“The Three Castles”
an Italian folktale retold by Italo Calvino
translated by George Martin
A boy had taken it into his head to go out and steal. He also told his mother.
“Aren’t you ashamed!” said his mother. “Go to confession at once, and you’ll see what the priest has to say to you.”
The boy went to confession. “Stealing is a sin,” said the priest, “unless you steal from thieves.”
The boy went to the woods and found thieves. He knocked at their door and got himself hired as a servant.
“We steal,” explained the thieves, “but we’re not committing a sin, because we rob the tax collectors.”
One night when the thieves had gone out to rob a tax collector, the boy led the best mule out of the stable, loaded it with gold pieces, and fled.
He took the gold to his mother, then went to town to look for work. In that town was a king who had a hundred sheep, but no one wanted to be his shepherd. The boy volunteered, and the king said, “Look, there are the hundred sheep. Take them out tomorrow morning to the meadow, but don’t cross the brook, because they would be eaten by a serpent on the other side. If you come back with none missing, I’ll reward you. Fail to bring them all back, and I’ll dismiss you on the spot, unless the serpent has already devoured you too.”
To reach the meadow, he had to walk by the king’s windows, where the king’s daughter happened to be standing. She saw the boy, liked his looks, and threw him a cake. He caught it and carried it along to eat in the meadow. On reaching the meadow, he saw a white stone in the grass and said, “I’ll sit down now and eat the cake from the king’s daughter.” But the stone happened to be on the other side of the brook. The shepherd paid no attention and jumped across the brook, with the sheep all following him.
The grass was high there, and the sheep grazed peacefully, while he sat on the stone eating his cake. All of a sudden he felt a blow under the rock which seemed to shake the world itself. The boy looked all around but, seeing nothing, went on eating his cake. Another blow more powerful than the first followed, but the shepherd ignored it. There was a third blow, and out from under the rock crawled a serpent with three heads. In each of its mouths it held a rose and crawled toward the boy, as though it wanted to offer him the roses. He was about to take them, when the serpent lunged at him with its three mouths all set to gobble him up in three bites. But the little shepherd proved the quicker, clubbing it with his staff over one head and the next and the next until the serpent lay dead.
Then he cut off the three heads with a sickle, putting two of them into his hunting jacket and crushing one to see what was inside. What should he find but a crystal key. The boy raised the stone and saw a door. Slipping the key into the lock and turning it, he found himself inside a splendid palace of solid crystal. Through all the doors came servants of crystal. “Go
od day, my lord, what are your wishes?”
“I wish to be shown all my treasures.”
So they took him up crystal stairs into crystal towers; they showed him crystal stables with crystal horses and arms and armor of solid crystal. Then they led. him into a crystal garden down avenues of crystal trees in which crystal birds sang, past flowerbeds where crystal flowers blossomed around crystal pools. The boy picked a small bunch of flowers and stuck the bouquet in his hat. When he brought the sheep home that night, the king’s daughter was looking out the window and said, “May I have those flowers in your hat?”
“You certainly may,” said the shepherd. “They are crystal flowers culled from the crystal garden of my solid crystal castle.” He tossed her the bouquet, which she caught.
When he got back to the stone the next day, he crushed a second serpent head and found a silver key. He lifted the stone, slipped the silver key into the lock and entered a solid silver palace. Silver servants came running up saying, “Command, our lord!” They took him off to show him silver kitchens, where silver chickens roasted over silver fires, and silver gardens where silver peacocks spread their tails. The boy picked a little bunch of silver flowers and stuck them in his hat. That night he gave them to the king’s daughter when she asked for them.
The third day, he crushed the third head and found a gold key. He slipped the key into the lock and entered a solid gold palace, where his servants were gold too, from wig to boots; the beds were gold, with gold sheets, pillows, and canopy; and in the aviaries fluttered hundreds of gold birds. In a garden of gold flowerbeds and fountains with gold sprays, he picked a small bunch of gold flowers to stick in his hat and gave them to the king’s daughter that night.
Now the king announced a tournament, and the winner would have his daughter in marriage. The shepherd unlocked the door with the crystal key, entered the crystal palace and chose a crystal horse with crystal bridle and saddle, and thus rode to the tournament in crystal armor and carrying a crystal lance. He defeated all the other knights and fled without revealing who he was.
The next day he returned on a silver horse with trappings of silver, dressed in silver armor and carrying his silver lance and shield. He defeated everyone and fled, still unknown to all. The third day he returned on a gold horse, outfitted entirely in gold. He was victorious the third time as well, and the princess said, “I know who you are. You’re the man who gave me flowers of crystal, silver, and gold, from the gardens of your castles of crystal, silver, and gold.”
So they got married, and the little shepherd became king.
And all were very happy and gay,
But to me who watched they gave no thought nor pay.
I’ve long been a fan of Drew Lerman’s Snake Creek strip, and eagerly look forward to each new collection. The latest is Escape from the Great American Novel, which I’ve tried not to read all at once. I should have a full review in the next few weeks, but so far, Great Stuff—Escape is funny, erudite without being precious, and soulful. It also shows an expansion of Lerman’s narrative development (without sacrificing the kind of gags and send ups that one wants out of a great strip).
Here’s publisher Radiator Comics’ description:
Escape from the Great American Novel by Drew Lerman follows best friends, Roy and Dav, as they find themselves on opposite sides of a battle between apocalyptic oil barons and bomb-chucking anarchists. But Dav just wants to write the Great American Novel, while Roy wonders what the big deal is—after all, their world is only another fiction.
And here’s a nice little throwaway Gaddis gag:
After an early spring purge n’ clean, I took a few boxes of books to my local used bookstore. I had intended to browse just a bit and not pick up anything (apart from a few Jeff VanderMeer novels my son had asked for), but I wound up getting three books: a pristine first U.S. edition of J.G. Ballard’s The Unlimited Dream Company, Alasdair Gray’s Unlikely Stories, Mostly, and surrealist artist Ithell Colquhoun’s ostensible biography of the occultist Samuel Liddell MacGregor Mathers (of the Golden Dawn).
I had never heard of Colquhoun’s book, but I’m a fan of her paintings and the cover struck me. The book seems to be a history of the occult organization the Golden Dawn, or, more to the point, the roots of that organization. It’s filled with photographs and diagrams and charts. Like this one:
Alasdair Gray’s collection Unlikely Stories, Mostly is also crammed with illustrations—Gray’s own, like this one:
Like Gray’s 1984 novel 1982, Janine, the collection is filled with typographic experiments, a kind of concrete poetry in prose I guess. The “About the Author” blurb on the flap is great stuff (still can’t top the blurb for 1982, Janine though):
On the Contrary, 1952 by Kay Sage (1898-1963)
Harpist, 1963 by Eduardo Kingman (1913-1997)
“The Flight of Pigeons from the Palace”
by
Donald Barthelme
In the abandoned palazzo, weeds and old blankets filled the rooms. The palazzo was in bad shape. We cleaned the abandoned palazzo for ten years. We scoured the stones. The splendid architecture was furbished and painted. The doors and windows were dealt with. Then we were ready for the show.
The noble and empty spaces were perfect for our purposes. The first act we hired was the amazing Numbered Man. He was numbered from one to thirty-five, and every part moved. And he was genial and polite, despite the stresses to which his difficult métier subjected him. He never failed to say “Hello” and “Goodbye” and “Why not?” We were happy to have him in the show.
Then, the Sulking Lady was obtained. She showed us her back. That was the way she felt. She had always felt that way, she said. She had felt that way since she was four years old.
We obtained other attractions—a Singing Sword and a Stone Eater. Tickets and programs were prepared. Buckets of water were placed about, in case of fire. Silver strings tethered the loud-roaring strong-stinking animals.
The lineup for opening night included:
A startlingly handsome man
A Grand Cham
A tulip craze
The Prime Rate
Edgar Allan Poe
A colored light
We asked ourselves: How can we improve the show?
We auditioned an explosion.
There were a lot of situations where men were being evil to women—dominating them and eating their food. We put those situations in the show.
In the summer of the show, grave robbers appeared in the show. Famous graves were robbed, before your eyes. Winding-sheets were unwound and things best forgotten were remembered. Sad themes were played by the band, bereft of its mind by the death of its tradition. In the soft evening of the show, a troupe of agoutis performed tax evasion atop tall, swaying yellow poles. Before your eyes.
The trapeze artist with whom I had an understanding . . . The moment when she failed to catch me . . .
Did she really try? I can’t recall her ever failing to catch anyone she was really fond of. Her great muscles are too deft for that. Her great muscles at which we gaze through heavy-lidded eyes . . .
We recruited fools for the show. We had spots for a number of fools (and in the big all-fool number that occurs immediately after the second act, some specialties). But fools are hard to find. Usually they don’t like to admit it. We settled for gowks, gulls, mooncalfs. A few babies, boobies, sillies, simps. A barmie was engaged, along with certain dumdums and beefheads. A noodle. When you see them all wandering around, under the colored lights, gibbering and performing miracles, you are surprised.
I put my father in the show, with his cold eyes. His segment was called My Father Concerned about His Liver.
Performances flew thick and fast.
We performed The Sale of the Public Library.
We performed Space Monkeys Approve Appropriations.
We did Theological Novelties and we did Cereal Music (with its raisins of beauty) and we did not neglect Piles of Discarded Women Rising from the Sea.
There was faint applause. The audience huddled together. The people counted their sins.
Scenes of domestic life were put in the show.
We used The Flight of Pigeons from the Palace.
It is difficult to keep the public interested.
The public demands new wonders piled on new wonders.
Often we don’t know where our next marvel is coming from.
The supply of strange ideas is not endless.
The development of new wonders is not like the production of canned goods. Some things appear to be wonders in the beginning, but when you become familiar with them, are not wonderful at all. Sometimes a seventy-five-foot highly paid cacodemon will raise only the tiniest frisson. Some of us have even thought of folding the show—closing it down. That thought has been gliding through the hallways and rehearsal rooms of the show.
The new volcano we have just placed under contract seems very promising . . .
La Grange Batelière, 1977 by Leonor Fini (1908-1996)
The Hen and the Man, 1934 by Pavel Tchelitchew (1898-1957)
Susan Taubes’ Lament for Julia collects the eponymous posthumous novella with a handful of Taubes’ stories. The book is out this summer from NYRB. Their blurb–
Susan Taubes’s novella “Lament for Julia” is the story of a young woman coming of age in the twentieth century as seen through the eyes of a sexless spirit who supposes himself to be charged with her oversight.
What is this spirit? An operator from on high (though hardly holy), a narrative I, and a guiding presence that is more than a bit of a voyeur, who remains entirely unknown to Julia herself. About her, the spirit knows both a good deal and very little, since Julia’s emotional and physical and sexual being are all baffling, if also fascinating, to an entity that is pure mind.
The I and Julia are a mismatched couple, set up for failure from the start, it seems, even if they do somehow manage to deal in their different ways with childhood and Mother and Father Klopps and ugly pink outfits and dances and crushes for a while. After which come love and marriage, not necessarily in that order, at which point things really start to go wrong.
Unpublished during Taubes’s lifetime, “Lament for Julia” appears here with a selection of her stories. A brilliant metaphorical exploration of a woman’s double consciousness that is also a masterpiece of the grotesque, it is a novel like no other, a book, as Samuel Beckett wrote to his French publisher, “full of erotic touches of an emphatic sort [and] raw language,” the product of an “authentic talent,” adding, “I shall reread it.”
Portrait of Mrs. Stuart Merrill, 1892 by Jean Delville (1867–1953)
“Ape”
by
Russell Edson
You haven’t finished your ape, said mother to father, who had monkey hair and blood on his whiskers.
I’ve had enough monkey, cried father.
You didn’t eat the hands, and I went to all the trouble to make onion rings for its fingers, said mother.
I’ll just nibble on its forehead, and then I’ve had enough, said father.
I stuffed its nose with garlic, just like you like it, said mother.
Why don’t you have the butcher cut these apes up? You lay the whole thing on the table every night; the same fractured skull, the same singed fur; like someone who died horribly. These aren’t dinners, these are postmortem dissections.
Try a piece of its gum, I’ve stuffed its mouth with bread, said mother.
Ugh, it looks like a mouth full of vomit. How can I bite into its cheek with bread spilling out of its mouth? cried father.
Break one of the ears off, they’re so crispy, said mother.
I wish to hell you’d put underpants on these apes; even a jockstrap, screamed father.
Father, how dare you insinuate that I see the ape as anything more than simple meat, screamed mother.
Well, what’s with this ribbon tied in a bow on its privates? screamed father.
Are you saying that I am in love with this vicious creature? That I would submit my female opening to this brute? That after we had love on the kitchen floor I would put him in the oven, after breaking his head with a frying pan; and then serve him to my husband, that my husband might eat the evidence of my infidelity … ?
I’m just saying that I’m damn sick of ape every night, cried father.
Under the Sea, 1914 by Glyn Philpot (1884-1937)
Untitled (Even the Poorest Mouse), 2002 by Raymond Pettibon (b. 1957)
Biblioklept 