stories and foxes

start time: 11:57 am.

A few weeks ago, after just finishing an incredible short story collection by our at-the-moment-favorite short story writer, George Saunders, Maurice looked at me and said, "Ya know? I've started to think about how central stories and storytelling is to what we're interested in and with what we want to do." My eyes opened wide in that way they always do, and I leaned forward in excitement, grabbing his hand with mine, "yeah, I know!"

And then we began to list it all:
-Maurice's work at the Texas After Violence Project
-my love of This American Life
-our obsession with the New Yorker (and Maurice's aspiration to write for them some day)
-our need to explore the unknown unknown of America
-our recent move to Cairo
-my fascination with religion
-Maurice's recent interest in journalism
-our post-graduate rhythm involving reading as much fiction as possible
-my borderline out-of-control need to always have a few books on me "just in case"
-the way we read to each other on long drives

(I could go on, but the list is quite endless.)

stories.
It's a short and simple word whose bookend "s"es support hundreds of variations and interpretations. There's fiction and non-fiction, fairytales and folklore; stories for children and those for adults; ones that make us laugh, others that make us cry; those of mystery and drama; there are some that are short, some that are never-ending; stories of exile and return; stories of how we met and fell in love; stories of nationalism and triumph, struggle and perseverance; stories that represent reality, others that are completely imaginary; stories that are factual and true, stories that are comprised solely of lies; stories that are broadcast in the news, others on daytime TV; stories of hope and dreams of a bright future, and those of the end times.

stories.
Like the dozens of floors in a skyscraper, each of these categories is different, distinct. Though possibly related, each is separated from one another. Yet they are all connected by the sinews and veins of stairways and elevators, effortlessly transporting us through space and time, allowing us to travel from one experience to another, from one world to the next, from my reality to yours. Though it is by no means a novel idea, stories--how we think about them, how we tell them, how we listen to them, how we re-tell them and change them--are how we come to know ourselves, how we relate to another, and how we come to understand the world. It is a ritual relevant to people of all cultures and times, connecting us with those in our present, past, and future.

jesus spoke in parables so that the people would understand.
And so do we. But whether we are telling tales or writing memoirs, the reality of the story is irrelevant. What is so important, however, is how we interpret the stories, let them travel through the tunnels and passageways of our memory and experience, how we make them our own. At a recent lecture at the American University of Cairo, Lebanese novelist Elias Khoury said that the best stories are those in which its author is forgotten. Like the Thousand and One Nights, fables, and folklores, these stories become the readers'. The tales are no longer property of the author, but instead belong to those who read and listen to them, interpret them, and make them relevant to their lives. To him, Bab As-Shems (Gate of the Sun), though published in 1998, is an unfinished book. As it is read, and re-read, it is changing, organically evolving into something different and new.

Mr. Fox.
Helen Oyeyemi's Mr. Fox beautifully plays with storytelling. Based on the English folktale "Bluebeard," the novel is, essentially, a complicated love story between an arrogant, controlling, emotionally absent author, St. John Fox, his delicate, timid, and self doubting wife, Daphne Fox, and his imagined muse, Mary Foxe, set in Depression Era America. Though we follow these characters throughout a narrative, feel them suffer and grow, readers are not confined to them, nor to a particular place or time, nor to a specific version of "Bluebeard."

Other than hearing the title mentioned throughout my life, I had no personal connection with the story of Bluebird. To be honest, I knew absolutely nothing about it. But after some wikipedia reading and google-ing, here are the basics of the tale:

Bluebeard is one of the wealthiest men in all the land, though he is blemished by his long, hideous, blue beard. His physical shortcomings were not overcome by his riches, however, and he was married many times to many beautiful women.

But each of them disappeared. No one knows exactly where and why they left, but Bluebeard is always suspect. One day, he asks to marry a fair young maiden, Mary. After touring his palace and is wooed by his fine charms, she accepts the proposal, leaving her beloved sister behind.

Shortly after their wedding, however, Bluebeard must leave town urgently. He gives Mary a key to each room, telling her that she may explore the treasures and mysteries of their endlessly huge home. Yet before his departure, he gives her a final key, telling her that it unlocks a room in the cellar, the only room which is forbidden to her. Immediately after he leaves, she rushes to the cellar, where she finds the skeletons of Bluebeard's former wives, dismembered and arranged gruesomely. She drops the key in a vat of blood, which she is unable to wipe clean.

He returns to find the blood-stained key, and knows instantly of her sin. He has decided that she will experience the same fate as her predecessors, but feels mercy upon the poor girl, and sends her to the highest tower so that she may have one final prayer. Her sister hears her cries for distress, and rushes to the palace with her brothers. The sisters are reunited, and the brothers slay Bluebeard before he is able to do his deed.

...

As a writer, St. John Fox writes. He spends hours in his study, ignores his wife, and is tempted by his seductive mistress. But what he writes, isn't simply written. Instead it becomes reality. The "other woman" in his life is his own creation, but a creation with her own free will. She ignites chaos in the lives of St. John and Daphne, experiences all-too-relatable human emotions, and transports herself and St. John to different times and lands, to the stories he has written and to those which will come to exist in his future, our present.

Readers are similarly transported from place to time. With each chapter--many which are named after the various versions of Bluebeard--Oyeyemi introduces us to a new narrator and voice, a new set of characters, a new setting, and a different time. We jump from Depression Era America to mid-century France; from a Prep School in London to war torn Iraq. And while the style and point of view varies from chapter to chapter, each story is connected. Some characters transcend their own stories and take a new form in another. Certain plots and situations mirror those in previous chapters, and the image of a fox looms throughout every tale. The narrative of the love triangle is non-linear yet ever present, alluded to throughout.

But aside from these basic links, each story also evokes the sensation of a fairytale or fable. Fantastical elements (yet those which are always grounded in reality), abrupt endings, unclear but seemingly present morals, and a quest for love and hope suggest to readers the power of stories, of folktales and fables. Like certain religious traditions, they are something if not completely recognizable, vaguely familiar to each of us, evoking similar sensations within us all, regardless of time or place.

Through these various stories, readers are forced to confront issues of male emotional limits, female empowerment, conflicting realities, and our fear of past regrets. As we discover each Bluebeard's skeletons in his closet, we have a look into Mr. Fox's mind. It's full of stories--and of creations--but it is also unable to ground itself in the present. Is Oyeyemi suggesting the same for all writers, for herself?

After ten chapters, he novel ends perfectly, written as if it were a storyteller performing an age-old epic for an attentive audience. The storyteller divides this final section into three, telling us the stories of two types of foxes, and we come to personally know this section's characters: they become "our fox" and "our girl." This narrator in this section is distinct from those in others. She flawed, as she makes mistakes and forgets details, but is aware of herself and her audience. This awareness is most seen in the final section, closing the book:

"I almost forgot to mention another fox I know of--a very wicked fox. But you are tired of hearing about foxes now, so I won't go on."

And neither will I. But I hope I've inspired you to read it.

end time: 1:22 pm.