Theodore Sturgeon: "It," a short story

Theodore Sturgeon:  "It"

As I began reading, I found myself doing something strange:  I was pausing more often than I usually do when reading prose.  The more I looked at it, the more it struck me as poetry: a poem about the birth of a monster.  These are the first two paragraphs of the story, as I saw them.  Below I have added the same two paragraphs as printed in the version I have.

It walked in the woods.

It was never born.
                            It existed.

Under the pine needles
                            the fires burn,
                            deep and smokeless in the mold.

In heat and darkness and decay
                            there is growth.

There is life
                            and there is growth.

It grew,
            but it was not alive.

It walked unbreathing 
                             through the woods.
                                   and  thought and saw 
                                   and was hideous and strong
                                   and it was not born
                                   and it did not live.

It grew
              and moved about 
                                 without living.


It crawled out of the darkness
                          and hot damp mold
                                  into the cool of a morning.
It was huge.

It was lumped  and crusted
                         with its own hateful substances,
                         and pieces of it dropped off
                         as it went its way,
                                      dropped off and lay writhing
                                      and stilled, and sank putrescent

into the forest loam.                    
                                      
-      -     -     -     -     -   

Now, the prose version as Theodore Sturgeon wrote it:

It walked in the woods.

It was never born.  It existed.  Under the pine needles the fires burn, deep and smokeless in the mold. In heat and darkness and decay there is growth.  There is life and there is growth. It grew, but it was not alive.  It walked unbreathing through the woods. and  thought and saw and was hideous and strong and it was not born and it did not live.  It grew and moved about without living.


It crawled out of the darkness and hot damp mold into the cool of a morning.  It was huge.  It was lumped  and crusted  with its own hateful substances, and pieces of it dropped off as it went its way, dropped off and lay writhing and stilled, and sank putrescent into the forest loam.                     




What do you think?   Is there a difference, aside from structure of course, between the two formats?  What is that difference, if any?                        


Several commentators have remarked on possible sources for "It," one being Frankenstein's monster, in which there is a scene similar to one in Sturgeon's tale and the other being a golem.   I think there might be a third source:  Genesis.


"7.  And the LORD GOD formed man of the dust of the ground and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life; and man became a living soul."

.     .     .     .     .

21.  And the LORD GOD caused a deep sleep to fall upon Adam, and he slept:  and he took one of his ribs, and closed up the flesh instead thereof;

22  And the rib, which the LORD GOD had taken from the man, made he a woman, and brought her to the man."

Genesis 2: 7, 21-22
Authorized King James Version


In Genesis, all the LORD required was a rib, whereas Sturgeon's creation of clay needed a complete skeleton.

The monster is a strange one, innocent and naive.  In its innocence it is destructive, but it is neither deliberately evil nor cruel; it is not immoral, but amoral.  It has no sense of right and wrong.  And this, not so much its shape or appearance, is what makes it a monster.






SPOILER





As usual, Sturgeon provides a little surprise, an unexpected turn to the tale.  And, in this story, it's the demise of the monster.  What would be expected is a climactic struggle, with the monster resisting to the very end, perhaps even killing one or two more in its death throes.  But Sturgeon goes a different route with a very different end for his monster.   First is the "poetic" format, and at the end, the prose format of Sturgeon




The monster
             lay in the water.
It neither liked
                        nor
                               disliked this new element.
It rested on the bottom,
                     its massive head 
                               a foot beneath the surface,
                                       and it curiously considered the facts
                                                                           that it had garnered.
There was the little humming noise of Babe's voice
                                               that sent the monster questing
                                                                                       into the cave.
There was the black material
                                    of the brief case
                                               that resisted so much more
                                                      than green things when he tore it.
There was the little two-legged one
                        who sang and brought him near,
                                         and who screamed when he came.
There was this new cold moving thing
                                            he had fallen into.
It was washing his body away.
                       That had never happened before.
                                                               That was interesting.
The monster decided
                                to stay
                                       and observe this new thing.
It felt no urge to save itself;
                             it could only be curious.



The brook came laughing
                      down out of its spring,
                              ran down from its source
                                      beckoning to the sunbeams
                                               and embracing freshets and
                                                                        helpful brooklets.
It shouted and played
                         with streaming little roots,
                                  and nudged the minnows
                                                and pollywogs about
                                                              in its tiny backwaters.
It was a happy brook.
                     When it came to the pool
                                    by the cloven rock
                                                it found the monster there,
                                                                             and plucked at it.
It soaked the foul substances
                   and smoothed and melted the molds,
                                       and the water below the thing
                                              eddied darkly with its diluted matter.
It was a thorough brook.
                       It washed all it touched,
                                                        persistently.
Where it found filth,
                   it removed filth;
                            and if there were layer on layer of foulness,
                                              then layer by foul layer it was removed.
It was a good brook.
                   It did not mind
                             the poison of the monster,
                                                    but took it up
                                                            and thinned it and spread it
                                                      in little rings
                                                              round rocks downstream,
                                                                                    and let it drift
                                                      to the rootlets
                                                                   of water plants,
                                                                           that they might grow
greener
     and lovelier.

And the monster melted.

The monster lay in the water.  It neither liked nor disliked this new element.  It rested on the bottom, its massive head a foot beneath the surface, and it curiously considered the facts that it had garnered.  There was the little humming noise of Babe's voice that sent the monster questing into the cave.  There was the black material of the brief case that resisted so much more than green things when he tore it.  There was the little two-legged one who sang and  brought him near, and who screamed when he came.  There was this new cold moving thing he had fallen into.  It was washing his body away.  That had never happened before.  That was interesting.  The monster decided to stay and observe this new thing.  It felt no urge to save itself;  it could only be curious.

The brook came laughing down out of its spring, ran down from its source beckoning to the sunbeams and embracing freshets and helpful brooklets.  It shouted and played with streaming little roots, and nudged the minnows and pollywogs about in its tiny backwaters.  It was a happy brook.  When it came to the pool by the cloven rock it found the monster there, and plucked at it.  It soaked the foul substances and smoothed and melted the molds, and the water below the thing eddied darkly with its diluted matter.  It was a thorough brook.  It washed all it touched, persistently.  Where it found filth, it removed filth; and if there were layer on layer of foulness, then layer by foul layer it was removed.  It was a good brook.  It did not mind the poison of  the monster, but took it up and thinned it and spread it in little rings round rocks downstream, and let it drift to the rootlets of water plants, that they might grow greener and lovelier.  And the monster melted.
 

There is a little more after this, but I will leave that for you to discover, if you so choose to read this charming little horror tale.

Harper Lee: Go Set a Watchman, conclusion

Harper Lee:  Go Set a Watchman
 

Several days ago I finished Go Set a Watchman, and I can see why some would call it a mess, probably because it can't be resolved with To Kill a Mockingbird.  But, in my opinion, that's the reader's problem, not the novel's problem or failing.

Jean Louise has three confrontations: one with her Uncle Jack, one with her father, and one with Henry,  her possible/potential fiance.  It was not an easy process overall, for Jean Louise had grown up in the South, and she does share many of the political beliefs regarding States Rights and also the people's rights to live their lives as they wish, free from government interference (mostly Federal Government interference for nobody seems to be concerned about State Government interference which is just as intrusive, if not more so).  


I find the resolution to be very satisfying, because it's the resolution the novel has been pointing to from the beginning.  That is, the resolution is satisfying if one realizes that the novel is about Jean Louise and not about Atticus or Maycomb or civil rights or any of the great issues of the day.  They are there, they are important, they provide the texture to the times Jean Louis lives in and the demands made upon her as a person, but they are not what the novel is about.  I will repeat: the novel is about Jean Louise.

I have also come to the conclusion that To Kill a Mockingbird is a myth, a myth created by Jean Louise about her own childhood, the Myth of a Golden Age, long past.  Jean Louise believes in that myth, and so one day she discovers that she couldn't remain in that myth.  The real world is waiting and she must act. Perhaps the myth is related to that bit of conventional wisdom that one can't go "home" again because sometimes that "home" has changed and sometimes because that "home" never existed.

If you find my comments short, brief,  and less than satisfying--Good.  Go read Go Set a Watchman and then come back and argue with me. 


I stated earlier that I thought that Go Set a Watchman could turn out to be one of the ten best novels that I read in 2015, and now, after having finishing the novel, I still believe the same.   Moreover, it deserves to be read again. 

Harper Lee: Go Set a Watchman, Pt. 2

Harper Lee:  Go Set a Watchman

I have now finished approximately two-thirds of the book.  It covers the period of roughly twenty-four hours that began when Jean Louise first discovered that her father was reading racist material and that he and Henry belong to the Citizen's Council, of which her father was one of the directors.


The meeting is held in the courthouse, and Jean Louise climbs into the balcony where she remembers, long ago, watching her father defend a young black man from a false charge of rape. It is this reminiscence that is most likely the source for To Kill a Mockingbird.  In this version, though, Atticus Finch wins the case, setting the young black man free.

Now she hears a speaker spew forth the most vile racist nonsense and trash, not much different, unfortunately,  than what one can find on the Internet on many websites today.  She is shocked, both by what the man is saying and that her father is sitting up there, condoning what was being said.  And, Henry?, whom she was considering marrying, he is a staunch member of the council according to her aunt Alexandra.

Later, at home, she finds Alexandra in complete agreement about the ingratitude of the blacks, though she uses language that is far more gentle. The next day she visits Calpurnia, the black housekeeper who raised her and her brother Jem when her mother died.  There is a polite welcome only, for there is now a wall between blacks and whites.

The major "problem" is the NAACP which comes in, stirring up the blacks, making them dissatisfied and, worse, ungrateful for all the whites had done to help and protect blacks from themselves.  Blacks no longer know their place and are no longer happy with being second class citizens. 

At this point, Jean Louise has not yet confronted her father and Henry about their beliefs.  Part of this comes from her own confusion.  How could such a change take place in two people she thought she knew and loved?  Or was it that she had been blind all this time, and only now awakened to see the world of Maycomb as it really is?  She swears to herself that, in all the years she spent growing up, she had never heard anyone refer to blacks by the "N" word.  And now, she has heard it maybe a dozen times or more in the last 24 hours.  Everything she believed about her past life in Maycomb with her father and her friends and relatives has now been called into question in the past twenty-four hours. 

This is speculation, of course, but I expect that the last third of the novel will tell us about Jean Louise' confrontation with her father and with Henry. 

I am also beginning to get the feeling that I have been reading the novel with a preconceived idea of what the novel is about.  Again, I'm just guessing, of course, since I haven't finished the novel, and the last third may prove me wrong.  My initial focus has been on Atticus Finch, to try to understand what happened, to understand the disparity between the Atticus of  To Kill a Mockingbird and the Atticus of Go Set a Watchman. Perhaps I have missed the real core of the novel: it just may be that the novel is really about Jean Louise, and while what Atticus says and does is important, the novel is about her and her response to the destruction of her myth.  

While most, no doubt, have been aware of the  true focus of the novel, I'm a bit slow, but I occasionally get there, sometimes long after the train has pulled out. The real problem is that I have to read and evaluate Go Set a Watchman on its own terms and not try to fit it in with TKaM.  This is not easy for the novel and the film version of  TKaM  came out first, and I have read the novel and watched the film a number of times, most recently being last year.

If there's any "fitting in" to be done, it must be the other way around.  To Kill a Mockingbird must be reconciled, if possible, with Go Set a Watchman.    I know that's obvious, but I'm a bit slow.

Time to settle down and finish Go Set a Watchman.

Harper Lee: Go Set a Watchman, Pt. 1

Harper Lee:  Go Set a Watchman

I am now a bit over 1/3 of the way through the novel.  It is, as purported, an account of  Jean Louise' trip home.  I keep wanting to call her Scout.  Her father, Atticus Finch, is suffering from arthritis, and she wants to see for herself just how bad it is.

We meet her Aunt Alexandra; Henry, the man in love with her and who has asked her to marry him; Atticus, her father; and various other inhabitants of  Maycomb.  There are, as should be expected, many "remember when" and "that was the time" reminiscences, and much catching up on what has happened since her last visit.  We also learn about her relationship with Henry and about Dill, who is based on Harper Lee's friend, Truman Capote, and, of course, a bit of the history of Maycomb itself.

I am now at the point when Jean Louise discovers that Atticus reads derogatory material about blacks and that he and Henry are on their way to attend a Citizen's Council meeting (see note below).  Atticus is on the board of directors, and Henry is one of its "staunchest members," according to Alexandra.  "Not that we really need one.  Nothing's happened here in Maycomb yet, but it's always wise to be prepared," Alexandra reassures Jean Louise.  Jean Louise is shocked to hear this and is now on her way to the Citizen's Council meeting to see for herself what is going on.
 
I have read several derogatory reviews and heard about others, including one that called the novel "a mess."  I don't see it, at least so far.  Perhaps the "mess" comes later.  On the other hand, it just may be that I'm insensitive to those flaws in the novel which are obvious to more astute readers who are trained to analyze and dissect literary works.

Well, there's still almost 2/3 of the novel to go.




From the Wikipedia article

"The Citizens' Councils (also referred to as White Citizens' Councils) were an associated network of  white supremacist organizations in the United States, concentrated in the South. The first was formed on July 11, 1954.   After 1956, it was known as the Citizens' Councils of America. With about 60,000 members across the United States, mostly in the South, the groups were founded primarily to oppose racial integration of schools, but they also supported segregation of public facilities during the 1950s and 1960s. Members used severe intimidation tactics including economic boycotts, firing people from jobs, propaganda, and occasionally violence against civil-rights activists.
By the 1970s, following passage of federal civil rights legislation in the mid-1960s and enforcement of constitutional rights by the federal government, the influence of the Councils had waned considerably. The successor organization to the White Citizens' Councils is the  Council of Conservative Citizens, founded in 1985.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Citizens'_Councils

Wallace Stevens: The Night-Wind of August

The Night-Wind of August

The night-wind of August
Is like an old mother to me.
It comforts me.
I rest in it,
As one would rest,
If one could,
Once again--
It moves about, quietly
And attentively.
Its old hands touch me.
Its breath touches me. 
But sometimes its breath is a little cold,
Just a little,
And I know
That it is only the night-wind.

-- Wallace Stevens --
from Art and Nature: An Illustrated Anthology of Nature Poetry


I rest in it,
As one would rest,
If one could,
Once again--

Does this suggest that his mother has died?  He would "rest" if he "could/Once again" which I see as saying that he can no longer do this, which leaves the night-wind as a substitute and perhaps a reminder.

It is that "breath" that is a "little cold" that I wonder about.   The comfort of having an old mother attentive once again is qualified by that breath that is a little cold.  Is that the cold of the grave?  

As usual, I find Stevens' poetry to be intriguing as well as enigmatic.

The Rubaiyat: 2nd Edition, Quatrain XLVIII

This is another quatrain that FitzGerald introduced in his Second Edition and which remained through the succeeding editions.


Second Edition:  Quatrain XLVIII

When You and I behind the Veil are past,
Oh, but the long long while the World shall last,
     Which of our Comings and Departures heeds
As much as Ocean of a pebble-cast.



Fifth Edition:  Quatrain XLVII 

When You and I behind the Veil are past,
Oh, but the long, long while the World shall last,
     Which of our Comings and Departures heeds
As the Sea's self should heed a pebble-cast.


Aside from a comma added in line 2, perhaps correcting a printing error, the major change occurred in the fourth line where the term "the Ocean"  became "the Sea's self."  My opinion is that he should have left that line alone.  The "Ocean" is perfectly clear whereas I'm not sure about what is meant by "the Sea's self."

The meaning, as far as I can see, is still the same.  In the World, which will last long after we have died, our arrival and departure will have about as much effect as a pebble thrown into the Ocean.   This carries forth the theme introduced in the previous quatrain, that of our insignificance in the Universe:  there are millions just like us and we were not especially noticed when we appeared nor will we be missed when we leave.  In other words, we are not the center of the universe nor is the universe created solely as a testing device.

Anthony Powell: A Dance to the Music of Time--the dance is over.

Sad to say, but I've finished Anthony Powell's magnificent work--A Dance to the Music of Time.  The music has stopped, the lights are dimming, the musicians are slowly putting away their instruments, and the place is slowly emptying out.  But, soon the lights will come back on and the musicians will return and, once again, dancers will gather on the floor for the ritual goings and comings, arrivals and departures, losings and findings.

As I have mentioned before, this is a four volume work.  Each volume contains three novels, approximately 250 pages in length.  The first two volumes cover the period between WWI and WWII.  The third volume covers WWII and the four is of the post-war period, up until the 80s perhaps.  Powell is not very good at providing dates.

I have seen several different names applied to the volumes: one is Spring, Summer, Autumn, and Winter.  I had found a well-used copy of  Spring and purchased that on the strength of the BBC adaption of the work.  I finished the first novel and decided to get the complete set. I found a new set, in which the volumes were labelled 1st Movement, 2nd Movement, 3rd Movement, and 4th Movement.  This new labeling scheme seems more appropriate considering the musical nature of the title.

A Dance to the Music of Time is a first person narrative, the voice that of Nicholas Jenkins, Nick to friends and relatives.  The work is not solely about Nick, but about Nick and his friends, relatives, and acquaintances.   In the first novel, Nick is in his last year of school and we meet him and those about him, mostly his schoolmates as they look forward to moving on to the University the following year.

As in the real world, Nick loses track of some of his friends but maintains contact with others.  He also meets and makes new friends and friends of friends and relatives, both his and those of his friends.  We also meet some of his teachers.  This is the format of the work: Nick meets people, loses some, gains others, and then, some who have gone, suddenly return in unexpected ways, and places.  Some change, some seemingly do not as Nick goes through the university and then into the world to establish his career as a writer, and in the various occupations to support himself.  This continues through his military commitment as WWII breaks out, where he meets old friends and relatives in the military.

After having read the work, my impression is that Nick is a rather ordinary person who knows some original and unusual people, the strangest of whom is Kenneth Widmerpool.  No matter what Nick does and where he goes, Widmerpool always manages to appear in some way.  Widmerpool is one of the most fascinating characters I have ever encountered in English fiction.  There may be others whom I haven't met, but for now, Kenneth Widmerpool stands alone.

I may be doing Nick Jenkins a disservice, but when I do the next reading, I will spend more time observing Nick to see what I missed.   But, it just may be that Powell deliberately keeps Nick at a low level because he wanted the focus to be on those around Nick.  If Nick were too striking a character, readers may be distracted and miss Powell's theme of the recurring or cyclic nature of life, or perhaps a spiral would be more apt than a cycle.  For while various characters appear, disappear, and return in Nick's life, they have changed and while their interactions may resemble past interactions in many ways, they are never the same.  

This is about all I can say at the present, for there's too much here for me to make more sense of it and this, at best, can't be more than a superficial commentary.   Perhaps after a second reading, I may be able to be more intelligible and coherent.  For now, let's end this with the penultimate paragraph of the final novel.

Powell concludes with a quotation from Robert Burton's The Anatomy of Melancholy.  Although it isn't initially apparent, it is appropriate because Nick has been writing a book about Burton and his works and because there's a shift in tone at the end of the paragraph.  At first, the quotation consists of a series of lists, but then it changes into something quite different.  The quotation is all in paragraph form, but when I think there's a change in tone, I change the format:

"Now come tidings of weddings, maskings, mummeries, entertainments, jubilees.  .  .trophies, triumphs, revels, sports, plays .  .  . treasons, cheating tricks, robberies, enormous villainies in all kinds, funerals, burials, deaths of Princes, new discoveries, expeditions;

now comical, then tragical matters.

Today we hear of new Lords and officers created,
tomorrow of some great men deposed,
and then again of some fresh honours conferred;

one is let loose, another imprisoned,

one purchaseth, another breaketh;

he thrives, his neighbor turns bankrupt;

now plenty, then again dearth and famine;

one runs, another rides,

wrangles, laughs, weeps, &c."

-- Robert Burton --
from Anatomy of Melancholy


Does this sound familiar to you?

Some Short Stuff from the Early Greeks

Just some short poems and aphorisms from pre-Christian era Greece.  Nothing heavy here.


Fox knows many
Hedgehog one 
Solid trick.

-- Archilochus --
trans.  Guy Davenport

I suppose I've missed the whole point here, but I like the fox better than the hedgehog.  I've known humans who are like foxes--active, mobile, inventive--and I've know humans who are like hedgehogs--solid, immovable, imperturbable--and I like the foxes for things happen when they are around.  In a situation controlled by hedgehogs, little if anything new happens, and what little energy is expended is spent on maintaining the status quo.




Mercenary

I don't give a damn if some Thracian ape strut
Proud of that first-rate shield the bushes got.
Leaving it was hell, but in a tricky spot
I kept my hide intact. Good shield can be bought.

-- Archilochus --
trans. Stuart Silverman

He's definitely not a Spartan or a poor Spartan at best, for their motto was to come home carrying their shields or on it.



Thermopylae

Go tell the Spartans, thou that passest by,
That here, obedient to their laws, we lie.

-- Simonides --
trans. by William Lyle Bowles

True Spartans here.



Because of these men's courage, no smoke rose
Skyward from Tegea's burning.  They chose
To leave their children the broad land's township green
With freedom, while in the front line they went down.

-- Simonides --
trans. by Peter Jay

Perhaps not Spartans, but certainly closer in behavior than to the mercenary mentioned earlier.



The poet Hipponax lies here.
In justice, this is only fair.
His lines were never dark or deep.
Now he enjoys  (like his readers) sleep.

-- Theocritus --
trans. by Fred Chappell

Hipponax doesn't seem to have been loved by all.



I've never feared the setting of the Pleiades
or the hidden reefs beneath the waves
or even the lightning at sea

like I dread friends who drink with me
and remember what we say.

-- Antipater of Thessalonica --
trans. by Sam Hamill

Dangerous friends to have. 


All poems are from World Poetry: The Anthology of Verse from Antiquity to Our Time.
edited by Katherine Washburn and John S. Major, with Clifton Fadiman as General Editor