PAP.TlSAN REVIEW
277
III
I can think of no stronger evidence for the death of storytelling
than Anne Sexton's attempt to rewrite Grimm's fairytales into poetry.
It
has been a long time since poems - or "serious" novels - have
told stories. John G. Niehardt's verse epics of the West are more folk–
lore than literature. Last year's attempt by George Keithly to write
into poetry the story of the Donner Expedition was a predictable
failure. Anne Sexton does no better; in fact,
if
possible, she does
worse, because the reader can refer all too easily to
Grimm's
original
tales, with their mythic simplicity and their barbarous cruelties. Anne
Sexton has managed to reduce Grimm's stories to the level ot anec–
dotes told
in
a thin, flat style. Whatever actual poetry there is
in
the
volume is contained in the lyrical prefaces which Miss Sexton has
appended to her tales. Patches of lively language occur here and
there, as in the preface to "Rumpelstiltskin":
He is a monster of despair.
He is all decay.
He speaks up as tiny as an earphone
with Truman's asexual voice:
I am your dwarf.
I am the enemy within.
I am the boss of your dreams.
No. I am not the law in your mind.
the grandfather of watchfulness.
I am the law of your members,
the kindred of blackness and impulse.
It
is
a shame that Anne Sexton could not get as excited about the
stories themselves. Mere quoting can give only a small idea of the
repetitiousness of her language which resembles nothing so much as
bad prose chopped haphazardly into lengths. Attempting to repro–
duce the simplicity of Grimm's tales, Sexton has neglected their
magic, so that her stories appear hurried, lacking in concentration.
Here is the beginning of "The Little Peasant":
Long ago
there was a peasant
who was poor but crafty.
He was not yet a voyeur.
He had yet to find
the miller's wife
at her game.
