I'm going to read you the title story from How a Mother Weaned
Her Girl from Fairy Tales.
And this story is based on an old Russian folktale--
fairy tale, once it was collected into books--
that exists in variations around the world.
But the version I know is in an Angela Carter collection,
The Virago Book of Fairy Tales, which is long out of print.
Somebody should revive it, yes, with a new introduction.
No, I'm just--
[LAUGHTER]
But it's got all of these really subversive fairy tales
that really just weren't canonized in popular culture,
let alone even in European literary circles,
where fairy tales haven't had such a hard time as they've
had here in the United States.
The Russian version is called "How a Husband Weaned His Wife
from Fairy Tales."
and it's about a woman who loves fairy tales
and begs her husband to get people
to come to the home to tell them to her throughout the nights.
There's a little bit that maybe other things
are happening between her and these visitors but not
too much suggested.
And the husband isn't such a fan of her adoration
of fairy tales.
And so he just beats her until she no longer
asks for fairy tales.
It's a story about abuse of power,
obviously, because why would you beat somebody unless you
were trying to control them?
But I see it also as a story about fairy tales
and how they're so often outsider stories,
minoritarian stories that don't ever quite gain acceptance,
as much as they might be popularized
for commercial reasons.
So "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 that told stories.
Of course, the child suffered as a result,
for there were not many dolls that could perform such a task.
Her mother suffered, as well.
When she went to the department store
on birthdays or Christmas, she often
left empty-handed, destined to disappoint
her only child who asked for more and more stories
over the years.
The child never said she was disappointed.
She only said she wanted more fairy tales.
That's all she ever wanted, she said,
the ones with the goriest endings.
Find the dolls that can tell those, won't you, please?
By her 15th birthday, the girl had precisely two dolls,
one that told wonderful stories and one
that told very bad stories.
The girl was good-natured.
She told her mother one cold winter evening
that even two dolls, one that could
tell wonderful stories and one that
could tell terrible stories, were better than no dolls
and that their household had more fairy
tales than many far 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 late hour and after some vodka,
the mother suddenly wondered for the first time
how she might wean her daughter from fairy tales.
Then there was a knock on the door.
There stood a shivering doll, probably a witch,
for she was life-sized.
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 doll saw that she had no choice.
She was a rag doll, and she'd gotten wet.
She had icicles dangling off her yarn hair.
Her large fingers nearly were frozen like links of meat one
might keep in the freezer.
I can.
And will you tell them for a long time?
All night.
They agreed on some terms.
The mother let the doll in and set her in a rocking chair
by the fire, where her cotton stuffing nicely and evenly
warmed but not too much.
The mother gently woke up her daughter and said,
there's a doll here that has promised to tell stories
all night 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 treats for them all--
lollipops with chocolate centers in the miniature globes,
jelly beans, toast.
The thawed doll spoke.
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 their beds.
The doll began.
'An owl flew by 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.
An owl flew by a garden, sat on a tree trunk,
and drank some water.'
Over and over again, the doll repeated this 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.
I think it's a lovely story, but--
and then the bad doll shouted from her bed,
that's not even a story!
The big doll gazed coldly into the fire.
Doll one, you've interrupted me.
There were to be no interruptions.
And doll two, you have interrupted, and you've argued.
That was only the beginning of the story.
I was going to change it later.
I was only just starting out.
She stared at the fire.
Her expression hardened, which was difficult,
as her whole head was made of a large walnut shell.
And then the hardness turned into sadness.
The big doll stood, and she sighed,
and she picked up the two littler dolls from their beds.
I will take these with me and teach them how to behave.
Then she flew out of a window.
The mother rushed to the daughter,
who had been blissfully sleeping,
dreaming the whole thing, just like a character
might in an old storybook-- a frozen rag
doll, walnut-headed and big, played the lead role
in the dream, as if she were an old illustration
drawn hovering above the girl's very head
while she was sleeping.
The mother knelt down, clasped the daughter's warm hands
in her own and said, the dolls were
told not to interrupt and never to argue.
And look what's happened.
They're gone.
You won't get any more fairy tales.
They're trouble, I tell you.
They're trouble.
The girl vowed never to ask for a talking doll ever again.
Though smiling, she seemed rather unhappy.
The mother paced around the house for hours each day.
If only we'd followed her rules, we
could have seated the dolls in their miniature high chairs,
taped over their little doll mouths,
and listened to her fairy tales.
Then we'd still have the dolls.
We'd still have the fairy tales.
We could have let her finish her story.
It wasn't a very good story, but it was only beginning.
The daughter tried to comfort the mother.
At least we still have each other.
Maybe she was lonely.
Maybe she needed some friends.
It was worse for her.
She didn't know how to tell a good story.
The daughter looked out the window at night,
hoping to catch a glimpse of the dolls.
It was something to hope for, anyway,
that she might someday see them floating around
in the dark sky, the big doll repeating her story over
and over again while one small doll gently admonished
and the other berated the tale.
An owl flew by 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.
An owl flew by a garden, sat on a tree trunk,
and drank some water."