I’ve been meaning to read this for years. This isn’t quite what I was expecting, though. And given this was published in 1976 it seems much too Freudian than it ought to have been too. There were times when I would have been sure it was written in the 1950s.
Now, saying this is a Freudian analysis of fairy tales might be enough to put some people off. And that would be a real pity. There are few things more suited to a Freudian interpretation than literature – as a teacher of mine once said, ‘better literature than people’. All the same, it would be hard to not feel confronted by some of these interpretations and readings. I read many of these to my daughters while they were growing up, but now I find it remarkable that I didn’t notice any of the sexual metaphors. I’m obviously much more naïve than I pretend. Even to myself.
The short version of what this book is about is that fairy tales are a very particular genre. There is very little ambiguity to them – at least, not on the surface. Bad people are BAD. Good people are GOOD. Ugly people are UGLY and the beautiful are BEAUTIFUL. There are no shades of grey. Good people need to be rewarded, bad people need to be punished. People are kings and queens or dirt poor. Like the US at the moment, there is the 1% and then there is everyone else and bugger all in-between.
There is a supernatural quality to these stories – they are set at a ‘time’ when animals could still talk or long ago when magic wasn’t quite so unusual. The author says this is incredibly important as it allows children to know the world depicted is not real and so is a safe place for them to engage their wish-fulfilment – in all its excess and sometimes in all its horror.
The author has very few nice things to say about Perrault, someone who ‘did a Disney’ to French fairy tales. This generally involved getting rid of many of the more gruesome aspects of the stories and making the morals much more ‘clear’. The problem here is that the moral of the story ought to be left a bit unclear because the same story can mean very different things to the same child at different times while growing up. Although, after reading this book, I suspect that one of the major audiences for fairy tales really ought to be adults.
So, what does a Freudian analysis of a fairy tale look like? Well, you know there is going to be repressed sex and Oedipus is going to rate more than the occasional mention, things are going to look like penises and that isn’t just something you might notice along the way, but be really very significant. In fact, unlike in the real world, no penis is ever going to be insignificant. And then there’s going to be guilt – lots of that. And repression – let’s not forget about repression. Sorry, this makes it sound like I’m being flippant about this book – in fact, when I first worked out this book was going to be a Freudian reading I was much more flippant than now that I’ve finished. This really was a very impressive book, but there were more than enough penises, repressed Oedipal complexes and castration fears to make a couple of dozen Woody Allen films.
I’m going to do Cinderella, only because I get to mention King Lear – which, oddly enough, Nell mentioned under my review of King Lear and I remember going, ‘oh yeah’ at the time, but never really thought it through as much as I ought to have – now Lear and Cinderella are intimately linked for me and not because this is even a laboured part of the book – in fact, without checking I’m not even sure if he draws out the connection or not.
One of the things I really believe is that love is about acceptance of someone else, acceptance of them FOR their scars, not despite them. And that is why love is quite rare, if not, in fact, depressingly rare.
Cinderella’s mother dies and her father asks her what she would like him to bring her, she says a cutting from a tree that knocks his hat. When she gets this she puts it on her mother’s grave and her tears wet it in. It grows into a great tree. But the father marries again and Cinderella is confronted with a step-mother and two siblings. The big lesson in this book is that there is no such thing as a ‘step’ anything, or of a monster – monsters and step-mothers are generally fathers and mothers in their Oedipal ‘nasty’ incarnations. So, Cinderella, on one level, is about a young girl who wants to take her mother’s place in her father’s affections. This needs to be repressed and so the mother can’t be the ‘real’ mother – but an unkind and horrible replacement mother. One that sets impossible tasks and then banishes the young girl to lie in the dirt and in the filth. But this is also a story of sibling rivalry; the ugly stepsisters that have ultimate power over Cinderella and who she must degrade herself before.
What is interesting here is that Cinderella is removed from her mother’s love – in fact, denied this love even when she performs, via magic, all of the tasks assigned her by her mother. Such is the jealousy of mother to a daughter seeking to take her place. And such are the obligations of growing up – that what can seem like insurmountable difficulties need to be overcome and what is a horrible refusal of parental care and love is actually motivation for growth out of childhood.
He reminds us that Cinderella is a story of Chinese origin – hence the small feet as a sign of elegance. But even if this was not the case, as he makes clear, men are big in fairy tales (it is one of the oppositions set up) and so the smaller a woman the more feminine she will appear to be. So, Cinderella’s little feet mean she is more feminine than her two ‘ugly’ sisters, who, because everything is done for them never get the opportunity at the transformation of their lives Cinderella is presented with.
In the Brothers Grimm version of the story the ugly sisters are told by their mother to cut off either their toe or their heal to get their foot to fit into the glass slipper. The Prince is revolted when he is told by some birds sitting on the tree Cinderella planted on her mother’s grave to look at their feet at the blood coming from the shoe one or other of the ugly sisters is wearing. He brings the sisters home again and finally Cinderella gets to slide her foot straight into the shoe without effort; a perfect fit.
Now, this is the bit I never realised before. The shoe is a metaphor for a vagina. I’d have never thought of this, but it is so damn obvious once you’ve been told. The author here says that the Prince is revolted by the blood from the ugly sisters because it makes the sexual allusions all too clear, and like Cinderella, this is a rite of passage for him too towards being prepared for sexual love. Cinderella’s foot sliding in so perfectly is a kind of sign everything will be okay. Wedding rings serve much the same metaphorical purpose – a woman’s finger being inserted into a circle given by her male partner in a kind of inversion of the sex act. Something else I had never really noticed before – honestly, and if you’d asked me I’d have said I had a dirty mind…
But despite there being three occasions when Cinderella meets with the Prince, she runs away each time and it is only on the third occasion that she loses the shoe and so the whole thing is set up for the climax. The point being that it is important that the Prince finds her at home – and covered in filth. It isn’t enough for him to fall in love with her in her finery, but he must still love her at her most disgusting. Here is the reassurance for the child who believes they are beneath contempt and undeserving of love – that someone will love them despite it all.
The Oedipal aspects of this story are really interesting when you compare it to King Lear – a Cinderella story where Cinderella disappears after the first Act and we are forced to watch the Oedipal nightmare of a father that did not know enough that there comes a time when a father’s love is really shown by allowing his daughter’s love to mature – and this can only be with someone other than her father.
Now, you may well be saying, for God sake McCandless, isn’t this just reading too much into a kids’ story? To which the obvious answer is: no, I don’t think so. In fact, more needs to be read into this story. There needs to be a feminist reading and a semiotic reading and perhaps even a Marxist or Foucaultian reading – but certainly this isn’t reading too much into the story. The point is in realising that no reading is the ‘true’ reading of such a story – but even having said that, a reading that makes it clear that these stories are popular because for hundreds of years they have allowed people to work on their deep psychological desires must say something interesting. I mean, if these stories didn’t help people confront deep truths about what it means to be human, it is really hard to see why they have remained popular for so long.
We humans are in constant danger of believing that we are monsters. We have nightmares and we catch ourselves desiring what we can barely bring ourselves to admit to. Fairy tales allow us to know that these are not signs of mental illness, but are a universal part of the human condition. We are not alone in our nightmares or in our desires. They do not make us evil or wicked or loathsome. They make us human.
What is particularly interesting in this book is when he discusses ‘updated’ versions of these stories or, worse still, modern tales like Tootle the Train. Tootle liked to play with flowers, but it was very important that he been kept on the right track (could a metaphor be more laboured?), and so the town’s people would watch when he was about to go off the rails and in among the flowers and keep him on track by waving big red flags. A kind of aversion therapy. And finally it work a treat and Tootle grew to be a big train and never again wanted to play among the flowers. (Something that seems increasingly sad the more you think about it) Hard to do a Freudian reading of a story like that – which is part of the problem, because it is also hard to see how a story like that might help someone with the deep psychological challenges that growing up inevitably involves. Hard not to admit that if you have siblings there were times you might have wished them dead, particularly when they seemed to be favoured over you – even if you immediately rejected this wish. But fairy tales are a safe place where such guilty secrets can by played with and learnt from. Tootle leaves no room to play – it is a telling, not a showing.
I really liked this book, in fact, I found it quite confronting in places in ways I really didn’t think I would. Not because of the castration myths or even that Little Red Riding Hood is really about a young girl exploring the dangerous side of her sexuality. But perhaps trying to know where one’s place is within relationships is a lifetime’s task and so something that is never fully finished with. If that is the case then fairy tales are always relevant to us, no matter what our age.
I’ve been thinking a lot about the story of Blue Beard lately after seeing The Best Offer. Bauman talks about this fairy tale in Moral Blindness – how the lesson of the story is that everyone needs somewhere to be able to hide their deepest secrets and that being prepared to accept that people – even people you love very much – should be allowed room to conceal some things from you is actually an act of true love. Our whole society rejects this, of course. Love is utter acceptance and so there can be no secrets between lovers. And although this seems to contradict what I said before about love being about acceptance of all of our scars – well, this is about love and growing and coming to understand ourselves – who said anything about consistency or making sense? You can go on and live happily ever after now.