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Now he had not enough
cabbage for supper
nor clover for his one cow.
So he slaughtered the cow
and took the skin
to town.
It was worth no more
than a dead fly
but he hoped for profit.
PAUL
ZWEIG
The language here is so gray that one cannot work up an interest in
Sexton's crafty peasant who goes jerkily to his fate like a windup toy.
As if to disguise the thinness of her storytelling, Sexton intrudes
endless numbers of mod images into the narrative. Here is a passage
from "Iron Hans," a story about an ugly forest spirit who is trans–
formed into a king:
At the wedding feast
the music stopped suddenly
and a door flew open
and a proud king walked in
and embraced the boy.
Of course
it was Iron Hans.
He had been bewitched
and the boy had broken the spell.
He who slays the warrior
and captures the maiden's heart
undoes the spell.
He who kills his father
and thrice wins his mother
undoes the spell.
Without Thorazine
or benefit of psychotherapy
Iron Hans was transformed.
No need for Master Medical;
no need for electroshock–
merely bewitched all along.
Just as the frog who was a prince.
Just as the madman his simple boyhood.
This sort of language so thoroughly deflates an already flaccid climax,
that the tale drains away before it has ended.
Anne Sexton's stories are filled with hearts like "blackjacks,"
a boy performing "like Joe Dimaggio," days "as dark as the Fi.ihrer's
