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criticalkayla · 1 year

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Unmaking Nonsense

The 14th-century paradoxical playground rhyme “Two Dead Boys” has various variations and many monikers; the anonymous authors are a secret lost to time - this nonsensical poem has been passed down exclusively through rope-skipping and patty-cake by at least 25 generations of school children. While essentially utter nonsense, with a childish first impression, “Two Dead Boys” is quite complex. It uses numerous rhyming devices that make it effortlessly swift to memorize and share; alliteration, assonance, and internal rhymes create an amusingly silly, slightly unsettling, and musically delightful chant. Every pair of lines rhymes its final words, but there is no consistent rhyming style, and well-spaced caesuras create a sense of unpredictability and reinforce the poem’s non-sequitur structure. Paradoxes, demarcated by enjambments, persist in each of the 24 lines of this free-verse poem, with unique scenery over six quatrains. Surreal situations occur, including a fight between two dead boys who shoot each other with swords in the middle of a bright sunny night; “Two Dead Boys” is literally the literary definition of a Nonsense Poem.

Even when using Structuralism to attempt to make sense of this intentionally nonsensical, mind-twisting enigma, one still finds that this bizarre poem’s purpose is play – it has no moral premise; it is not made to be meaningful in any way. However, every original interpretation can be turned and contorted when employing Deconstruction, disassembling its initially privileged understanding, reversing its intended insignificance, and revealing its binary opposite, even making perfect and serious sense of its nonsensical premise. Then, an important question arises: can anything have any real meaning if, even while designed for centuries to be absent of sense, a mind can always wring and wrench words and phrases, squeezing out some recognizable substance? Finally, and most importantly, furthering the deconstruction process dissolves interpretation entirely; it concludes that only momentary meaning and fleeting coherence can be found, repeatedly reforming and dissolving definition because language is utterly arbitrary and inherently incoherent.

Steven Lynn demonstrates in Texts and Contexts that language is a capricious structure of human imagination; with Deconstruction, one can playfully expose a binary opposite meaning in almost every aspect of language. Deconstruction relies on a reader to first interpret more traditional meanings, similar to New Criticism, but also adheres to the idea that text holds no meaning until discovered by a mind, just as Reader-Response criticism believes. Deconstruction taps into these minor aspects of both New Criticism and Reader-Response Criticism and goes a step further to demand that one systematically dismantles and recasts that found meaning. This critical outlook is far from either theory and is not necessarily a form of destruction but rather the creative dismantling of more privileged terms and apparent importance. Leaning into Différance, the idea that one word is essentially void of definite meaning without other words to anchor context, linguistic meaning is created rather than given; every word or phrase can be twisted and rung of sense. This literary theory aims to rebuild context for the sake of curiosity, to see what else a simple text can reveal, and expose how capricious and meaningless words are on their own.

The Deconstruction of literary theory must begin with construction; after all, to deconstruct – in this case - something must first be constructed; figuring out a piece’s more conventional analysis of its structure lays the groundwork for the art of literary Deconstruction. The first step to deconstructing “Two Dead Boys” is applying Structuralism, which shows exactly how it is purposefully designed to spin heads. Structuralism emphasizes a text’s underlying structures and surface patterns to identify several critical foundational elements that shape the poem’s intended meaning. When analyzing this poem’s rhythmic devices and poetic structure, a handful of complicated components contribute to the success of this playground poem: rhyme, alliteration, assonance, repetition, enjambment, and juxtaposition – to name a few.

Immediately foreshadowing the absurdity to come with its lyrics, the repetition of sounds throughout the poem’s recitation creates a sense of unity and reinforces the poem’s rhythmic arrangement. Beginning a delightful ode to oddness, the songlike reciting of this contradictory tale begins with an invitation to listen to the speaker’s story – about which they know nothing:

Ladies and gentleman skinny and scout

I’ll tell you a tale I know nothing about

The admission is free so pay at the door

Now pull out a chair and sit on the floor (Anonymous, lines 1-4).

“Skinny” and “Scout” are an example of internal rhymes, where a word in the middle of a line rhymes with a word at the end of or on another line, and “scout” rhymes effortlessly with “about,” just as “door” does with “floor.” This pattern of each pair of lines ending with a word that rhymes with its partner is continued on all 12 pairs of lines in this 24-line poem, significantly contributing to its musical foundation and giving some semblance of deliberate order.

Adding to its basic rhyming routine, assonance and alliteration are melodic structural elements that deepen the poem’s methodical rhyme and delightfully complicate each quatrain. For example, “tell” and “tale” in the first stanza are an example of alliteration, where the beginnings of two close-together words sound the same. Assonance is another example of more nuanced rhyming – when the sound of a vowel is repeated near enough to echo a similar sound – and this poem features it in abundance:

On one bright day in the middle of the night

Two dead boys got up to fight

Back to back they faced each other

Drew their swords and shot one another (4-8).

Each line of the second stanza is riddled with reverberating sounds: the “n” in “one” and “night,” and then again with “bright,” “night,” and “fight.” Assonance recurring here, paired with dark imagery, foretells this dark story’s upcoming peculiarity, aiding its foundation and showcasing that this poem was not necessarily a frivolous childhood composition.

Ironically adding to its ridiculousness, blind, deaf, and mute men, who can see, hear, and shout, come to witness the deadly skirmish; one significant structural feature of the poem is its use of this repetition in tandem with irony, creating delightfully silly suspense. Assonance and alliteration repeat in this third quatrain (as well as a man coming to do something,) but “Two Dead Boys” does not only include cute rhyme schemes. An additional layer of juxtaposition confounds meaning further when each man comes to do what he should not logically be able to do:

The blind man came to see fair play

The mute man came to shout hooray

The deaf policeman heard the noise

And came to stop those two dead boys (9-12).

The poem features many contrasting ironic elements, such as the boys who are both dead and alive, the blind man who comes to “see” fair play, and the mute man who comes to “shout” hooray. Looking more closely at this ironic juxtaposition and narrative structure, we can understand and appreciate this poem’s complexity and purpose.

In each stanza, enjambments and caesuras guide the poem’s lines’ flow and contribute to its structural complexity. More importantly, these enjambments demarcate another vital structural element of the poem - its use of binary oppositions. “On one bright day” is followed with an implied pause, but after that pause is “in the middle of the night,” which is an impossible thought; this pattern continues with “Two dead boys got up to fight” and so on (5-6). These binary oppositions create a sense of tension and help to highlight the poem’s surrealism. Enjambments mark a turning point between sense and nonsense, and one finds that this persists for each pause in each line; this is a rule closely followed, leading one to expect that this is not simply a quirky coincidence but that the poem’s point entirely is to have no point.

Although the poem is nonsensical, it follows a clear narrative path, with each disturbing scene logically leading to the next. This narrative structure creates a sense of coherence and helps ground the poem’s surrealism in a recognizable story arc. After applying Structuralism to decipher the poem, it is concluded that its purpose is to be preposterous; “Two Dead Boys” is the pinnacle of impossible absurdity and nonsensical situations, and illogical reasoning is abundant; insurmountable and obvious conundrums are the theme of this schoolyard song. In this sense, the poem can be said to make perfect sense within its context, even if it may not conform to traditional notions of meaning or coherence.

Once a reader labors over the customary implication of a text using Structuralism, Deconstruction then requires dispersing that instinctual first impression – opening a text, pulling it apart, and decoding it to reveal how a text can be so much more or even the direct antithesis of the initial outlook. Dismantling “Two Dead Boys” can identify its undiscovered interpretations and outline how the poem’s language and inherent structure constantly undermine and subvert its supposed oppositions, revealing underlying contradictions. Deconstruction aims to discover a text’s disagreements and hidden implications by examining the language and structures. For example, the privileged interpretation of “On one bright day in the middle of the night” is that a story cannot possibly occur at that time because these two descriptions, separated by an enjambment, are anthesis (5). However, as Deconstruction begins to unweave this initial interpretation, humans begin their quest for pattern-finding. A “day” is typically the opposite of “night,” when the sun is out, shining at least a little, but what if a “day,” in this case, instead encompasses 24 hours? The story is now taking place at a much more precise time – during a summer night.

Other examples of how Deconstruction can disrupt this pattern persist through “Two Dead Boys,” which dissolves these binary opposites entirely. “Back-to-back they faced each other” is another case where an enjambment supposedly signifies an impossibility – someone cannot face another if their back is to them (7). However, if “Back-to-back” means over and over again, one certainly can face an opponent repeatedly, and this duel makes more sense. “Back-to-back” could retain its initial meaning, but “they faced each other” may refer to how one can face an opponent in a duel or card game – not standing towards one another but competing, nonetheless. The stark juxtapositions are now not so black and white; even the impossibility of “Drew their swords and shot one another” can be solved by the simple concept of a bayonet. We can no longer trust the poem’s original promise to define opposing ideas with a pause because problem-solving and unriddling words are an unconscious effort of the human mind; this process can affect every line of “Two Dead Boys” and make perfect sense of this story. Ultimately, Deconstruction reveals that even the poem’s apparent juxtapositions are unstable and unreliable - especially in the seeming reliability of enjambments marking that opposite.

Now that this significant theme of the poem’s structure can no longer be reliable and “Two Dead Boys” does not always carry shining contradictions separated by pauses in each line, it is a good time for a reminder that Deconstruction aims to avoid interpreting the text coherently but to highlight language’s multiple meanings and contradictions. Removing the original premise of structure and now assuming that these line pauses do not signify juxtapositions, we can spin this poem’s web another way: what if enjambments are a marker of present tense versus past tense? “Two Dead Boys” is a storytelling poem, after all, the poem explains as much: “Ladies and gentlemen skinny and scout / I’ll tell you a tale I know nothing about” (1-2). If one assumes that anything that happens before an enjambment is the current state of time and after the enjambment is a retelling of the past, then this story unfolds quite clearly:

The blind man came to see fair play

The mute man came to shout hooray

The deaf policeman heard the noise

And came to stop those two dead boys (9-12).

A man in the story, who used to be young and spry, came to see fair play, but currently, at the time of the poem’s reciting, that same man is now old and cannot see. The speaker could be referring to each man as how they now are, losing ability as they age. With that simple shift, this poem is much less cryptic than its apparent purpose. This logic can be applied to each line, and with creative reasoning, a poem made not to make sense now fails at its intended purpose - incoherence.

Rather than aiming to create a single, coherent interpretation of a text, Deconstruction emphasizes the multiplicity of meanings and how language is constantly in flux. Even sillier notions are unearthed and used to dismantle text. The two dead boys could have “Drew their swords” on paper with a pen (8). Perhaps the two boys are zombies and “got up” from the dead - their twisted heads freely facing each other while standing back-to-back. The entire poem reads effortlessly as a tale of a zombie duel. While Structuralism outlines the poem’s original meaning, showcasing how effective “Two Dead Boys” is as a nonsense poem, Deconstruction can then reconstruct any aspect of its language and show how ineffective it was at achieving its goal.

The conundrum is whether anything can truly hold meaning if the human mind can always twist sense from insignificance, even when crafted for centuries to be nonsensical. Deconstruction essentially inverts any meaning and challenges the notion of a “perfect sense,” revealing the contradictions and ambiguities inherent to language. Specifically, meaning is temporary because language is unreliable, heavily influenced by personal bias, and all humans’ unavoidable search for meaning and pattern. In the case of nonsense poetry like “Two Dead Boys,” the meaning is not derived from the literal interpretation of the words but from the way that the words are used to create a particular experience for the reader. Something designed to make no sense can make perfect sense within its context because meaning is not inherent in language but is constructed. A friend to Deconstruction, the poem uses absurdity, surrealism, and other techniques to create a sense of disorientation and invites readers to embrace the ambiguity and complexity of texts. It challenges the reader’s assumptions about language and meaning and explores what language can create beyond traditional narratives. In essence, "Two Dead Boys" exemplifies the potential of human language to entertain, challenge, and perplex with childlike creativity.

Works Cited

Anonymous. "Two Dead Boys: My Favorite Poem of All Time." Hello Poetry, https://hellopoetry.com/poem/841116/two-dead-boys-my-favorite-poem-of-all-time/. Accessed 5 May 2023.

Lynn, S. (2017). “Opening Up the Text: Structuralism and Deconstruction.” In B. Potthoff (Ed.), Texts and Contexts: Writing About Literature with Critical Theory (Seventh, pp. 109–143). essay, Pearson Education, Inc.

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criticalkayla · 1 year

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Literary Deconstruction of “View with a Grain of Sand,” by Wislawa Szymborska

The traditionally privileged interpretation of the poem “View with a Grain of Sand,” by Wislawa Szymborska, reveals the insentience of nature and celebrates the human experience of the natural world. The poem features several irregular stanzas and no set rhyme, each a meditation on the human condition, with Szymborska using contrasting language to celebrate the contrasts. For example, the poem states, “We call it a grain of sand but it calls itself neither grain nor sand,” highlighting that our consciousness defines our humanity and separates us from the supposedly unthinking and unfeeling. However, through the deconstruction of meaning and structure, we can gain a contrastive understanding of the poem’s themes and challenge our assumptions about language and nature. For example, translating that same line verbatim can reveal that sand can call itself a name, but its name is not specifically “grain,” or “sand,” and after all, “It does just fine without a name” (lines 1-3). Anthropomorphism is repeated throughout the poem and, contrastingly, shows sentience in objects we believe are inanimate - it also questions the ability of language to capture its essence accurately. This notion furthers the idea that even a window has “a wonderful view of a lake,” and it is “the view” itself that cannot see (lines 14-15). Even water can feel, as the poem reads, “Its water feels itself neither wet nor dry,” again demonstrating that the water can feel, yet does not feel “wet” or “dry” (lines 21-22). Our inability to fathom the differences between our human minds and that of the inanimate is outside our comprehension, but that does not mean that they cannot feel or experience. Our human language has limitations in capturing its essence. Each line suggests that the world exists independently of human language and categorization and that our attempts to define it by our perceptions and biases will always fail.

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criticalkayla · 1 year

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New Criticism Response to "Cathedral" by Raymond Carver

Raymond Carver's short story “Cathedral” (PDF) is ripe with ambiguity and tension primarily rooted in its insufferable narrator. Examples of blatant racism, sexism, and ablism bombard us in our narrator's sharp tone and make him challenging to befriend. His profound disconnection from the world around him is evident when he dismisses a meaningful experience his wife has with a blind man, thinking"he was no one I knew." (Carver 1) Having never met a visually impaired person, our narrator is initially uncomfortable with his wife's friend, inexperience telling him that blind men move slowly and never laugh. (1) Ironically, by the end of Cathedral, the same blind man will also inspire a life-altering experience in him.

Connection and names are significant in Cathedral, with many examples of them being earned and not owned. For example, our narrator dismisses names, like his own wife's name, which we never learn. Our anonymous narrator also feels jarred when he hears the blind man talk about him and thinks, "I heard my own name in the mouth of this stranger, the blind man I didn't even know." (1) While the blind man converses with his unnamed wife, he aches for her to mention him, thinking, "I waited in vain to hear my name on my wife's sweet lips." (4) Pointing to the narrator's loneliness, the narrator starts building a human connection with the blind man only after he gives him a nickname. As they break the ice with their love of scotch and a splash of water, he's delighted to hear the name for him; "Bub!" he inwardly exclaims. (3) The nickname marks the beginning of our narrator calling the blind man by his name, Robert. (4)

We've grown to dislike the narrator, expecting very little from him, but without any encouragement, the narrator attempts to describe what's on TV for Robert; he feels as though he has to say something. (7) It's a nice gesture, but our narrator struggles to find the words to paint a magnificent cathedral in the mind of one who has never seen one. At this moment, our narrator's perspective widens; he realizes and proclaims, "it isn't in me to do it. I can't do any more than I've done." (8)

As the short story progresses, the narrator’s tone changes. Somewhere in the process of letting a blind man defy his expectations, he broadens his perspective. He wasn’t planning to even like Robert, but they found friendship in sharing a scotch. He sees greater meaning in the failing at words to describe a cathedral. Finally, our narrator lets Robert place his hand on his own, slowly following along as he draws the cathedral. Keeping his eyes closed, he “sees” for the first time, and “it’s really something.” (9) The end gives a satisfying close, the pivotal moment showing us a profound change in our narrator’s humanity; its conclusion brings harmony to the whole as Carver shows us that everyone is human, even the ones it seems we cannot relate to, and how we can expand our perspectives through our relationships with others.

Nothing is flawless in the same sense that no one is perfect. By the same rule, literature can never be perfect, especially when our narrator is as deeply flawed as the one in Carver’s short story “Cathedral.” Nevertheless, the imperfections in the story, whether composed by intention or accident, are vital to the organic feel of the piece. At the story’s beginning, the narrator bombards the reader with examples of his inhumanity, using tone to create tension and discomfort. Carver refuses his readers’ connection by frustratingly omitting names, never mentioning his wife’s name. He makes the reader uneasy by minimizing his wife’s past love, calling her ex-husband only “her officer” or “her childhood, etc.” (1). The lack of descriptions shines a light on how deeply apathetic our nameless narrator is, and we are even more satisfied that by the end of the story, his tone shifts, and he seems to have gained some much-needed perspective. There is always room for growth, and we feel the revelation of our narrator’s growth by the end of the story only because of its stark contrast to the beginning.

It may feel like not much happens in the first eight pages of “Cathedral,” but our narrator must have undergone quite a transformation to be vulnerable enough to allow a blind man to place his hands over his. At the story’s beginning, this does not feel like something our narrator would ever do, and it’s worth looking into why the ending does not shock the reader. The story is ambiguous and riddled with clues showing the slow expansion of his perspective. Perhaps the narrator sharing the same taste in scotch as the blind man is step one to his transformation. When the blind man calls our narrator “bub” for the first time, our narrator seems almost happy to receive a nickname. (3) Indeed, after he receives his nickname, we hear the first name from the narrator’s perspective, Robert. (4) It also marks the first thought of kindness towards the blind man when the narrator notices what his wife does not; Robert needs his suitcase to keep his bearings. Noticing the light touches the blind man makes to his suitcase, he thinks, “I didn’t blame him for that.” (3) Looking closely at this interaction shows an instance of our narrator paying attention to the needs of others, which we see again later when they’re all watching TV. Without any encouragement, the narrator attempts to describe what is on TV for Robert; he feels he has to say something. (7) This openness to consider the needs of others is new to the reader and paves the way for further connection later. After all, “Cathedral” is a story about the importance of human connection and its role in expanding perspectives. Carver’s minimal world-building, lack of descriptions, harsh tone, and blatant racism and ablism never resolve in the story, but our narrator feels more human to us at the end. We do not see the next steps of his perspective shift, but readers feel like he can “see” more of the world now, and it is a satisfying close.

Works Cited

Carver, Raymond. “Cathedral.” Cathedral. Vintage, 2009.

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criticalkayla · 1 year

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The Ambiguous Curse

To follow is a response to the short story "Black Fairy's Curse," by Karen Joy Fowler through the lens of New Criticism.

Karen Joy Fowler shatters preconceived notions of fairy tales in “The Black Fairy’s Curse,” published in 1997 and included in the Cursed anthology in 2020. Fowler’s masterful blend of cryptic context and fuzzy narrative paints a powerful retelling of Sleeping Beauty; in this brief piece, readers do not witness the princess’s capture but observe her dreams, waiting for rescue. Disjointed scenes flow seamlessly during her slumber; everything is open to interpretation. Fowler fills the story with movement expressed by an omniscient narrator in vivid strokes: horseback riding, tree climbing, swimming, and sex; readers feel trapped in an inconsistent dreamscape. When the author hints at a danger somewhere in the waking world, the protagonist is not scared; she lives a whole breadth of life safe within her imagination. In a discomforting twist, a kiss from a stranger in the waking world rouses her from fantasy. Karen Joy Fowler uses the ambiguity of dream logic to cultivate constant tension throughout “The Black Fairy’s Curse,” suspending readers between peace and unease until the thought-provoking climax when the princess’s awakening resolves the confusion yet reveals a greater truth: the curse itself is ambiguous.

Readers can interpret the provocative conclusion of “The Black Fairy’s Curse” through the lens of the critical theory known as New Criticism: discovering meaning in complexity by uncovering unity. Steven Lynn encourages all to explore the world of literary critique in Texts and Contexts by showing how carefully analyzing literature provides deep enrichment of perspective. New Criticism’s principles guide readers in discovering how literature performs as a higher art, analyzing how a story stands independently. The New Critic assumes that aesthetic literature possesses complexity and strains, even if initially benign. While reading carefully with an eye out for intricacy, the critic leaves space for more than one interpretation of words to linger, letting the author illuminate paths of understanding. Once complexity is unveiled, a critic’s following assumption is that great literature will resolve those tensions and bring harmony with a unifying theme. The New Critic finds every element pointing to more significant meanings: speaker, tone, point-of-view, and irony must resonate, with extra metaphorical weight on a satisfying ending. True to New Criticism, this eerie fairy tale retelling has no shortage of ambiguity, making for a layered and complex piece with a crushing twist, all coming together in a vexing finale.

One of Fowler’s most important story-shaping decisions is her use of a mysterious omniscient third-person narrative to illustrate an opening dream sequence, in which readers are immediately thrown into action:

She was being chased. She kicked off her shoes, which were slowing her down. At the same time her heavy skirts vanished and she found herself in her usual work clothes. Relieved of the weight and constriction, she was able to run faster. She looked back. She was much faster than he was. Her heart was strong. Her strides were long and easy. He was never going to catch her now. (127)

This opening paragraph is direct, yet vague, and immediately inspires fear, danger, and, contrastingly, freedom. The protagonist kicks off her shoes and instantly has a new outfit on, making it easier to run, and with one sentence, readers understand this is only possible in a dream.

Fowler continues using obscure hints to successfully build the tension New Criticism is searching for, guiding critics to suspect that the protagonist is not of the same strength or bravery she is experiencing in her fantasy. When she finds herself galloping on the huntsman’s horse with no recollection of how, the narrator explains, “She’d never ridden well, never had the insane fearlessness it took, but now she was able to enjoy the easiness of the horse’s motion. She encouraged it to run faster” (127). Fowler again balances this fearful escape with delight when she feels the outstanding strength and freedom only found in dreams, proven further when the protagonist escapes by pulling herself into a tree. The narrator marvels, “She regretted every tree she had never climbed. The only hard part was the first branch. After that it was easy, or else she was stronger than she’d ever been. Stronger than she needed to be. This excess of strength gave her a moment of joy as pure as any she could remember” (128). Fowler efficiently builds the expectation in readers that the sleeper does not seem to be conscious of her dream state, and the irony is only uncovered when readers become aware of her dreaming through careful analysis of the text. This vagueness can be found throughout the short story and is effectively used by the author to encourage readers to deeply consider each sentence, leading to confusion and creating questions: why has she never climbed a tree?

The anxiety cultivated lessens when the dreamer is safe in her tree, but Fowler employs an ominous undertone as the protagonist intimately pleas for her mother’s help – keeping readers on edge and practicing the complexity that New Criticism assumes any aesthetic work will feature. Fowler creates a sense that something is right around the corner and menace is present in the dreaming or waking world: “Mother,’ she said, softly enough to blend with the wind in the leaves. ‘Help me.’ She meant her real mother. Her real mother was not there, had not been there since she was a little girl. It didn’t mean there would be no help” (128). The kind of help the protagonist needs or what assistance she may receive is vague, but carefully reading the passage reveals something touching - her mother has passed away but can comfort her in her dreams. Tossed again between concern and peace, the reader’s sense of fear is alleviated further with the charming idea that her loved ones are present:

On the bank was a group of smiling women, her grandmother, her mother, and her stepmother too, her sisters and stepsisters, all of them smiling at her. They waved. No one said, “Put your clothes on.” No one said, “Don’t go in too deep now, dear.” She was a good swimmer, and there was no reason to be afraid. She couldn’t think of a single thing she wanted. (129-130)

Throughout her dreams, her relationship with her family is intangibly different. This is not expressed plainly, but there is something in the context that New Critics will uncover with close attention to the text. The implied cadence of the narrator’s rambling list of women – including her mother – can be interpreted as excitement. Being together and smiling is special for this bunch, and her freedom and contentment seem atypical. Careful readers – employing the fundamentals of New Criticism – pick up on these ambiguous hints and deduce that the dreamer is experiencing a mirroring of her real life. Fowler has left readers all breadcrumbs needed to find that, in this princess’s dreams, all is opposite to her waking life, where she may be sheltered, timid, and inexperienced – a princess.

Fowler continues to effectively use puzzling juxtapositions between the dreamer’s waking and sleeping worlds to build further complexity. In a curious reflection of the fairytale, the sleeping protagonist's beauty is gone; the narrator explains, “A mirror only answers one question and it can’t lie. She had completely lost her looks. She wondered what she had gotten in return” (130). Fowler has readers also wondering what the main character got in return for her loveliness, worrying that stolen beauty is part of the Black Fairy’s curse. However, staying true to the to the fundaments of New Criticism, the worry is relieved as we learn that she is unphased by this change in her appearance. While gazing in the foggy mirror, the princess ponders the change, “She wasn’t upset about this and she noticed the fact, a little wonderingly. It didn’t matter at all to her. She was healthy; she was strong. If she could manage to be kind and patient and witty and brave, there would be men who loved her for it. There would be men who found it exciting” (130). New Critics may conclude that beauty is a strain on the princess in the waking realm, and she is relieved of it in her dreams, hopeful that she can find someone who loves her mind.

This short story uses contextual ambiguity to elaborate on the dreamer’s waking life, holding up an opposing reflection. Fowler has built the expectation in readers that the protagonist’s dreams provide for her what she lacks, so when she dreams of a man possibly from her childhood, though she cannot put her finger on his name, much can be extrapolated due to Fowler’s use of opacity. Fowler writes him as a patient man, whom the protagonist feels safe and comfortable around: “His own face was in shadow, but there was no reason to be afraid. She removed her dress. It was red” (130). An inference can be made that the dreamer does not typically get to wear red dresses, is perhaps not confident or forward, and that men in her life differ from her dream man.

In just the way New Criticism demands a harmonizing ending, Fowler creatively evokes fear in the reader while simultaneously unlocking the whole of the piece. An ironic change of perspective happens mid-scene with a hazy transition from a desired and dreamy kiss to her reality. Her crush kisses her, “He kissed her mouth. He kissed her mouth,” and suspense intensifies as the protagonist awakens mid-kiss (131):

He kissed her mouth. It was not a hard kiss, but it opened her eyes. This was not the right face. She had never seen this man before and the look he gave her – she wasn’t sure she liked it. Why was he kissing her, when she was asleep and had never seen him before? What was he doing in her bedroom? She was so frightened, she stopped breathing for a moment. She closed her eyes and wished him away. He was still there. (131)

The unclear transition from desire to fear unsettles the reader. Fowler’s ending relieves the tension of the piece and readers now know that the Black Fairy’s Curse has lifted and understand the answers to the freshly awoken princess’s questions; much of the story’s mystery is resolved, but this new man is not our expected hero.

The closing page reinforces the critic’s interpretation of this short story when a stark juxtaposition between her dreams and reality is found upon awakening. She is no longer barefoot, in comfortable clothes with her warm hair loose on her shoulders; she is “weak and encumbered by a heavy dress, a heavy coil of her own hair, a corset, tight and pointed shoes” (131). No longer strong, “She pushed him and his face showed the surprise of this. He allowed himself to be pushed. If he hadn’t, she was not strong enough to force it” (131). As readers digest the tale, the assumption is that the curse is sleeping. However, its final sentence demonstrates how the curse may be in the rough awakening, illuminating devastating loss when the narrator reveals that, “No matter how much she came to love him, there would always be a part of her afraid of him. ‘I was having the most lovely dream,’ she said. She was careful not to make her tone as angry as she felt” (131). Her use of ambiguity resolves the story in a way that mirrors the whole, keeping readers thinking past the cumulation, which is the defining quality of great literature.

The author includes every hint the reader needs to uncover the story’s many philosophical quandaries, revealing an ending in which the protagonist only dreams of her successful escape and simple life of freedom. The true success of the short story is measured in how it all comes together in a jarring finish. Questions have been answered, but new questions arise as readers ponder the uncertainty of her future. Does the devastation of her curse reside in the disappointment of waking up and realizing it was all a dream and her mother is truly gone? Is it experiencing a free and happy version of herself, only to return to a depressing reality in which her future is ominous? Most troubling – if a princess is only free in her dreams, is it moral to wake her? It also raises questions about the ethics of kissing a sleeping princess and how the typical fairy tale is not told from the rescued perspective. We can see the author’s genius use of narrative, tension, mirroring, juxtaposition, and irony only because of her creative unclarity. Karen Joy Fowler’s use of ambiguity creates mystery throughout the short tale, successfully contributing to the troubling end; readers learn that although we were unnerved by the dreams of the cursed princess, the real crux of the ambiguous curse was not in dreaming but in the rough awakening.

Works Cited

Fowler, Karen Joy. “The Black Fairy’s Curse.” Cursed: An Anthology, edited by Marie O’Regan and Paul Kane. 1st ed. Titan. March 2020. Pp. 127-313. Kindle Edition.

Lynn, S. (2017). “Unifying the Work: New Criticism.” In B. Potthoff (Ed.), Texts and Contexts: Writing About Literature with Critical Theory (Seventh, pp. 45–71). essay, Pearson Education, Inc.

Source: lightspeedmagazine.com

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