So I'm going to read a very brief fairy tale to you
and then let you all take it from there.
I've always loved, but love isn't quite the right word,
a haunting Russian fairy tale called,
How A Husband Weaned His Wife From Fairy Tales.
It's a 19th-century story, or at least
that's when it was first gathered in a book,
about one woman's insatiable need to hear stories
and how she must be sorely punished for it.
I've always felt this particular tale
really important to fairy tales' difficult history and important
for so many lovers of stories and books.
And I was recently asked to write a story,
and I took the chance finally, after 15 years of loving it,
to retell this tale kind of as an ode to fairy tales.
But I'm going to read the old version first just
to get us in the mood of retelling
and the mood of the old language.
How A Husband Weaned His Wife From Fairy Tales.
And this is gathered in Angela Carter,
the queen of fairy tales, in her collection, The Virago
Book of Fairy Tales.
It's out of print, but you can still find it.
"There was once an innkeeper whose wife
loved fairy tales above all else and accepted
as lodgers only those who could tell stories.
Of course the husband suffered loss because of this,
and he wondered how he could wean his wife away
from fairy tales.
One night in winter at a late hour, an old man shivering
with cold asked him for shelter.
The husband ran out and said, 'Can you tell stories?
My wife does not allow me to let anyone in who cannot tell
stories.'
The old man saw that he had no choice.
He was almost frozen to death.
He said, 'I can tell stories.'
'And would you tell them for a long time?'
'All night.'
So far, so good.
They let the old man in.
The husband said, 'Wife, this peasant has promised to tell
stories all night long but only on condition that you do not
argue with him or interrupt him.'
The old man said, 'Yes, there must be no interruptions,
or I will not tell any stories.'
They ate supper and went to bed.
Then the old man began.
'An owl flew by a garden, sat on a tree trunk,
and drank some water.
An owl flew into a garden, sat in a tree trunk,
and drank some water.'
He kept on saying again and again,
'An owl flew into a garden, sat on a tree trunk,
and drank some water.'
The wife listened and listened and then
said, 'What kind of story is this?
He keeps repeating the same thing over and over.'
'Why do you interrupt me?
I told you not to argue with me.
That was only the beginning.
It was going to change later.'
The husband, upon hearing this, and it
was exactly what he wanted to hear, jumped down from his bed
and began to belabor his wife.
'You were told not to argue, and you have now not let him finish
the story.'
And he thrashed her and thrashed her
so that she began to hate stories.
And from that time on, forswore listening to them."
[LAUGHTER]
Isn't that a beautiful story?
[LAUGHTER]
But it is beautiful in its way.
It has beautiful poetics, I think.
Fairy tales can get away with that.
So part of the problem when you read the old one
and then you read a new one is the juxtaposition.
I mean, the old ones are just so wonderful.
But if you can just humor me, I'm going to read my version.
It's short, too.
And it's called How A Mother Weaned
Her Girl From Fairy Tales.
"There was once a mother whose only child loved fairy tales
above all else and accepted as dolls only
those who could tell stories.
Of course the child suffered loss because of this
as there were not so many dolls that could
perform such a remarkable task.
And her mother suffered as well.
When she went to the department store
on birthdays or Christmas, she often
left empty-handed and disappointed
her only child who asked for more and more stories,
bad stories or good.
She wanted more fairy tales.
That's all she ever wanted, she said.
She was insatiable.
By her 18th birthday, the child had only two dolls,
one who told wonderful stories and one who
told very bad stories, indeed.
Still, the child was very good-natured
and told her mother one cold winter evening
that even two dolls, one who could
tell wonderful stories and one who
could tell terrible stories, were far better than none.
And their household had more fairy tales
than more impoverished homes where perhaps no storytelling
dolls ever had lived.
And then she hugged her mother and kissed her goodnight.
That very same night at a very late hour and, of course,
a wee bit of vodka, the mother wondered
how she might wean her daughter from fairy tales.
One day, every girl must grow up after all.
There was a knock on the door.
There stood a witch doll shivering with cold,
and she asked the mother for shelter.
The girl's mother said, 'Can you tell stories?
My daughter does not allow any dolls in the house that cannot
tell stories.'
The witch doll saw that she had no choice.
She was a rag doll, and she had tiny icicles hanging off
of her little rag limbs.
She was almost frozen to death.
She said, 'I can.'
'And will you tell them a long time?'
'All night.' So far so good.
The mother let the witch doll in and sat her
in a tiny rocking chair right by the fire
where her cotton stuffing nicely and evenly warmed.
The mother gently woke up her daughter and said,
'There's a witch doll here who has promised to tell stories
all night long on the condition that your other dolls do not
argue or interrupt.'
The daughter woke up her dolls, the one that
could tell good stories and the one that
could tell bad stories, and brought them to the living room
and sat near the hearth.
The mother had laid out all manner
of goodies for all of them to eat, lollipops with chocolate
tucked inside their miniature globes, jelly beans,
and buttered toast.
The witch doll said, 'Yes, I will tell stories,
but there must be no interruptions,
or I will tell no more stories to you.'
The mother, the daughter, and the two dolls ate their snacks
and went back to bed in order to listen.
The witch doll began.
'An owl flew by a garden, sat on a tree trunk,
and drank some water.
An owl flew into a garden, sat on a tree trunk,
and drank some water.
An owl flew by a garden, sat on a tree trunk,
and drank some water.'
Over and over again, the witch style repeated the sentence.
The good doll listened and said from her little doll bed,
'That's a beautiful story, but I'm
afraid your audience might become tired of it.
I'm not tired of it, of course.
I think it's lovely.
But-- And the bad doll shouted from bed,
'That's not even a story.'
The witch doll gazed coldly into the fire.
'Doll one, you've interrupted me.
I told you not to interrupt.
And doll two, you have argued.
That was only the beginning.
I was going to change it later.'
The witch flew out of a window with the two dolls
in her hands.
She dropped the dolls into the frozen pond
down a teeny hole that had been made by a rabbit.
And there, in ice water, they drowned.
The mother saw this from her bed.
She rushed over to her darling, beloved, lone daughter,
who'd been blissfully sleeping, dreaming the whole thing just
like a character might in an old storybook.
Her mother knelt down, clasped her child's warm hands
into her own, and silently pleaded
with her, 'Your dolls were told not to interrupt and never
to argue.
And now look what's happened?
We won't get any more fairy tales.'
And she hugged her and hugged her to offer some comfort.
The child never asked for a talking doll again.
And the doll flew around the world
over and over again for a household
that might more quietly listen.
She's still flying today alone up there in a very cold wind."
Thanks.
[APPLAUSE]