a reputation for being able to use his logic to solve mysteries that others cannot. As a result, people like the Prefect seek him out when they have a case that gives them ' 'a great deal of trouble." Still, although the Prefect praises him for his logical abilities,
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What Do I Read Next? • Poe's detective stories featuring C. Auguste Dupin influenced many later mystery writers, most notably Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, whose Sherlock Holmes eventually eclipsed Poe's Dupin. The Complete Sherlock Holmes: All Four Novels and 56 Short Stories, published by Bantam Classic and Loveswept in 1998, demonstrates Doyle's mastery of the genre. • Investigative methods have advanced considerably since the mid-nineteenth century. Greg Fallis's Just the Facts, Ma'Am: A Writer's Guide to investigators and Investigation Techniques, published in 1998 by Writer's Digest Books, details the modern techniques that police use when conducting investigations, as well as the personal traits needed to become a successful investigator today. • In more recent detective fiction, female private investigators have joined the field. One of the most notable is by Sue Grafton, whose alphabet series of mysteries—featuring the gutsy female private investigator, Kinsey Millhone—are some of the most popular. The series starts with>4 is for Alibi, published in 1987 by Crime Line. In this novel, Millhone is hired by a woman who has served time in prison for murdering her husband but who wants Millhone to find the real killer. • Dashiell Hammett's The Maltese Falcon, origi-
Dupin has admittedly romantic and illogical notions, like sitting in the dark when listening to the details of potential cases. Dupin believes that "If it is any point requiring reflection," then they can "examine it to better purpose in the dark." The Prefect says this is one of Dupin's "odd notions," something that Dupin freely admits is "very true." The Prefect cannot comprehend why somebody would choose illogical, artistic ideas over purely rational methods, and in fact disdains all things that are creative. The Prefect indicates that
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nally published in 1930 and reprinted by Vintage books in 1992, is the author's masterpiece in the genre of hard-boiled fiction, a type of detective literature that he himself created. His stories featured tough private detectives who solved mysteries in gritty, dark, urban backgrounds. • Published in 1984 by The Library of America, Edgar Allan Poe: Essays and Reviews, edited by G. R. Thompson, contains three of Poe's essential essays and reviews, including ' "The Philosophy of Composition." Originally published in 1846, this landmark essay laid out the rules Poe followed when writing his famous poem, ' "The Raven." These rules were adopted by many other nineteenth-century poets. • The Illustrated Poetry of Edgar Allan Poe, published by Gramercy in 2001, features some of Poe's best-loved poems, accompanied by the romantic illustrations of Edmund Dulac. • Although Poe is generally known for his poetry and his supernatural, horror, and mystery short stories, he also wrote one novel: The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym ofNantucket. Referred to by Jorge Luis Borges as "Poe's greatest work," the Gothic novel—which details the fantastic and horrific adventures of a stowaway aboard a whaling ship—was originally published in 1838.
although the Minister is "not altogether a fool," "he is a poet, which I take to be only one remove from a fool." However, Dupin, who the Prefect respects, admits his own poetic side, saying, "I have been guilty of certain doggerel myself." In fact, it is precisely Dupin's ability to merge both the rational and the creative mindsets that allows him to solve the crime. As Stephen Marlowe notes in the Introduction to The Fall of the House of Usher and Other Stories, "[y]et for all his skill as a logician, Dupin is proof that success in detection needs the inspiration of a poet as well."
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In Poe's view, both qualities are needed to make an effective criminal, too. Like Dupin, the Minister is both creative and analytical, something that neither the narrator nor the Prefect realizes. Says the narrator, "The Minister I believe has written learnedly on the Differential Calculus. He is a mathematician, and no poet." The Prefect is equally as stumped as to the true nature of the Minister, focusing only on his mathematical side when trying to determine how and where the Minister might hide the letter. As Vincent Buranelli notes in Twayne's United States Authors Series Online, ' 'The thief. . . successfully hides the letter from the police because he is both a poet and a mathematician." George Colton agrees, noting in The American Review that the Minister "identifies his own intellect with that of his opponents, and consequently understands what will be the course they will pursue in ferreting out the place where the letter is concealed." Only Dupin is aware of the truth, and he lets the narrator know of the Minister that ' 'as poet and mathematician, he would reason well," and that' 'my measures were adapted to his capacity.'' While Dupin and the Minister engage in their intellectual battle, employing both their analytical and creative powers against their opponent, the Prefect and the narrator are out of the fight altogether. Both men attempt to rely on purely rational thought. The Prefect is logical to a fault, and assumes that the letter can be found by logical methods alone. Says Dupin, "He never once thought it probable, or possible, that the minister had deposited the letter immediately beneath the nose of the whole world." The Prefect cannot comprehend why someone would want to hide something in plain view, so the letter becomes invisible to him. The narrator is not much better off. Even though Dupin says that the Prefect's searching measures were "the best of their kind," and that they were "carried out to absolute perfection," he lets his friend know that this was not enough. "Had the letter been deposited within the range of their search, these fellows would, beyond a question, have found it." The narrator laughs at this statement, which flies in the face of the rational thought to which he is accustomed. If the Prefect's methods were perfect, then how could they not have found the letter? The narrator at first thinks that Dupin is joking, but soon realizes that Dupin "seemed quite serious in all that he said," and so listens some more. Dupin continues to explain that the defect in the search methods "lay in their being inapplicable to the case and to the man."
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The narrator suffers, like the Prefect, from a tendency to rely totally on established systems of thought and past experience. The narrator is unaware of this, even though he had described this quality in the Prefect earlier in the story, when he noted that the Prefect ' 'had the fashion of calling everything 'odd' that was beyond his comprehension, and thus lived amid an absolute legion of 'oddities.'" The narrator, too, is blinded to the possibilities of these "oddities," and so is unable to make the analogies that Dupin makes to solve the case. As Buranelli notes, "Dupin thinks by analogy when he solves the mystery . . . by inferring the behavior of the criminal from a knowledge of how human psychology operates." It is this duality of imagination and reason that places Dupin and the Minister ahead of the other two men. The way in which dialogue is expressed in the story also helps to illustrate the duality of emotion and rationality. However, in this case, the model is flipped. Whereas in a person's thought processes, a touch of imagination and emotion affected reason in a good way, when dialogue becomes emotional, Poe shows it to be inferior. This is most notable in the dialogue of the Prefect and Dupin. Although the Prefect attempts to remain completely rational and unemotional in his thought processes, he uses emotional language at times. "Oh, good heavens! who ever heard of such an idea?" the Prefect says in response to Dupin's suggestion that the mystery may be too plain. This outburst shows the Prefect's tendency to get emotional in his speech, as well as his tendency, once again, to rule out any possibility that does not match his past experiences. In another instance, when Dupin asks the Prefect if he can describe what the letter looks like, the Prefect says,
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"Oh, yes!" and immediately pulls out a memo book with the description. His over-eagerness in providing information to Dupin reflects his eagerness in his misguided search for the letter. Dupin, on the other hand, is completely levelheaded and rational throughout the tale. He remains calm, even indifferent—as when the narrator tells the Prefect to "proceed" in giving them details about the mystery, and Dupin says, "Or not." This cool behavior is evident throughout the story, as when Dupin gives the Prefect his advice to search again, and the Prefect says that it is not necessary. "I have no better advice to give you," says Dupin. He continues to keep his level demeanor when he tells the Prefect to make out the check to him:' 'you may as well fill me up a check for the amount mentioned. When you have signed it, I will hand you the letter." Dupin is also rational as he walks the narrator through the lengthy deductive reasoning process that he used to figure out where the letter was, and as he tells the narrator how he recovered the letter, which could have been a potentially dangerous situation. Dupin notes that the Minister has "attendants devoted to his interests," and that if he had taken the letter outright—as the narrator suggested— Dupin ' 'might never have left the Ministerial presence alive." In other words, although it is Dupin's ability to combine imaginative and rational thought processes that allows him to get inside the Minister's mind and leads to Dupin's discovery of the letter's hiding place, it is his purely rational outside demeanor, reflected in his language, that gives him the means to steal it back safely. In Poe's "The Purloined Letter," the author illustrates the concept of the bi-part soul—combining reason and imagination in one person—an idea that dominated many of his works. In the story, Poe depicts two poet/mathematicians, embodiments of the idea of the bi-part soul, as people who are intellectually superior to both friends and foes. These creative and rational hybrids become, within the context of a detective tale, political power brokers who can work the system to their advantage, by operating outside of conventional society's rational thought and expectations. Source: Ryan D. Poquette, Critical Essay on ' 'The Purloined Letter," in Short Stories for Students, The Gale Group, 2002.
Vincent Buranelli In the following essay excerpt, Buranelli examines "The Purloined Letter" within the context of
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the detective story, comparing it with ' 'The Murders in the Rue Morgue.'' Graham's Magazine carried in its issue of April, 1841, a short story entitled "The Murders in the Rue Morgue." Nothing quite like it had ever been seen before. The reading public was accustomed to tales of crime, whether fictional or of real events, and the violent deaths of Madame L'Espanaye and her daughter would not have been a cause of any particular note, except possibly for protests over the shocking details. What was of note was the novel manner in which the author treated his subject. With ' 'The Murders in the Rue Morgue'' Poe became the only American ever to invent a form of literature. He invented the detective story. He also perfected it. This first detective story may be the best ever written. Only "The Purloined Letter" challenges it for that accolade, making the two together the high point in the history of crime fiction. The Poe standard slips with "The Mystery of Marie Roget," which is too long and too involved to hold the attention of the reader. "Thou Art the Man" is better, and represents one critical step forward in the handling of psychology in the detective story.' "The Gold Bug'' is a superior product by any definition: It helps to establish the wider category of the mystery story—the category that will be expanded by Wilkie Collins and Robert Louis Stevenson. While fashioning the detective story, Poe came to regard it as an exception to the rule that truth is not the object of literary art. He considers it to be a puzzle in which the object is the correct solution, so that it resembles a cryptogram. His argument needs to be qualified. As his own practice reveals, the detective story is much more than a puzzle and is read at least as much for artistic presentation as for the intellectual manipulation of evidence. That is why the great detectives, Sherlock Holmes prominently, have eclipsed their cases. A cryptogram loses its interest when it has been solved, but a good detective story stands re-reading. According to the classical rules of detective fiction, three elements are necessary for success, the art of the writer being to unite them properly into a coherent and, within the rules of the game, convincing account. These elements are the crime, the detective, and the method of detection. All three are identified and defined by Poe in one sweep of his
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genius. His practice is so good that it unnecessary to go beyond him to see how a detective story ought to be written. The crime is the reason for the story, the cause of the incidents that follow. If verisimilitude is to claim the reader, persuading him to withhold his disbelief and to enter into the spirit of the story, the crime must not shock his credibility too much. He must be not only convinced that there is a puzzle worth unraveling, but also carried along by the narrative until the explanation is given to him. Puzzle without crime Poe deals with in ' 'The Gold Bug," which concerns the discovery of pirate treasure after the decipherment of an old map by using the cryptography of which Poe was fond. Puzzle with crime produces the detective story, and Poe is no less credible in ' 'The Murders in the Rue Morgue'' and "The Purloined Letter" than he is in "The Gold Bug." The discovery that Mme. L'Espanaye and her daughter have been murdered amid mysterious circumstances starts ' 'The Murders in the Rue Morgue'' on its way. The crime has happened on the fourth story of a Paris building. The bodies of the women have been fearfully mutilated, that of the mother thrown into the yard, that of the daughter thrust with tremendous force up the chimney. No one saw the murders or murderers, but several witnesses say they heard voices in the apartment. All agree that one was the voice of a Frenchman; but about the second voice they disagree. A French witness thinks the accents were Spanish; a Dutchman thinks they were French; and Englishman, German; a Spaniard, English; an Italian, Russian.
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'The Murders in the Rue Morgue" and 'The Purloined Letter' are not merely good plots leading up to effective endings. They are notable for characterization too. C. Auguste Dupin is the eternal detective,"
Because the authorities are certain that he keeps it in his possession, possibly on his person, their agents, disguised as thugs, hold him up on the street and search him. Meanwhile crime experts, while he is out of the way, go over his rooms inch by inch, probing the furniture, the walls, and every conceivable hiding place—all to no avail. So the puzzle is this: The letter must be on the premises of the thief; the premises have been ransacked, ceiling to floor, wall to wall; the letter is there—but where is it?
Who could have had the agility to climb a fourth story apartment, the ferocity to attack two women so horribly, the strength to thrust one corpse up the chimney? Who was it that spoke so strangely that everyone within earshot feels sure that he was speaking a strange tongue?
When the crimes of "The Murders in the Rue Morgue" and "The Purloined Letter" have been described, when the authorities have admitted failure—at this point every detective story fan since Poe's time has known what the next step is. The detective has to be brought into the case. His name is legion: Sherlock Holmes, Philo Vance, Charlie Chan, Father Brown, Ellery Queen, Perry Mason, Inspector Maigret, and so on ad infinitum. These are all aliases. His real name is C. Auguste Dupin, who steps forward into modern literature in "The Murders in the Rue Morgue." He has been with us ever since.
The crime and the circumstances of "The Purloined Letter'' are completely different. In it the causal situation is theft, the thief is known, and the problem is to retrieve what he has stolen. The criminal is a minister of the Paris government, who, during a visit to the royal apartments, sees an incriminating letter lying on the table. He takes it, knowing that the lady to whom it is addressed cannot protest because of the presence of a third party from whom the letter must be concealed. The police are ordered to find the letter and get it back without letting the thief know what they are doing.
Dupin is a gentleman of leisure, reduced in circumstances but not so far as to require that he work for a living. He dabbles in literature and even writes poetry. He has his peculiarities, such as a preference for darkness that leads him to shutter his room during the day, and to go out into the city only at night. He smokes a meerschaum. He knows the annals of crime; and, although a recluse who discourages visitors, he has repeated visits from the highest officials of the police, who reveal to him the facts surrounding certain vexing crimes that have them baffled.
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Does it all sound familiar? It should. The more you examine C. Auguste Dupin, the more does the figure of Sherlock Holmes appear in him. Dupin and Holmes even have in common certain minor tricks of their trade: Both, for example, know how to flush out a criminal by means of a newspaper advertisement. We know more about Holmes because Conan Doyle has described him through dozens of stories. Yet Poe has already set the pattern of getting the detective to solve more than one case, and of having him refer back to those that have gone before. Dupin is too strong a character to be held within Poe's limits of the short story, although his personality does not overbear incident as Holmes' does. Literature is full of human types that grew, almost by a natural growth, beyond the intentions of their authors. We know that it happened with Doyle. It seems to have happened with Poe.' 'The Murders in the Rue Morgue" and "The Purloined Letter" are not merely good plots leading up to effective endings. They are notable for characterization too. C. Auguste Dupin is the eternal detective. Everything in the detective story depends on the detective, but there are subsidiary interests. Sherlock Holmes must be balanced by Doctor Watson, a fact that Poe was the first to see. Dupin has a companion, the narrator who plays the part of the listener, the man of middling intelligence who must be enlightened about what is happening, and who thereby passes the necessary information on to the reader. He is the link between the detective and the reader, and in his inability to comprehend the meaning of the clues both flatters the reader and shows off more brilliantly the sagacity of the detective. Holmes says to Watson, ' 'You see but you do not observe." He had in mind that passage in "The Murders in the Rue Morgue'' where Dupin tells the narrator: "The necessary knowledge is of what to observe." Holmes enjoys a special standing with Scotland Yard. Before him Dupin had been related in the same way to the French Surete. The reason for this is that the ineffectiveness of ordinary police methods must be shown, from which follows the appeal of the authorities to the detective to help them. Holmes is approached periodically by Inspector Lestrade, who knew how Dupin had been approached by the Paris Prefect. Ordinary police methods having failed, the question is what method of his own the detective will bring to the solution of the crime. Holmes calls his method "deduction"; Dupin calls his "analy-
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sis." They are not very different, for each involves an insight into the pattern of the crime and a correct reading of the clues. Holmes, upon inferring Watson's chain of thought, even mentions Dupin's similar achievement as the basis of this blend of logic and psychology. The manner of reading clues was not original with Poe, who knew the passage on "detection" in Voltaire'sZadig. Poe's contribution was to raise the method to the level of a regular technique applied by a detective to the solution of a crime. Dupin wields the imaginative perception of meaningful symmetries that Poe says elsewhere is the key to both science and art. Intuition, acting amid a welter of clues, sets aside the trivia and fastens on a structure that emerges from putting the essential facts together. Then the intelligence may go to work in a more ordinary way, proving by deduction and induction that the solution thus arrived at is the true one—that the man apprehended is indeed the criminal in the case. What is needed is the imagination of the poet and the reasoning power of the mathematician. The thief of "The Purloined Letter" successfully hides the letter from the police because he is both a poet and a mathematician. Dupin is able to find it because he too is both a poet and a mathematician. Dupin perceives that such a mind, confronted with the task of fooling the experts who will search his apartments in the most exhaustive way, must arrive at the conclusion that the safest way to hide the letter is to put it in a place so obvious that they will not even consider looking there. Hence Dupin, gaining an entree, finds the letter just where he expects it to be—in the letter rack. The horrors of "The Murders in the Rue Morgue" fall into place when Dupin realizes that the salient clues—agility, strength, ferocity, and strange gibberish—can only fit an ape. He then deduces from various other clues that the second party probably is a sailor from a Maltese ship, and entices him into coming forward by advertising that a captured orangoutan will be returned to the owner if he claims it. The sailor's confession is the empirical evidence proving Dupin's insight and logic to be sound. Dupin doubtless was a cryptographer by avocation. Legrand of' "The Gold Bug'' turns to cryptography in a purse sense when he finds the tattered, weather-beaten pirate map. His method of decoding it would be simply another of Poe's examples of how to break codes except that the Legrand uses it
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very practically to find the treasure hidden long ago by Captain Kidd. One may wonder whether the discovery really could be made in this way, but there is no dispute about' The Gold Bug" being a rattling good story. It deserved the prize it won from the Dollar Newspaper of Philadelphia. One of its offspring is Stevenson's Treasure Island. Another of Poe's detective stories in which Dupin does not appear deserves mention—"Thou Art the Man." This is not one of his best (it is too melodramatic for that), but it advances the detective story in one cardinal way: It makes the villain of the piece, not some glowering thug or admittedly amoral gentleman, but precisely the jolly, frank, professedly aghast, friend of the victim. From there it was but a step to the sophisticated modern crime novels which conceal the criminal because he is indiscernible among the group of ordinary people. Crime fiction is now so common that we can hardly imagine the literary scene without it. We naturally assume that every year will bring astronomical sales of Conan Doyle, S. S. Van Dine, Dorothy Sayers, Agatha Christie, G. K. Chesterton, Erie Stanley Gardner, Rex Stout, Ellery Queen, Simenon, and the hopeful newcomers who keep invading the mystery field in droves. The fiction writer is rare who has never had the idea cross his mind of doing a detective story. Before Poe, there was none of this. He stands at the head of a genre, a profession, and an industry. Although the craft has become more sophisticated in many ways, Poe scarcely seems old-fashioned in his methods. The "fair play" doctrine is, fully enunciated, a relatively recent addition to the rules of the game—the idea that the author must set out the clues in such a way as to give the reader as good a chance as the detective to solve the mystery. Entertaining stories have been written without regard to this rule, which is unknown in the best of two old masters, Wilkie Collins (The Moonstone) and Conan Doyle (A Study in Scarlet). Poe obeyed the fair doctrine in "The Purloined Letter," not deliberately but by a kind of instinct for what was fitting. The reader knows as much as Dupin and can, if mentally alert, reach the solution just as quickly. Poe puts the two necessary clues in their hands at the same time. The first clue is that the best way to hide an object is to leave it in the most obvious place. The second clue is that the missing object is a letter. If the reader joins the two clues as he should, he knows where the letter is.
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Numerous i's have been dotted and ?'s crossed in the past century. Clues are scattered more artfully; criminals have become more cunning than they were; detectives in self-defense have become more acute. Criminals and detectives come from all the human types. Methods of murder include technical scientific discoveries from nuclear radiation to lethal microscopic organisms, and writers play with combinations of countless new factors available to them. A few of the later forms would have been beyond Poe. Not even he could have imagined the hardboiled detective story of which Dashiell Hammett was the master—it is too much a product of twentieth century, post-World War I, America. Most of the other refinements would have been within Poe's range, and he might have introduced many of them if he had been writing detective novels. Being confined to the dimensions of the short story, he had to do what he could with the space at his disposal, where there was no possibility of trailing clues at twenty-page intervals. No one has used that amount of space more effectively. If Poe had written as much detective fiction as Conan Doyle, the world's most famous detective would be, not Sherlock Holmes, but C. Auguste Dupin. The standards set by Poe are still sound. Today's practitioners are all in his debt. The Mystery Writers of America paid only part of the debt when they founded their Edgar Allan Poe Award for the best detective story of the year. Source: Vincent Buranelli, "Fiction Themes," in Edgar Allan Poe, Twayne Publishers, 1977, pp. 65-87.
Sources Asselineau, Roger, "Edgar Allan Poe," in American Writers, Vol. 3, Charles Scribner's Sons, 1974, pp. 409-32. Buranelli, Vincent, "Chapter 3: Return to Reality," m Edgar Allan Poe, in Twayne's United States Authors Series Online, G. K. Hall & Co., 1999. , "Chapter 4: Fiction Themes," in Edgar Allan Poe, in Twayne's United States Authors Series Online, G. K. Hall &Co., 1999. Carlson, Eric W., "Edgar Allan Poe," in Dictionary of Literary Biography, Vol. 74: American Short-Story Writers Before 1880, edited by Bobby Ellen Kimbel and William E. Grant, Gale Research, 1988, pp. 303-22. Colton, George, "Poe's Tales," in the American Review, Vol. II, No. Ill, September 1845, pp. 306-309. Graham, Kenneth, Introduction, in Selected Tales, Oxford University Press, 1967, pp. vii-xxii.
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Kennedy, 1. Gerald, "Edgar Allan Poe, 1809-1849: A Brief Biography," in A Historical Guide to Edgar Allan Poe, edited by J. Gerald Kennedy, Oxford University Press, 2001, p. 26.
defending Poe's reputation, and his examination of Poe's life—unlike many other biographies that relied on guesswork and speculation—was based on thorough research in the Poe family archive.
Marlowe, Stephen, Introduction, in The Fall of the House of Usher and Other Tales, Signet Classic, 1998, p. xii.
Silverman, Kenneth, Edgar A. Poe: Mournful and NeverEnding Remembrance, HarperPerennial Library, 1992. Pulitzer-Prize-winning biographer for The Life and Times of Cotton Mather, Silverman examines Poe's life in light of the fact that Poe was one of the first generation of professional American writers. The book also includes an exhaustive collection of appendices and notes for further study.
Stedman, Edmund Clarence, "Edgar Allan Poe," in Scribner's Monthly, Vol. XX, May-October 1880, pp.107-24. Stevenson, Robert Louis, "Literature: 'The Works of Edgar Allan Poe,"' in the Academy, Vol. VII, No. 139, January 2, 1879, pp. 1-2. Thompson, G. R., "Edgar Allan Poe," in Dictionary of Literary Biography, Volume 3: Antebellum Writers in New York and the South, edited by Joel Myerson, Gale Research, 1979, pp. 249-97. Whalen, Terence, "Poe and the American Publishing Industry," in A Historical Guide to Edgar Allan Poe, edited by J. Gerald Kennedy, Oxford University Press, 2001, p. 87.
Further Reading Quinn, Arthur Hobson, Edgar Allan Poe: A Critical Biography, Johns Hopkins University Press, 1941. Quinn's massive, 832-page book, reprinted in 1997, is considered by many to be the definitive study in its time of Poe. Quinn, born in 1875, was concerned with
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Sova, Dawn B., Edgar Allan Poe, A to Z: The Essential Reference to His Life and Work, Literary A to Z Series, Checkmark Books, 2001. This work is an encyclopedic collection of in-depth entries on all aspects of Poe's life, including the people, places, and publications that influenced the author. It also includes twentieth-century film and musical adaptations, chronologies of Poe's life and works, a list of Poe research collections, and a bibliography. Walsh, John Evangelist, Midnight Dreary: The Mysterious Death of Edgar Allan Poe, St. Martin's Press, 2000. Poe's death and the circumstances surrounding it remain a mystery, and various theories have been posed as to what the cause of his demise really was. In this book, Walsh reconstructs Poe's last days, incorporating several of the dominant theories regarding his death.
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Rip Van Winkle Washington Irving's "Rip Van Winkle" is one of the best-known short stories in American literature. That is to say, the character of Rip Van Winkle, the man who sleeps for twenty years and awakens to a greatly changed world and a long beard, is one of the best-known characters in American popular culture, widely recognized through his many appearances and references in books, movies, cartoons, and advertisements. The story was first published in 1819 in a collection called The Sketch Book of Geoffrey Crayon, Gent. The book was issued in installments in the United States and was so successful that Irving arranged for a British edition. This became the first book by an American writer to achieve international success. While many pieces from the collection have been forgotten, ' 'Rip Van Winkle'' has never gone out of print and is widely available in textbooks and anthologies, including the multi-volume set The Complete Works of Washington Irving published by Twayne.
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"Rip Van Winkle" is based on German folk tales that Irving learned about through a lifetime of reading and years of travel in Europe. One of his goals was to give the United States, a new country, some of the same feeling of tradition that older nations had because of their traditional lore. For several of his stories Irving borrowed European plots, but transported them into American settings. In a humorous context, "Rip Van Winkle" deals with issues of politics, as he shows how the Ameri-
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Author Biography Washington Irving was born in New York City on April 3, 1783, the year the American Revolution formally ended. Irving's parents named the youngest of their eleven children ' 'Washington'' after a prominent military figure from the war, General George Washington. Irving's family was wealthy, his father a successful merchant, so after a relatively lackluster performance as a student and as a law apprentice, Irving was able to devote himself to a youth of reading and writing and wandering without worrying about having to earn a living. When he was nineteen and still a law clerk, Irving published his first pieces of writing, a series of satirical letters to the Morning Chronicle, a newspaper owned by one of his brothers. These letters, published under the pen name "Jonathan Oldstyle, Gent.," became very popular. Irving also used a pseudonym for his first book, Salmagundi: or, The Whim-Whams and Opinions of Launcelot Langstaff, Esq., & Others, which he co-authored in 1807 and 1808 with another brother and a friend. Again, he achieved success with his humor, poking fun at the politics and society of New York City. Irving published one more important book in this period, the humorous and inaccurate A History of New York, from the Beginning of the World to the End of the Dutch Dynasty (1809). This book was said to have been written by Diedrich Knickerbocker, the same fictional historian in whose papers the manuscript of "Rip Van Winkle" was supposedly
