Skip to main content

Two Great Friends

Everything I know about writing, and about my marriage, is captured in James Marshall's "Split Pea Soup."

Martha the hippo enjoys making split pea soup, which creates a massive problem for her friend, George. George doesn't like the soup.

George--worried about others' delicate feelings--keeps his thoughts to himself. He takes the soup and hides it in his shoes. Of course, this doesn't work. Martha spots the sodden shoes, confronts George, and learns the truth.

A happy twist: Martha herself is not so wild about the soup, and really enjoys only the act of *making* it. So she'll just find those pleasures--the thrills of measuring, mixing, testing--by other means. She will make chocolate-chip cookies. The End.

Others have praised--and praised and praised--James Marshall. Can I just join the chorus and ask: Who on Earth would have the imagination and humor to invent a hippo who deliberately hides split pea soup in his shoes?

Is there a more perfect metaphor for the silliness we invent for ourselves--as a way of dodging clear communication?

I particularly love how character is revealed through action: Marshall doesn't *tell* us that George and Martha are wacky and neurotic. Marshall *shows* us the inner lives of his characters--through the crazed soup-making, through the covert business with the shoes.

So, so many serious "I-write-for-adults" novelists could profit from a close study of Marshall.

Happy Reading. Happy Saturday!

https://www.amazon.com/George-Martha-Complete-Stories-Collectors/dp/0618891951/ref=sr_1_1?keywords=george+and+martha&qid=1566649181&s=gateway&sr=8-1

Comments

  1. One minute? Two minutes? Take them to discuss the ingredients before placing in the slow cooker. Keeps everyone's shoes dry.

    ReplyDelete

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

How to Host a Baby

-You have assumed responsibility for a mewling, puking ball of life, a yellow-lab pup. He will spit his half-digested kibble all over your shoes, all over your hard-cover edition of Jennifer Haigh's novel  Faith . He will eat your tables, your chairs, your "I {Heart] Montessori" magnet, placed too low on the fridge. When you try to watch Bette Davis in  Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte , on your TV, your dog will bark through the murder-prologue, for no apparent reason. He will whimper through Lena Dunham's  Girls , such that you have to rewind several times to catch every nuance of Andrew Rannells's ad-libbing--and, still, you'll have a nagging suspicion you've missed something. Your dog will poop on the kitchen floor, in the hallway, between the tiny bars of his crate. He'll announce his wakefulness at 5 AM, 2 AM, or while you and another human are mid-coitus. All this, and you get outside, and it's: "Don't let him pee on my tulips!" When...

Raymond Carver: "What's in Alaska?"

Outside, Mary held Jack's arm and walked with her head down. They moved slowly on the sidewalk. He listened to the scuffing sounds her shoes made. He heard the sharp and separate sound of a dog barking and above that a murmuring of very distant traffic.  She raised her head. "When we get home, Jack, I want to be fucked, talked to, diverted. Divert me, Jack. I need to be diverted tonight." She tightened her hold on his arm. He could feel the dampness in that shoe. He unlocked the door and flipped the light. "Come to bed," she said. "I'm coming," he said. He went to the kitchen and drank two glasses of water. He turned off the living-room light and felt his way along the wall into the bedroom. "Jack!" she yelled. "Jack!" "Jesus Christ, it's me!" he said. "I'm trying to get the light on." He found the lamp, and she sat up in bed. Her eyes were bright. He pulled the stem on the alarm and b...

My Favorite Pop Song

  One thing I admire about Prince is his weirdly pretentious verses: Dream, if you can, a courtyard-- An ocean of violets in bloom. Also: Touch, if you will, my stomach. Feel how it trembles inside. No one else writes like this. Did people try to shoot down these choices? Did a producer say, "We'd like to rethink this one... Touch, if you will, my stomach...."  I can't help but wonder. But it's the chorus that makes this a classic. It's direct and universal--and it ends with that bizarre flourish, the allusion to "the crying doves." (Prince's song was number one in America for quite a while; it defeated Bruce Springsteen's "Dancing in the Dark.") How can you just leave me standing-- Alone in a world that's so cold? Maybe I'm just too demanding. Maybe I'm just like my father--too bold. Maybe you're just like my mother; She's never satisfied. Why do we scream at each other? This is what it sounds like when doves cr...