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272 pages, Kindle Edition
First published May 11, 2023
A young girl sets out on a journey, the story begins. The adventurer will confront many hardships and difficulties. She will reclaim her lost inheritance. She will recapture the castle. But this is not true. In folk tales, young girls never set out on a journey or a quest, they are passive, they are waiting, and in later years, Paula would admit, she had been waiting, and this was how her story started.
Every folk tale is one great bourgeois deviation, a blueprint for personal advancement and survival rather than the collective endeavour of the Masses. It begins with the departure of the hero from his home with a purpose. Now we have an adventure. Then the donor turns up, an agent like a talking bird or some such, who tests or interrogates. The hero is given a magical prop: a bean that grows a stalk that reaches the sky, or a hen that lays golden eggs. Next the hero is guided to a location which will change everything ... On this all goes, the villain is punished, the hero marries the princess and ascends to a throne. The end.
I'm just suggesting what Mummy always said, that you tell the authorities what they want to hear, Paula says. 'It's only common sense, self-preservation. They were immigrants, no one knew them, they could say what they liked. When you're uprooted like they were, you can be anything you want. Who's going to say otherwise?
You see we have so little of the past except of course memories and fairy stories because we came from a regime where you couldn't trust what was inside your own head, your soul had been taken into public ownership, you doubted your own recollection, that was just the way it was, you accepted it, what could you do? So we had a coffee pot and we had a story and the story was ours. It didn't belong to the People, but to us. Was it true? At the time it didn't matter.
The audience was arriving. There were old-timers nostalgic for the films of their youth, students of cinema, young lovers, couples who had nowhere else to go on this rainy evening, solitary types like himself, their purposes inscrutable. Of everyone in the half-empty cinema, the atmosphere heavy with the smoke of cheap cigarettes, only Itzik knew how false the movie was. He had been there, he had seen everything, it was nothing like this, nothing.
There were no magical elements, there was instead a spoilt girl and a pompous brother, a group of boys who believed in ideas that were going to crush them.
He remembered Vladimir Propp and the lecture in London to which he had enticed his beautiful niece. The lecturer had spoken at great length about the structure of stories. But I also have a story, he thought. He had told it several times to his handlers. Why here, they had asked him, and why now? To which there was no answer besides, 'Once I lived with my brothers and sisters in a good merchant's house in Riga not far from the port, and one day my little sister went out to the forest and our family was undone?
Which was not the truth either but who says stories are supposed to be true? When you tell a story you are bound by its own internal rules. The truth is an awkward branch that will poke your eye out,