Skip to main content

Wild Things

I'd argue that Arnold Lobel's story "Alone" had a major impact on James Marshall. "Alone" has Frog going off to contemplate his own great happiness. Toad--the worrier--thinks something is wrong. Toad's anxieties grow, disaster ensues, and Frog repairs all damage by giving a speech about his occasional wish for solitude, and about how being alone is not the same as being angry.

This story seems to have led to Marshall's "The Misunderstanding," and I'd say it also led to "The Secret Club." 

In "The Secret Club," Martha spots George sneaking off. "Where to?" she asks, and George, unwisely, states that he is headed for his secret club. Martha doesn't hear every word in that sentence. "I'll join." And yet: "You can't, it's a SECRET club." And yet: "George, you can let ME join you...."

This goes on and on, until Martha forces her way in. George is seated at a desk, conducting official business as president of the Martha Fan Club. "I hope you learned your lesson," says George, gently. And--sheepishly--Martha nods.

Lobel and Marshall have one theme: We can never really know other people. But the two writers have two approaches to this theme. Lobel presents his evidence in a gentle, realistic way. For Marshall, the emphasis is on the heightened, the comical, the ludicrous.

I like both approaches. (Right now, my heart is really with Marshall.) I do wish that Marshall and Lobel had collaborated on something--anything--before both men died.

*P.S. Correction. I just discovered Lobel's "Alone" came out AFTER "The Secret Club." (Both Lobel and Marshall were publishing in the seventies, with some Martha stories following some Toad stories, and vice versa.) I do know Marshall includes Lobel--explicitly--in the story "The Special Gift." I'd say the current of influence ran both ways.

Comments

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...

The Death of Bergoglio

  It's frustrating for me to hear Bergoglio described as "the less awful pope"--because awful is still awful. I think I get fixated on ideas of purity, which can be juvenile, but putting that aside, here are some things that Bergoglio could have done and did not. (I'm quoting from a survivor of sexual abuse at the hands of the Church.) He could levy the harshest penalty, excommunication, against a dozen or more of the most egregious abuse enabling church officials. (He's done this to no enablers, or predators for that matter.) He could insist that every diocese and religious order turn over every record they have about suspected and known abusers to law enforcement. Francis could order every prelate on the planet to post on his diocesan website the names of every proven, admitted and credibly accused child molesting cleric. (Imagine how much safer children would be if police, prosecutors, parents and the public knew the identities of these potentially dangerous me...

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...