Wednesday, July 15, 2020

1442: Donut Eve Granary

Have you ever dreamt something that you could not describe later? I suspect you have. And if so, you know how frustrating it is to try and articulate the dream (or nightmare) to someone else. "In the dream," you will say. "The world was going to end." But that won't convey how mysterious the dream felt, will it? Its brew of apocalyptic flavors can be said to surpass any sensory description. "And in the dream," you might add. "There were monsters trying to eat us." Only that doesn't suffice, does it? In such words, your dream sounds like a mere tawdry horror film; but in reality, it was considerably stranger. Your mind created, or appeared to create, a great myth of abstractions for those dreamed monsters. How can you hope to describe them? Your friend (or whoever is listening) did not dream it and was not there; and if they were not there, they will not understand. You are left in a lonely place.

I am of the opinion — perhaps an unusual one — that few human experiences are stranger nor sadder. I am not saying that a lost dream is observably more tragic than, say, a school shooting or a cancer diagnosis. But it is, you will admit, a different phenomenon. Millions have grieved, and do grieve still, at the terrible headlines which are to be found. But when you leave behind this dream-world of yours, who will remember it but yourself? You are alone, then — at best misunderstood, and perhaps even disbelieved. And that's partly the reason, I think, that we feel something dreadful when reflecting on our dream-lands. In the places we visit (and abandon) by night, I believe we are tasting one of many cold mysteries in the universe. How can we recall a character in a dream who, despite their supposed lack of reality, seemed like an older and truer friend than our real ones? Or how can the stories in these odd worlds (though they lasted for only an evening) leave such a lingering riddle in our hearts? It is as though, in some other web of reality, the story truly happened — and perhaps is happening still. When the dream is over, we carry that world in our souls; but we cannot assume that anyone else will understand it. They were not there, for the dream is ours. We are left in a lonely place.

At this point, you may assume I am writing a blog entry about dreams. But my real subject today is a certain kind of story, toward which the topic of dreams is merely a bridge. There is a type of story, you see, called the "Voyage and Return" — thus christened by a well-known scholarly text. Such stories have characters who enter a "rabbit hole" to another world, then (at the end of the story) arrive at home with only the experience to their credit. It is Alice venturing to Wonderland; Dorothy traveling to Oz; Bilbo Baggins climbing the Lonely Mountain, and returning home — alone. And you will notice that these stories, regardless of whether or not they actually concern dreams, end with the same, strange sip of loneliness. For who, but Alice, has seen Wonderland? And who, but Dorothy, knows about Oz? Can anyone relate with Bilbo's lonely journey? Entangled in this story, you'll notice, is that inability to describe a dream. It does not matter if dreams are mentioned or not; it is the very same principle. The hero is fated to be misunderstood, or possibly disbelieved. And by the end of the story, the experience is only a bittersweet keepsake in their conscience. Who can understand them?

I will admit to you that this kind of story — the Voyage and Return — is closer to my own heart, and much likelier to leave an emotional after-taste, than any other in the world. It possesses, I think, an unsettling magic that can be found nowhere else. Whereas I have observed that contemporary audiences are stirred by dystopian and apocalyptic works — that people (at large) are haunted, unnerved, and sentimentally rattled by depictions of plague, totalitarianism, or nuclear war — such, I confess, are my reactions to the Voyage and Return. When I engage with a well-told story of this nature, my emotions are dipped into very strange waters. I am haunted to the extent that my reflections follow me to bed — which, suffice it to say, suggests the nature of my own psychological palate. It is not, for me, the most puzzling notion in the universe that the Holocaust happened, nor that a kitten on TV has had an abusive owner; it is the most puzzling notion in the universe for me that, somehow, certain stories belong only to us. That, by virtue of those stories, we are made to be lonely.

I have often asked myself why the Voyage and Return affects me so. Bruno Bettelheim, who was a child psychologist, said that everyone has reasons for unconscious literary favoritism. I tend to agree, and I'll admit I often feel doomed to a misunderstood (and even disbelieved) existence. Many friends are inclined to think that I am nothing more than an "enigma”— and when I try to convey that I am much simpler than that, it follows of course that I am not to be believed. It was even Christopher Booker, I think, who suggested that romantic singleness is linked with the Voyage and Return — that in such stories is a kind of hero who hasn't yet found his "princess." For in the Voyage and Return, nothing is kept but the experience; if the dream-like adventure lets you find and keep your lover, then your fantasy was (in some respect) not truly left behind. In a way, then, the dream itself is the "princess" that one remembers and thirsts for: the truth and beauty of which you know yourself capable, but which others (outside the dream) think is only your imagination. For rejection is, in essence, to be told that your enterprising self-concept is but a vision of a false world; and such connections are, perhaps, some of the pertinent emotional roots. It is both Cincinnatus (of Rome) and the 1990 Cincinnati Reds: the bumpkin(s) who had all the power in the world for a moment, then returned quietly to their houses. The journey is theirs. It is not anyone else's.

If you are perplexed without a further example, it might interest you to know that my argument itself is the example — that when I explain how I prefer The Hobbit to The Lord of the Rings, for instance, the bewilderment in my listeners is palpable. "I don't understand how you could feel that way," someone might reply — to which I would answer, "Exactly." When I enjoy The Hobbit for the reasons described above, you are not here beside me. It is a lonely opinion to have, just as Bilbo is alone at the end of (and much throughout) his journey. "But The Hobbit was written for children!" someone will say. "A children's book cannot be more profound than a novel for adults!" But if I tried to explain the enchantment of fairy-tales — if I began talking about Christopher Booker, and Jungian psychology, and Bruno Bettelheim, and all the literature devoted to unpacking the deep-seated, archetypal power in those stories written for children — you would probably say, "I don't know what fiddle-faddle you're talking about now, Bill." To which, again, the reply is "Exactly." I cannot share what I have discovered. While I was in Oz, you were off in your living-room; and if you haven't visited this world, then how can I recreate it? It is trying to describe a dream. You were not there.

That is, likewise, why this entry might seem very pointless. If it is all clap-trap to you, then you should be able to see (ironically) the point I am making in the clearest light — that my thoughts are in a very lonely place, and that heroes with a similar problem will scratch some other-worldly itch of mine. But — on a more superficial level — perhaps I am making sense. I do not abandon the prospect of being a more understood, or more "believed," or much less lonely person in the future; but even after that, I don't suspect the Voyage and Return will ever leave my deepest emotional chambers. That is, perhaps, best demonstrated by the mere existence of the paragraphs above. Now whoever is reading, may your day be blessed.

Further Readings:
The Phantom Tollbooth, by Norton Juster: which executes the classic formula masterfully; Spirited Away, by Studio Ghibli: a non-western (and quite aesthetically pleasing) glance at this kind of narrative; Secret of Evermore and Majora's Mask: two excellent examples of how this story can be applied to console gaming; The Bear That Wasn't, by Chuck Jones (ten-minute short, available on YouTube): not the definitive "Voyage and Return" structure, but an extremely relevant glance at the concept of a disbelieved hero; The Love God? starring Don Knotts: arguably not a "Voyage and Return" at all, but a (wildly successful) comedic perspective toward the disbelieved hero.

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