|
By Laura Riding
A new, enlarged edition 1935;1982; Persea Books, 1994 |
"...unique and uniquely delightful .... One has to suspect these modern fairy tales of being perhaps quite a lot wiser than the ordinary realistic novel." --Rebecca West (1935)
"...one of the most important works of twentieth century fiction .... When the history of modern literature is written some years from now, it will have to take [Progress of Stories] into account...." --John Ashbury, New York Times Book Review
This expanded edition of the 1935 classic collection includes the original eighteen stories, which "progress" from "Stories of Lives" to "Stories of Ideas" to "Nearly True Stories," plus twelve more early stories and one late story, all selected and arran ged by Laura (Riding) Jackson in 1982. Though the principle of all her writing is that "words are for truth," she has said these "made-up" stories are designed to appeal to our universal love of storytelling, "the zest, the yearning, for the true."
Privateness
by Laura Riding
They have a small bedroom. The bed is small, but they are not fat and they love each other. She sleeps with her knees neatly inside his knees and when they get up they do not get in each other's way. She says, "Put on the shirt with the blue patterns like little spotted plates," and he says, "Put on the white skirt that you wear the purple jacket with." They have no prejudices against colours but like what they have.
Their other room is not larger, but it is cleverly arranged, with a table for this and a table for that. He makes the sandwiches at one table while at another she writes a letter to a friend who needs money. She writes promptly to say they have no money a nd sends their love. It is not true that they have no money; but they are both out of work and must be careful with the little money they have. They are thinking of renting an office and selling advice on all subjects, for they are very intelligent people . The idea seems like a joke, and they talk about it jokingly; but they mean it.
They go to a large park. It costs little to get there and they know the very tree they want to sit under. It is more like a business trip than a holiday. They eat their lunch in a methodical way and afterwards look through the grass around them as a mothe r looks through her child's hair to see if it is clean. Then they think about their affairs and change their minds many times.
They walk about on the grass and feel sensible, but when they walk on paved paths they feel they are wasting their time. Finally they decide to commit suicide. They talk about it in natural tones because they may really do it--and they may not. There is a n oval pond in the park with solemn brown ducks paddling in it, and they sit down by it, sorry for the ducks paddling in it, and they sit down by it, sorry for the ducks but not for themselves.
They go out of the park at a different entrance from the one they came in by. There are strange restaurants all around they would never think of eating in. It makes them feel lonely, so they speed home in a taxi, though they can ill afford this. At home t here is the electric light, which makes them look at each other peculiarly. It is worth going out to be able to come home and look at each other in such a way--not a loving way or a tragic way, but as if to say, "It doesn't interest us what our story is-- that is for other people."
Mademoiselle Comet
by Laura Riding Jackson
We, then, having complete power, removed all the amusements that did not amuse us. We were then at least not hopelessly amused. We inculcated in ourselves an amusability not qualified by standards developed from amusements that failed to amuse. Our standa rds, that is, were impossibly high.
And yet we were not hopeless. We were ascetically humourous, in fact. And so when Mademoiselle Comet came among us we were somewhat at a loss. For Mademoiselle Comet was a really professional entertainer. She came from where she came to make us look.
But Mademoiselle Comet was different. We could not help looking. But she more than amused. She was a perfect oddity. The fact that she was entertaining had no psychological connection with the fact that we were watching her. She was creature of pure plea sure. She was a phenomenon whose humourous slant did not sympathetically attack us; being a slant of independence, not comedy. Her long bright hair was dead. She could not be loved.
Therefore Mademoiselle Comet became our sole entertainment. And she more than amused; we loved her. Having complete power, we placed her in a leading position, where we could observe her better. And we were not amused. We were still ascetically humourous. Thus we aged properly. We did not, like mirth-stricken children, die. Rather we could not remember that we had ever been alive. We too had long bright dead hair. Mademoiselle Comet performed, and we looked, always a last time. We too performed, became re ally professional entertainers. Our ascetically humourous slant became more and more a slant of independence, less and less a slant of rejected comedy. With Mademoiselle Comet we became a troupe, creatures of pure pleasure, more than amused, more than amu sing, looker-entertainers, Mademoiselle Comet's train of cold light. We were the phenomenal word fun, Mademoiselle Comet leading. Fun was our visible property. We appeared, a comet and its tail, with deadly powerfulness to ourselves. We collided. We swallowed and were swallowed, more than amused. Mademoiselle Comet, because of the position we had put her in with our complete power, alone survived. Her long bright dead hair covered her. Our long bright dead hair covered us. Her long bright dead ha ir alone survived; universe of pure pleasure, never tangled, never combed. She could not be loved. We loved her. Our long bright hair alone survived. We alone survived, having complete power. Our standards, that is, were impossibly high; and the brilliant Mademoiselle Comet, a professional entertainer, satisfied them. Our standards alone survived, being impossibly high.
Copyright © 1997 by The Board of Literary Management of the late Laura (Riding) Jackson
Updated 11 June 1997 || ottotwo@email.unc.edu