November 20: The power of dress

     Right.                      Wrong.

One of the things I don't like about comedy writers, as a class, is that they dress in a low-status way, with their baseball hats and flannel shirts, which is what I'm wearing right now. Plus pants, I hasten to add. On the other hand, you can't dress too fancy out here, or you're weird, and it's hard to live up to weird.

But while it's all very well to say that it doesn't matter what you look like, it's what's in your heart that counts, the truth is that we prefer a whited sepulchre to one that's tumbling down, and this lesson is reinforced for the children -- who, I have heard it said, are our future -- in today's Grimm's Fairy Tale. Our hero is a little tailor who kills seven flies at once, stitches himself a "girdle" commemorating this fact, and then is deferred to by giants and kings and stuff. Not that they don't suspect him of boasting -- they're constantly asking him to prove himself. But he always outwits them in harebrained ways, a lot like those Duke students who are going to save the economy so they can keep their frat house. Here's an example:

After a while he perceived both giants. They lay sleeping under a tree, and snored so that the branches waved up and down. The little tailor, not idle, gathered two pocketfuls of stones, and with these climbed up the tree. When he was half-way up, he slipped down by a branch, until he sat just above the sleepers, and then let one stone after another fall on the breast of one of the giants. For a long time the giant felt nothing, but at last he awoke, pushed his comrade, and said, “Why art thou knocking me?” “Thou must be dreaming,” said the other, “I am not knocking thee.”

I think we can guess how this will end.

The only other thing to note is that our hero, like many heroes in unsantized fairy tales in my experience, is an extremely disagreeable man. Here's how we meet him:

Then came a peasant woman down the street crying, “Good jams, cheap! Good jams, cheap!” This rang pleasantly in the tailor’s ears; he stretched his delicate head out of the window, and called, “Come up here, dear woman; here you will get rid of your goods.” The woman came up the three steps to the tailor with her heavy basket, and he made her unpack the whole of the pots for him. He inspected all of them, lifted them up, put his nose to them, and at length said, “The jam seems to me to be good, so weigh me out four ounces, dear woman, and if it is a quarter of a pound that is of no consequence.” The woman who had hoped to find a good sale, gave him what he desired, but went away quite angry and grumbling.

What a jerk! And he's a self-promoter. And his comeuppance is that he gets to be rich and powerful. Let that be a lesson to you, children.

August 4: Return with us now to those thrilling days of yesteryear

Today in my DRG I read:

4 World's Greatest Bedtime Stories
Hans Christian Andersen had an extraordinary capacity for amus­ing children. Were he living to-day he might be in great de­mand as a radio bedtime story man.

The definition of a classic might be something that is still around even as jobs such as "radio bedtime story man" -- or spellings such as "to-day" -- come and go. Still, imagine yourself snug in your 1930 bedroom, no doubt sharing it with your many brothers and/or sisters, the tang of the woodsmoke from the nearby Hoovervilles wafting through the air, and a gentle, yet stentorian voice, cured to gentleness by the smoke of a thousand thousand cigarettes, takes up "The Ugly Duckling", and, as you drift off to Slumberland, you hear

...The poor Duckling was hunted about by every one; even its brothers and sisters were quite angry with it, and said, “If the cat would only catch you, you ugly creature!” And the mother said, “If you were only far away!” And the ducks bit it, and the chickens beat it, and the girl who had to feed the poultry kicked at it with her foot.

Everyone hates you! Good night! And that's not even the part, two paragraphs later, where he makes friends with some geese who immediately get shot by hunters.

I imagine, however, that scary bedtime stories were the least of the concerns to the 1930 child, what with all the polio around and all. Besides, "The Ugly Duckling" makes two excellent points:

1. Ugly as you are, you are not uglier than people pursuing their self-interest.

...And the Cat was master of the house, and the Hen was the lady, and always said “We and the world!” for she thought they were half the world, and by far the better half. The Duckling thought one might have a different opinion, but the Hen would not allow it.
“Can you lay eggs?” she asked,
“No.”
“Then will you hold your tongue!”
And the Cat said, “Can you curve your back, and purr, and give out sparks?” “No.”
“Then you will please have no opinion of your own when sensible folks are speaking.”

Opinions are not ours by right, but are earned from usefulness. Nowadays we call this "lobbying".

2. Beauty on the inside good, beauty on the outside better

SPOILER ALERT: The Ugly Duckling was a swan all along! It all turned out okay, because it was handsome! In fact, while U.D. is a friendly sort, he, like many a model I suppose, doesn't actually do anything for anybody. We feel like his virtue was rewarded, because all he wants is a friend and he never finds one, but if virtue reveals itself in action, then U.D.'s only virtue was being damn good-looking.

I might also add that reading these stories straight (well, translated) from Andersen is fun, because he fills them with little asides that a vigilant editor might be tempted to remove:

“See, that’s how it goes in the world!” said the Mother-Duck; and she whetted her beak, for she too wanted the eel’s head. “Only use your legs,” she said. “See that you can bustle about, and bow your heads before the old Duck yonder. She’s the grandest of all here; she’s of Spanish blood—that’s why she’s so fat.

She's of Spanish blood. Like the kids gazing at the handsome swan at the end, we are easily dazzled. It's like being all excited because someone you know saw Halle Berry coming out of a Coffee Bean on Sunset -- although, to be fair, I was quite excited when I saw Pete Sampras at a Coffee Bean in Beverly Hills. I was cool, though.

June 18: Lentilella

The lentils, after being sorted by magical friends (blogger's conception)

The Brothers Grimm apparently lived in the same house all their lives; I wonder what they made of Cinderella, the last word in sibling-rivalry stories (or is it the first word? Wikipedia says there are versions of this story in Egyptian myths). Maybe they tried to hide their opinion in the service of objectivity, and the evidence of this is the fact that the men come off very badly in this story.

First of all, Cinderella's dad is around the whole time, he's even at the festival where Cinderella makes her splashes. ("Festival" instead of "ball" and "splashes," plural -- the big prince set-piece is a three day, no night deal. Perhaps it's like a State Fair, although there's no mention of fried dough. Maybe it's a lentil festival -- sorting lentils is also a big deal in this story.) He's also there at the big climax:

“This also is not the right one,” said he, “have you no other daughter?” “No,” said the man, “There is still a little stunted kitchen-wench which my late wife left behind her, but she cannot possibly be the bride.”

It's not news, but it's always shocking how rude they were, in the old school. Not that the prince is much better -- when Cinderella runs off the first time she hides in the pigeon house, and the prince and her father decide to chop it down in order to search for her. Real smart.

The other big difference is no Fairy Godmother, instead the magic is related to her mother's grave, which is much more economical storytelling as opposed to bringing in a whole other supernatural entity. Mom is stepping up where Dad won't; one wonders why she died -- foul play, perhaps? There's also less magic -- lentil-sorting (by no means easy, I admit) and dressing her up for the ball:

On the third day, when the parents and sisters had gone away, Cinderella once more went to her mother’s grave and said to the little tree— “Shiver and quiver, my little tree, Silver and gold throw down over me.”
And now the bird threw down to her a dress which was more splendid and magnificent than any she had yet had, and the slippers were golden. And when she went to the festival in the dress, no one knew how to speak for astonishment.

Because it wasn't a day dress. Magnificent gowns always look weird in sunshine (a small feature of Los Angeles is seeing people get into limos for awards shoes at two in the afternoon). Also, her magical friends are narc:s

They were, however, obliged to pass the grave, and there, on the hazel-tree, sat the two pigeons and cried,

	“Turn and peep, turn and peep,
	There’s blood within the shoe,
	The shoe it is too small for her,
	The true bride waits for you.”

Then he looked at her foot and saw how the blood was streaming from it.

Her stepsister had cut her toe off in order to wear the slipper, a detail I would have loved to see Disney animate. As I believe is typical for the Bros. Grimm, it's a lot more gory than the version we Americans get (we prefer our violence in real life, thank you).

May 18: You know...for kids!

Perhaps this'll be the beginning of a "Lego Harvard Classics" series.

These books are, as I have mentioned, my great-grandfather's. I never knew him, but I believe he was not a fancy man; fancy men were not thick on the ground in the mill towns. It was for such people that the Harvard Classics were made, so that, in the words of the Daily Reading Guide, they "might bring to your side, in the comfort of your own home, a liberal education,, entertainment and counsel of the greatest men the world has ever seen."

I just don't know where this fits into that plan:

“MY poor flowers are quite dead!” said little Ida. “They were so pretty yesterday, and now all the leaves hang withered. Why do they do that?” she asked the Student, who sat on the sofa; for she liked him very much. He knew the prettiest stories, and could cut out the most amusing pictures.

It's Hans Christian Andersen, boys and girls! I guess the idea at Collier's was that, by putting some Hans Christian Andersen in the Harvard Classics, you would have bedtime stories too, and it would be economical (for the celebrities of the early part of the last century had not yet learned that they should write children's books).

Or maybe the idea was that once we hit the warm May weather it would be too hot for Kant; this theory certainly seems appealing to me after watching my daughter's softball game in 90-degree weather today.

Whatever it is, "Little Ida's Flowers" is the type of writing that makes your mind immediately wander to anything else but what you're reading. I found it childish. I'm supposed to, of course, but if I think if I were smarter I would find a reason that it's the people who find it childish who are the real children.

It ends with the cutest li'l funeral, however:

“That shall be your pretty coffin,” said she, “and when my cousins come to visit me by and by they shall help me to bury you outside in the garden, so that you may grow again in summer, and become more beautiful than ever.”

I do respect H.C.A. for throwing in the pretty coffin.

Mar 26: The Harsh Face of Fable

Welcome back to the nightmare world of Aesop. (ATTN anyone who's reading along via Bartelby. There's a million of these in today's reading. For today's reading, I started at the link and stopped at "The Tortoise and the Birds.") It's a world, where, when you ask people to help you, they end up killing you. Or, when you help them, you end up being killed. Where slavery is terrible. But freedom means dark Satanic mills and the inevitable crushing of pride. Where wolves live in sheep's clothing, dogs soil mangers, and boys cry "Wolf!" (I'm tired of making the links, but they're there.) Where is Beauty, where is Truth, where are Other Capitalized Metaphysical Properties? They're reserved for humans -- in Aesopworld, we're all animals.

It's basically the same worldview as "The Wire," I guess. Or, to keep things tony, like Auden on Jane Austen:

You could not shock her more than she shocks me;
Besides her Joyce seems innocent as grass.
It makes me uncomfortable to see
An English spinster of the middle class
Describe the amorous effects of `brass',
Reveal so frankly and with such sobriety
The economic basis of society.

And they teach (taught?) this stuff to children? Well, they probably should -- the distance between Aesopworld and the schoolyard isn't that much, either.

Jan 21: The Nightingale's Healing Melody

Okay, did you like Aesop? How about Hans Christian Andersen? It’s like these people who bought the Harvard Classics didn’t have childhoods. Nowadays, of course, it’s perfectly acceptable to not have read Hans Christian Andersen, because there are so many children’s books written by celebrities. I never read him, either, as I recall. I can’t really remember what I read as a kid. “Johnny Tremain,” I remember. And stuff from Scholastic like “Strange But True Baseball Stories.” But not the classics. But in those times concern about being deficient in the classics was not really fashionable. Were we really going to need those classics…on our moon base?

Then everything went to hell and our lack of knowledge of the classics was there to reproach us, just like always. Anyway, it’s his story “The Nightingale,” and it’s appropriate on this MLK day that “Chinaman” be a word in the very first sentence, it being a descriptive of the Emperor of China. Well, at least he’s not a Polack.

Seems there’s this nightingale in the Emperor’s garden, and the Emperor is miffed not to know him. The people at court don’t know him, for he lives outside of the court (like a mythical heartland voter).

And then, like a heartland voter in a Washington Post piece, the nightingale is replaced by automation, only when the bird wears out, and the Emperor is dying, only the real nightingale will do, just as economists are not welcome at deathbeds.

It all ends happily, but one wishes for payback from the nightingale, who has been ill-used. I suppose us artists are merely grateful for gigs.

Jan 16: The Old Woman and the Wine Jar

I’m reading this in the café next to my daughter’s clarinet lesson…truth that the great thoughts can follow you wherever you go.

More EZ literature today – that’s not a crack against EZ, either. If the whole idea of this is to provide a refreshing highbrow oasis in your daily life, then what’s wrong with a little Aesop instead of, say, Juvenal? Plus, the everydayness of this project can be a slog from time to time – and I say this with authority as an overweight person who hates to exercise. (My cappuccino here has non-fat milk; virtue is busting out all over.)

Okay, to Volume 17 we go….

Well, they’re Aesop’s fables, full of cunning wisdom, the kind of thing where the Fox is the most admirable creature, for he avoids getting eaten, as in the Lion, the Fox, and Beasts, where the Fox won’t go into the Lion’s cave even though the Lion is sick. Sort of like Bob Hope in Bob Hope movies. The clever unidealistic coward is an eternal type, although I’m having trouble thinking of a current example. (It’s because execs want everyone to be so damn likable, maybe.)

But if there’s any reading this year that can be easily summarized into The Gist, it’s got to be Aesop’s Fables, and so I’m going to write out the morals and let you, the reader, come up with the fables that go with them.

“Never trust a friend who deserts you at a pinch”
“The strong and the weak cannot keep company:
“United we stand, divide we fall”
“A little thing in hand is worth more than a great thing in prospect”
“Vices are their own punishment”
“Little by little does the trick.”
“Greed oft o’erreaches itself”
“Cunning often (not ‘oft’ – ed.) outwits itself.”
“Kindness effects more than severity.”
“The gods help them that help themselves”
“Please all, and you will please none.”
“Wealth unused might as well not exist.”
“Distrust interested advice.”
“You cannot escape your fate.”
“It is easy to propose impossible remedies.”
“Plodding wins the race”
“We would often be sorry if our wishes were gratified.”
“He that has many friends, has no friends.”
“Love can tame the wildest.”
“Union gives strength”
“It is easier to get into the enemy’s toils than out again.”
“Wit always has an answer ready.”
“We often give our enemies the means for our own destruction.”
“Do not count your chickens before they are hatched.”
“Nature will out.”
“Better humble security than gilded danger.”
“Words may be deeds.”
“Men often applaud an inmitation and hiss the real thing.”
“What memories cling ‘round the instruments of our pleasure”
“Never trust the advice of a man in difficulties.”

Typing it over like this, two things occur to me:

1) Almost all of these can apply to the writers’ strike.
2) Aesopworld is an unfriendly, bitter place full of people who are unfriendly, and people who might become unfriendly if you’re stupid enough to give them a chance. Aesop would be a terrible Presidential candidate.

Jan. 4: A Flounder Fish Story

(Note that I've found a site that has all the readings.)

Entertainment today, I guess – after Milton and Cicero, the hard-working self-improver needs some release. Whoops – no, it’s that “Jacob Grimm, elder of the famous Grimm brothers,” was born on this date in 1785.) So – Grimm’s Fairy Tales! (Vol. 17 pp. 83-90). How tempting it is to see if they have one of the unsantized super-bloody ones…but it’s about a magic fish, or more precisely, “The Fisherman And His Wife."

A fisherman apparently catches a Flounder (I like the capital letter, so reminiscent of the German), which turns out not to be a Flounder, but an enchanted prince. Why he’s not an Enchanted Prince is beyond me, but there you are.

He lets the flounder (sorry, Flounder) go and then this part’s like a Raymond or something:

“Husband,” said the woman, “have you caught nothing to-day?” “No,” said the man, “I did catch a Flounder, who said he was an enchanted prince, so I let him go again.” “Did you not wish for anything first.” said the woman. “No,” said the man; “what should I wish for?” “Ah,” said the woman, “it is surely hard to have to live always in this dirty hovel; you might have wished for a small cottage for us. Go back and call him. Tell him we want to have a small cottage, he will certainly give us that.” “Ah,” said the man, “why should I go there again?” “Why,” said the woman, “you did catch him, and you let him go again; he is sure to do it. Go at once.” The man still did not quite like to go, but did not like to oppose his wife, and went to the sea.

So she gets her cottage. Then that isn’t enough (wives, right? C'mon, I'm holding my hand up here for a high-five, don't leave me hanging) so she gets him to get her a castle, then to be King, then Emperor, then Pope. The sea gets rougher and rougher each time so we know there's some bad German juju going on. And the husband is more reluctant each time, but he goes, although there’s no scene where the husband discusses his reluctance with the smartass brother or anything, so in this respect it’s not like a Raymond.

Then, finally, when she is Pope (and I like the old-fashioned idea that the Pope is the last word in earthly glory) she decides that she also wants to be as God is, and the husband says,

“Alas, wife,” said the man, falling on his knees before her, “the Flounder cannot do that; he can make an emperor and a pope; I beseech you, go on as you are, and be Pope.” Then she fell into a rage, and her hair flew wildly about her head, and she cried, “I will not endure this, I’ll not bear it any longer; wilt thou go?” Then he put on his trousers and ran away like a madman. But outside a great storm was raging, and blowing so hard that he could scarcely keep his feet; houses and trees toppled over, the mountains trembled, rocks rolled into the sea, the sky was pitch black, and it thundered and lightened, and the sea came in with black waves as high as church-towers and mountains, and all with crests of white foam at the top. Then he cried, but could not hear his own words,

“Flounder, flounder in the sea,
Come, I pray thee, here to me;
For my wife, good Ilsabil,
Wills not as I’d have her will.”

“Well, what does she want, then?” said the Flounder. “Alas,” said he, “she wants to be like unto God.” “Go to her, and you will find her back again in the dirty hovel.” And there they are living still at this very time.

Burnt! I think this couple needs counseling.