The Secret Life of Stories
Michael Bérubé
The Secret Life of Stories
From Don Quixote to Harry Potter, How Understanding Intellectual Disability Transforms the Way We Read
NEW YORK UNIVERSITY PRESS
New York and London
NEW YORK UNIVERSITY PRESS
New York and London
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© 2016 by New York University
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ISBN: 978-1-4798-2361-1
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In memory of Anne Clarke Bérubé
(1935–2013)
We live immersed in narrative, recounting and reassessing the meaning of our past actions, anticipating the outcome of our future projects, situating ourselves at the intersection of several stories not yet completed. The narrative impulse is as old as our oldest literature: myth and folktale appear to be stories we recount in order to explain and understand where no other form of explanation will work. The desire and the competence to tell stories also reach back to an early stage in the individual’s development, to about the age of three, when a child begins to show the ability to put together a narrative in coherent fashion and especially the capacity to recognize narratives, to judge their well-formedness. Children quickly become virtual Aristotelians, insisting upon any storyteller’s observation of the “rules,” upon proper beginnings, middles, and particularly ends.
—Peter Brooks, Reading for the Plot
Contents
Acknowledgments xi
Introduction: Stories 1
CHAPTER ONE Motive 33
CHAPTER TWO Time 73
CHAPTER THREE Self-Awareness 117
Conclusion: Minds 167
Notes 195
Works Cited 207
Index 215
About the Author 223
Acknowledgments
Many thanks to Phyllis Eisenson Anderson, Christopher Robinson, and Susan Squier for reading this book in manuscript almost as soon as it was written; thanks also to Chris Castiglia, Chris Reed, and Anne McCarthy, dear colleagues at Penn State, for reading the “Motive” chapter as part of our collaborative writing group. A special thanks to Richard Powers, for reading the manuscript with painstaking care and for not minding my line about Western Union in my brief discussion of his 2006 novel The Echo Maker. My colleagues in disability studies have been discussing bits and pieces of this book as I have stitched them together over the years, and I need especially to thank hosts and interlocutors at the University of Missouri, Syracuse University, the University of Louisville, George Washington University, Loyola University of Chicago, Duquesne University, Yale University, and the University of Virginia for allowing me to test these ideas in public forums. Closer to home, I want to thank the wonderful students of my spring 2013 graduate seminar and fall 2013 senior seminar at Penn State for working with me on some of the novels discussed in this book. Students who contributed key insights are individually thanked in the notes.
I owe a special debt to Amanda Anderson and the School for Criticism and Theory at Cornell University—and to my participants in the summer 2013 seminar, “Narrative, Intellectual Disability and the Boundaries of the Human.” People who have been through SCT’s six-week summer program often describe it as a transformative intellectual experience, and now I know why. It was the most rigorous and rewarding six weeks of my professional life. I want to thank all my seminar participants for putting up with the examples of “evocriticism” I asked them to read, which exasperated some of them no end; more substantially, I want to thank Sandra Danilovic, Andrew Ferguson, Leon Hilton, Brandon Jones, Péter Makai, Kate Noson, David Oswald, Conor Pitetti, Michael Sawyer, and Jess Waggoner for sustained exchanges that continue to this day. My fellow seminar leaders, Ian Baucom, Jane Bennett, and Julia Reinhard Lupton, were whip-smart and relentlessly witty, and the marathon one-hour question/answer periods after every lecture, combined with the two-hour dissection of each seminar leader’s work, are things I will remember for as long as I have memories. Presiding over it all, Amanda Anderson was brilliant and gracious—as usual.
Portions of this book have been previously published in PMLA, American Scientist, the Blackwell Companion to American Literary Studies, and the Common Review.
This is the first scholarly book whose contents I have discussed not only with my older son, Nicholas, but also with my younger son, Jamie. Jamie is aware that he has a disability, and he has been to many of my lectures and a few of my classes on disability studies (after one of which, on the history of deafness, he asked, “Am I deaf?”—thinking, as he explained, of all the audiology exams he underwent as a child). But he is even more keenly aware of disability in the world around him, and now peppers me with questions as to which characters in literature and film can plausibly be said to have disabilities. Thank you, Jamie, for being such an observant and inquisitive young man, and thank you, Nick, for being such a perspicacious and quick-witted old man. And Janet Lyon, who shaped these ideas during every waking moment of our lives together, and possibly through much mumbling in our sleep as well: thank you for all your amazing work on literature and disability. You know your book will leave no aspect of modernist studies untouched.
My mother, Anne Clarke Bérubé, makes a brief appearance in the introduction; this book is dedicated to her memory. Here, I just want to thank her and my father, Maurice Ralph Bérubé, for helping me learn how to read and write.
State College, Pennsylvania
Introduction
Stories
Representations of disability are ubiquitous, far more prevalent and pervasive than (almost) anybody realizes. Not because of the truism that we all become disabled in one way or another if we live long enough, but because disability has a funny way of popping up everywhere without announcing itself as disability. Everyone knows Dumbo as the plucky little elephant who can fly; few people think of Dumbo as a child with a disability, even though his ridiculously large ears are, for most of the film, a source of stigma and shame—so much so that the other circus elephants torment Dumbo’s mother into violent madness. (She is eventually deemed a danger to herself and to others, and incarcerated in a separate circus wagon.) Everyone knows that Total Recall (the original version) is a campy Paul Verhoeven gorefest featuring Arnold Schwarzenegger imploring Sharon Stone, “Less do eet—move to Maas”; few people realize that the film also features workers with employment-related disabilities—namely, the mutants on Mars whose mutations were caused by inadequate protection from solar radiation. And everyone knows that the X-Men are superheroes; to date, I am the only person I know who thinks that the first X-Men film, released in 2000, spent its first twenty minutes establishing the premise that the X-Men are also gay, gifted Jewish kids with disabilities.1
None of these films is “about” disability in the sense that My Left Foot or Rain Man or Away from Her is about disability, and none of them uses the word. And, more important for my purposes in this book, none of the disabilities in these films—with the sole ex
ception of Professor Xavier in his wheelchair—is remotely “realistic.” If you were to object that (a) baby elephants actually don’t come with ears so large that they constantly trip over them, or (b) Martian mutants don’t really have stomachs that feature fetus-like growths with psychic powers, surely you would be missing the point. Likewise, if you were to object that the association of X-Men with disability is offensive on the grounds that actual people with disabilities cannot read minds, bend steel, or change shape, you would effectively be denying fiction one of its ancient prerogatives, that of making stuff up.
This book is about fictional disabilities. The disabilities in question are “fictional” not in the sense of the “disability masquerade” so brilliantly limned by Ellen Samuels in Fantasies of Identification, whereby nondisabled characters feign disability, but rather, in a sense that attends to the various deployments of disability in fiction. I say “deployments” (and I will use the ungainly term more than once) rather than “depictions” or “representations,” because I will argue—no, I will show—that disability and ideas about disability can be and have been put to use in fictional narratives in ways that go far beyond any specific rendering of any disabled character or characters. Representations of disability are ubiquitous, yes, even or especially when you are not looking for them; but narrative deployments of disability do not confine themselves to representation. They can also be narrative strategies, devices for exploring vast domains of human thought, experience, and action. Over the course of the next three chapters, I will chart three such domains: motive, time, and self-awareness. And as you read this book, I hope that you will find that disability is indeed ubiquitous and polysemous. But more than that, I hope that by the time you finish reading this book, the arguments in it will gradually have come to seem obvious to you, or that, in some as-yet-uninvented verb tense that combines the past imperfect with the future perfect, you will have realized that you were thinking these thoughts all along. And I hope that among those thoughts will be this: The various deployments of disability I analyze here, with nothing more than the tools of close reading, are also powerful meditations on what it means to be a social being, a sentient creature with an awareness of time, mortality, causality, and sentience itself.
✴ ✴ ✴
I chose Peter Brooks’s Reading for the Plot for my epigraph, my inscription over the gate to this book, because I think that his are words to live by, regardless of whether you are a professional literary critic. Narrative is important because it informs everything we think, do, plan, remember, and imagine. We tell stories—and we listen to stories, and we gauge the “well-formedness” of stories—within a couple of years of learning to walk and talk. That insight has been revisited in recent years by “evocritics,” or “literary Darwinists,” who argue not merely that we are hardwired for storytelling (which we may well be, if our children are any indication), but also that our capacity for storytelling has survival value—it is an adaptation, an evolutionary contrivance that somehow got us through the Pleistocene. I will take up the claims of the evocritics in my final chapter, reading them from the perspective of disability studies (as no one has done to date); for now, to open my discussion, I want to return to the premise of Brooks’s Reading for the Plot for more humble, personal reasons.2 I want to start by telling you about my kids.
My kids are no longer kids. One is in his late twenties, one in his early twenties; Nick, the firstborn, was a “gifted” child, capable of copying drawings of medieval European hill cities at the age of five; Jamie, his brother, has Down syndrome. Jamie also has an encyclopedic knowledge of sharks and the music of the Beatles, as well as an astonishing memory. Both of them are natural narrative theorists, though because of the differences in their capacities for abstraction, I wound up testing their narrative theories in different ways.
When Nick was a toddler, I was in my late twenties, and thoroughly uncertain how to do this “parenting” thing. I learned almost as soon as Nick could talk that he loved my stories; he even gave them numbers, though I never did learn his classification system. One of the stories, I admit, was designed for its perlocutionary effect: when my wife and I were graduate students, we could afford only half-day day care, beginning when Nick was two. So we worked out an arrangement whereby I picked Nick up from day care and took him for the afternoon three days a week, on the grounds that we were both writing our dissertations and needed to divide our time equally but I was a faster writer. I decided that for at least part of those afternoons, little Nick could accompany me to the University of Virginia’s Alderman Library as I ran down my sources for what became the third chapter of my dissertation. And I decided that it would be a good idea to tell Nick the Story of the Day My Father Lost Me at the Queens Public Library. The hidden message? Do not leave my side.3
Nick liked stories with drama: the story of how the hockey-camp bus left without me in 1972; the story of how the camp counselor threw me out of the pool; the story of my first day in first grade, when the teacher corrected me for saying I was six when I was still only five (a situation that got worse in the following years, after that teacher decided to skip me into the second grade because of my reading skills). As you might imagine, sometimes Nick’s appetite for stories became wearisome. I read to him every night, and I told him stories about people in my life, and I even made up some stuff. But one day when he was about three and a half, on a long car trip in the Midwest, he asked for story after story. And finally I decided to conduct a little experiment. “All right,” I sighed. “I have a new story for you. It goes like this: Red. Yellow. Orange. Blue. Violet. Green. Black. Brown. White—”
“Dad!” Nick interjected, annoyed. “That is not a story.”
“No?”
“No! It is just a bunch of colors.”
“And a bunch of colors is not a story?”
“No! A story has to have things in it.”
“Ah,” I replied, phase one of the experiment complete. “A story has to have things in it. You are right. OK. Tree. Cloud. Sunshine. Water . . .”
“No, no, no,” Nick insisted, more annoyed. “Things happen in a story.”
“Fair enough,” I acknowledged. “The tree blocked the cloud. The sunshine reflected off the water. The flowers grew . . .”
“Dad!!” Nick interrupted, even more annoyed. “That is not a story either.”
“But things happen in it,” I pointed out.
“But you are not telling why they happen.”
Eureka. In a story things have to happen for a reason. We were very close, at this point, to E. M. Forster’s famous dictum, “‘The king died and then the queen died’ is a story. ‘The king died, and then the queen died of grief’ is a plot” (60). As we will see in the following chapter, however, narratives such as Coetzee’s Life and Times of Michael K challenge the idea that things happen in stories, as does the opening of Beckett’s Murphy: “The sun shone, having no alternative, on the nothing new” (1).
I realize there is some pathos in this story about stories: the poor beleaguered toddler, simply wanting to be entertained, subjected instead to the whims of his literary-critic father. But I was curious: how, really, did Nick understand the social contract underwriting “stories”? What did he understand as a violation of that contract, and why? Some years later, when he was seven, he picked up my copy of The Sound and the Fury. I invited him to read the first page or two, and that exchange became (in the fullness of time, more than twenty years later) the basis for the opening of chapter 2 of this book. Nick had no trouble at all with any of the sentences he read, and yet, after three or four paragraphs, he turned to me quizzically and asked, “What is going on here?”
“That,” I had to admit, “is a very good question.”
✴ ✴ ✴
Jamie learned his alphabet before he started kindergarten at age six; he learned to read at a first-grade level by the time he was eight. Along the way, he somehow taught himself the American Sign Language alphabet and a few
simple ASL words by imitating the pictures he saw in a Sesame Street book devoted to the subject. But even though Jamie had developed a profound love of sharks, barn animals, and the movie Babe (just like any number of children his age), he didn’t really understand stories as stories. He had an amazing recall of individual scenes, particularly scenes that involved pratfalls, and he was able to repeat most of the dialogue from the exchange in which Ferdinand the Duck tells Babe the Pig why he wants Babe to go into Farmer Hoggett’s house and steal the Hoggetts’ alarm clock from the side of the bed. But he didn’t understand how much of the movie’s plot is predicated on that scene (the issue is whether animals can avoid being eaten by humans if they demonstrate that they are “indispensable,” and Ferdinand has decided that he will crow like a rooster each morning in order to stay alive), nor did he understand what it might mean for a plot to be “predicated on a scene” in the first place. Until he was ten, Jamie enjoyed narratives almost as if they were a series of entertaining vignettes.
Then in 2001, we took him to see Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone. We feared that the film might be a bit too much for him to take in, from the opening scenes of Harry the Abject Orphan to the climactic sequence in which Voldemort’s baleful spirit speaks from the back of Professor Quirrell’s head, with all the plot miscues and misdirections along the way (most of which point to Snape rather than Quirrell as the malevolent force in Harry’s world). But we were most pleasantly surprised to find that he got it—and not because he himself had glasses just like Harry’s, not because he dreamed of going to Hogwarts himself. He roundly dismissed all comparisons between himself and Harry. Rather, he got it because he loved the story, and he loved talking about it for weeks, even after he’d seen the film three or four times. Impressed, I asked him if he’d like to read the book on which the film was based, and he responded with hand-rubbing glee.
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