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.