In his comment on my review of Once Upon a Time, Calmgrove zeroed in on one of author Max Luthi’s key concepts, that fairytales show us “man’s deliverance from an inauthentic existence and his commencement of a true one.” Luthi gives us story examples: “a penniless wretch becomes wealthy, a maid becomes queen…or a toad, bear, ape, or dog is transformed into a beautiful maiden or handsome youth.”
What can we make of such a statement in terms of our own lives? Is there anything we can learn from stories of toads and bears transformed?
In trying to answer the question, our first hurdle is trying to figure out what an “authentic existence” might look like, a philosophical exercise right up there with defining “the true,” “the good,” or “the beautiful.” When I try to imagine “authentic” in our world, one of the first things that comes to mind is Crazy People, 1990, a movie in which Dudley Moore, as an advertising executive, is checked into an insane asylum after he suffers a nervous breakdown and begins writing truthful adds.
Fairytales mirror philosophy and religion in their concern with lives well lived, but they are much less precise in prescribing what to aim for and how to proceed. When someone achieves their happy destiny, we see outer events representing that highest good, like a royal wedding or the discovery of buried treasure, but what works for one hero or heroine may not work for others.
This observation offers a segue into the first of several attribute that fairytale heroes and heroines seem to share – they chart their own course. In Luthi’s terms, they are “wanderers” who “set forth into the unknown in search of the highest, the most beautiful, or the most valuable thing.” Most often, but not always, it is male characters who cover the greatest outer distance, but in Faerie, the unknown waits outside your door. Cinderella’s journey begins with a solitary trip every day to weep at her mother’s grave. The smallest step into the forest is fraught with danger for one who goes their own way, whether the goal is the end of the world or the prince’s ballroom.
A second attribute of successful folklore characters is kindness, at least for those creatures who turn up with guidance for the quest. It is not the kind of universal compassion espoused by religion, but is more practical and down to earth. Cinderella is kind to birds, and they always assist her, but she makes no objection when they later peck out the stepsisters’ eyes. The hero of “The White Snake,” who learns the speech of animals, goes out of his way to help ants, fish, and ravens, who will later save his life, but he doesn’t hesitate to sacrifice his horse when events demand it.
According to Max Luthi, the fairy tale character’s estrangement from conventional social relations allows him or her to connect with help from unexpected quarters, with toads or foxes, crones or dwarves. Luthi often distances himself from Jungian interpretation, but not in the case of fairytale helpers. They can be viewed,not only as outer creatures, but “as forces within the soul of the individual which are at first in need of assistance but finally unfold and develop.”
A third attribute of folktale heroes and heroines is patience. Things take a long time to unfold. In the Grimm brothers version, Cinderella has no fairy godmother. Instead she plants a hazel twig on her mother’s grave and waters it with her tears every day until it is grown. Only then do the tree and the dove that lives in its branches grant her wishes. In “The Devil’s Sooty Brother,” a former soldier works in the devil’s kitchen for seven years, forbidden to bathe, cut his hair, his beard, or his fingernails, or wipe the tears from his eyes.
“Kitchen work,” as Robert Bly calls it, applies to both men and women in fairytales. In Iron John, he wrote, “The way down and out doesn’t require poverty, homelessness, physical deprivation, dishwasher work, necessarily, but it does seem to require a fall from status, from a human being to a spider, from a middle-class person to a derelict. The emphasis is on the consciousness of the fall.”
Fairy tale time, as both Luthi and Bly point out, is not literal time. Seven years in the kitchen might equate to several decades for the writer who has to make a living by some other means. Yet in all the stories, this tempering process is essential. Shortcuts don’t work. After seven years, even the devil is forced to keep his bargain.
When I was young, I assumed the signs of an “authentic life” were visible – at a minimum, bohemian trappings were required. Now I know that such plumage is far too easy.
The courage to go one’s own way, to keep one’s own council. To be kind to the odd and despised parts of oneself and to give them a hearing. The poise and patience to allow events to unfold at their own pace rather than try to push the river. Fairy tale heroes and heroines champion themselves and their deepest desires. Their stories lead us to wonder what would happen if we follow their example. What do their footsteps look like in the 21st century?
I know your pile of books to read must be teetering-height, but this blog post is totally in synch with the modern fairy tale I’m reading right now: THE ALCHEMIST by Brazilian writer Paulo Coelho. It’s a short novel that shows the traits you describe.
I’ve heard of Coelho, and because of Jung, alchemy has always intrigued me. Thanks for the tip – I will seriously consider reading it soon.
One of my half-finished books is a collection of fairytale retellings by contemporary fantasy authors who have specialized in the genre – people like Jane Yolen, Patricia Wrede, and Roger Zelazny. Intriguing new angles, like a Sleeping Beauty where it’s really the prince who needs rescuing, and very creepy Rumplestiltskin. I remember a number of novels in the early 90’s that did the same thing – a “Snow White and Rose Red,” as well as “Tam Lin.” There’s no end to what one can find in these seemingly “simple” tales!
Another beautifully thoughtful analysis! Yes, “The Alchemist” is a sort of fairy tale, as is “Siddhartha”, but Grimm’s are still my favorite. “The Goose Girl” is near the top. Thank you for reminding us of these beloved tales.
On thing Max Luthi does in his essays is clarify what is unique in fairytales (especially Grimm), things which set them apart from all contemporary works in the spirit of folklore. I had noticed but never so clearly as he lays it out.
No characterization is one major aspect. In Grimm, a prince, a princess, a farmer, a king, are largely generic and interchangeable, while our modern tastes demand individuality in our protagonists.
In a parallel vein, there is seldom any description. In writing seminars now, if I write of “a forest,” readers will want to know what kind – birch, pine, oak, etc. In fairytales, unless there is some reason to be specific, it’s just a forest, a village, a hut, a castle.
Perhaps one reason there’s a magic in these tales is because our imagination is so engaged in fleshing out the pictures in our minds. I really thing that makes these stories our own, and memorable for that radon.
I’d largely agree with Morgan that many folktale and fairytale characters are generic, along with their environments (which can often be interchangeable: a castle can in an analogue version a cave, for example).
It’s literary versions, such as the Baroque French retellings, or Hans Christian Anderson tales, or modern fantasy riffs on the same tropes, that feel the need to fill in the details for their audience. I suspect that traditional audiences listening to oral versions largely created these details for themselves.
Thanks for referencing me at the beginning of this piece! By the way, I’m male (the last time I looked, anyway). Perhaps you were trying to deliver me from an inauthentic existence…
My apologies. I’m following a lot of new blogs this year and mentally swapped your username with the wrong profile pic. Anyway, to quote the bodhisattva Tara, “the wise know that male and female are both empty of inherent existence.”