Storytellersunplugged

Frank T. Wydra

The regulars, crowded around the table, are bantering back and forth when Mary Shelley says to Edgar, “Good stories tell a tale while great stories reveal a truth.

“Ah,” Edgar says, “Truths are fickle. One person’s truth is another person’s fiction. It’s that simple. So, I find it impossible to believe that all great stories carry some ponderable truth. In fact, I would argue that often the purpose of great literature is to do no more than entertain. What could be better than an interesting story, well told?”

The table is crowded today, both Sam Clemens and Oscar Wilde making an infrequent appearance. Oscar, not one to let a comment pass without a quip says, “Edgar, my good man, you overstate it. The truth is rarely pure and never simple. As you know, modern life would be very tedious if it were either, and modern literature is a complete impossibility! Which is to say, I hate vulgar realism in literature. The man who could call a spade a spade should be compelled to use one. It is the only thing he is fit for.”

Sam slaps his thigh and gawks at Oscar, saying to Edgar, “Having Oscar at this table is like sitting next to the man who carries a cat by the tail. We learn something we can learn in no other way. And,” now winking at Mary, “so you know, between us, we cover all knowledge; he knows all that can be known and I know the rest. So, if there is truth in literature, we will find it.”

Mary, knowing that when the two get together they will try to best each other, is not put off by their antics. She says to the table at large, “I am serious, here. The difference between good storytelling and great literature is the revelation of an essential truth in the later. I challenge anyone here to name a great fiction that does not have at its core the examination of an elemental truth, things such as insights into the immutable forces of nature or the human condition.

Al, owner of the Gonquin, hovering, checking our drink status, says, “Hey, that’s easy and right back at ya, Mary. How about that book you wrote, the one where the doc creates the monster. Good yarn, sci-fi and all, but no elemental truth.”

Eyes roll. Al serves great drinks at reasonable prices and makes sure that our table is always ready, but sometimes his mouth manacles his brain.

Uncharacteristically, Edgar salvages the situation. “Perhaps,” he says, “you need to give the book a closer read. As I recall, the core of Mary’s Frankenstein was the consequence that befalls man when he tries to imitate God. You may or may not believe in a God, but that does not take away from what she posits, which, if I may speak for her, seems to be the truth she is illustrating.”

Mary gives him an appreciative nod and a smile. It is not often they agree.

The inimitable Oscar says, ”Nicely done, Edgar. One can always be kind to people about whom one cares nothing. It shows, I think that if one tells a truth, one is sure, sooner or later, to be found out.”

Bram says, “All this talk, yet no one has met your challenge. Let me, therefore, suggest that today’s popular fiction is often no more than characters and plot, yet they garner literary prizes. Does that make them great fiction?”

Sam Clemens says, “Few things are harder to put up with than the annoyance of a good example. So, give me a for instance.”

And Bram says, “Well, sir, I’m sure you would acknowledge that the books earning the Pulitzer are candidates for greatness. It is a prestigious literary prize. So, what about that fellow Michener, the one who wrote the travel books? Where is the great truth in travelogues? Yet he won the Pulitzer for fiction.”

Now it’s easy to be intimidated around this table with the likes of Shelley, Stoker, Poe, Clemens, and Wilde trading quips. But, I’ve always liked Michener and since he’s not here at the moment, someone has to defend him, so I take a sip of Jack and say, “Hold on.” It’s not often that I turn heads, but this is one of those moments where expectant eyes stare at me. I realize that most around the table no longer read as they did when they were writing, and Michener’s works may have escaped their attention. “Old Jimmie the Mich got his Pulitzer for Tales of the South Pacific, a book that explored racial prejudice. He followed up on the theme in Sayonara and again in Hawaii. Not a lot different than Sam, there, in Huckleberry Finn. So, I think you have to admit that the truth he was laying out in his books was that prejudice is insidious, it warps perspective. By no means a travelogue.”

“So,” says a smarmy Bram, “are you saying these books are classics?”
“I knew it,” Sam says, “A classic –that’s something that everybody wants to have read and nobody wants to read.”

“No,” I say, “Perhaps not classics, but still great books. Great writing, which is what Mary was talking about, tells a story well yet has something more, which is an important truth at its core. Think of Orwell and Animal Farm or Sinclair and The Jungle or our own Papa’s Old Man And The Sea.”

Papa waves a hand dismissing the notion but his bearded smile betrays his pride.
“I admit,” says Oscar, “that it is a terrible thing for a man to find out suddenly that all his life he has been speaking nothing but the truth.

“The problem,” Papa Hemingway says, “is that it’s hard to tell if a book has staying power until it has some age on it. And Mary, with all due respect, the great books are those that are read long after the writer turns to dust.”

Mary wrinkles her nose at the notion. “Not always. Sometimes a great book is one that raises an issue and then fades. Look at Harriet Stowe’s little book. Some people say its portrayal of slavery launched the Civil War. Though many have heard about the book today, I doubt it is widely read. And those who do read it now tend to condemn it for the stereotypes it drew, forgetting that the book helped end an outrageous practice. Yet it was a book with an elemental truth at its core and an effect that freed millions.

Oscar says, “Ah, Mary, you are equating good literature with morality. The books that the world calls immoral are the books that show the world its own shame. There is no such thing as a moral book or an immoral book. Books are well written or badly written. That is all.”

Before Mary can answer, Sam cut in, “What nonsense. Often the surest way to convey misinformation is to tell the strict truth. What counts is how you dress up the truth. Clothes make the man. Naked people have little or no influence in society. So my dear Oscar, while I grant that the telling is important, I agree with Mary that it is the sharing of a truth that makes the book. The problem as I see it, though, is that most writers regard truth as their most valuable possession, and therefore are most economical in its use.”

“You know,” Mary says, a wistful smile settling on her face, “I think I have won the day. When Sam agrees with me and when Oscar can offer no more than quips, it cements my position. I’ve often felt myself the revolutionary thus I can take comfort in Orwell’s words ‘In a time of universal deceit, telling the truth is a revolutionary act.’ It is, I think, the goal all writers should seek.”

“Aye,” says Sam with a wink at Mary, “But no real gentleman will tell the naked truth in the presence of ladies.

Not to out done, Oscar raises a glass and says, “I do not approve of anything that tampers with natural ignorance. Ignorance is like a delicate exotic fruit; touch it and the bloom is gone.”

We all laugh, knowing the man cannot bear to have been bested intellectually by a woman. But the deed is done, and he will have to live with it.

Note: Most of Oscar’s and Sam’s observations are quotes from things they have said or written, seasoned to the taste of this writer. As Stephen King said, “Fiction is the truth inside the lie.”

frank.writestuff@gmail.com
Monday, November 13, 2006