I first read this longish short story over thirty years ago, and I was just as floored then by the ending as I was last night when I read it again for perhaps the twentieth time. The complexity of the author’s discourse, a labyrinth of syntactic juggling and back-tracking, embedded clauses, and hyperbolic double-talk, is daunting because he manages to talk about love and falling into it for the entire story without ever saying anything directly. The story revolves around the dynamics of a couple, May Bertram and John Marcher, who definitely are a couple, but they never marry, have children, or formalize in any serious way their informal relationship. Everyone who knows them understands that they are a couple. May considers them to be a couple, but Marcher just can’t seem to formalize the relationship even though he participates fully in the relationship as if they were married, but they aren’t married, and are not having sex, which their particular society would frown upon. On the other hand, Marcher is obsessed with some imaginary “great thing” to which he will be exposed and which will change his life significantly. He has shared this delusion/idea/tragedy with May, and she agrees to “watch” with him for the horrendous event. He dismisses the question of love almost outright, but he enlists the help of May to help him watch for this “great thing” he is to experience. They discuss the nature of this “great thing” but one gets the sensation that Marcher is only ever more clueless about what this great thing might be, and one also understands, as does Marcher at some point, that May Bertram knows exactly what the “great thing” will be. She knows, he doesn’t, awkward moment. Over the decades through which the relationship endures they grow to love each other to the exclusion of all others, but they each maintain a dwelling, so they are never in an economic situation which might force them into living together–getting married, that is. Marcher is an independent fool who cannot get past his own ego, cannot understand that he is a man like all others, cannot understand that he is much more common than he pretends to be. He believes himself to be “above average” or “special” but the entire story only proves that he is of the most common type of man who lives under the delusion that he is in some significant way special. May, on the other hand, is paralyzed by the fear that if she expresses her love for Marcher that he will disappear and never come back. For her, his companionship is enough, going to the opera, the theater, out to dinner, eating dinner at her home. Their intimacy is mental and occurs through their conversations about Marcher’s “great thing.” Since their intimacy is not centered on sex, their verbal intimacy, based solely on their conversations, their shared meals, their public companionship, serves to bring them together in a way that is much more emotionally based than physical. Since they go together so well, their natural interactions are taken for granted by Marcher and treasured by May. Only when she gets sick and things happen, does Marcher realize what their relationship has been about all along, and he has been an all-too-willing participant. Whether the story is a bitter ironic comedy or a stone-cold tragedy is for each reader to decide. In the end, the reader is the only witness to Marcher’s comic/tragic suffering. Ultimately, one must decide to live in each day, never take anyone or anything for granted, and take great joy in relationships no matter what form they might take.
Category Archives: sidekicks
On Henry James’ "The Beast in the Jungle"
I first read this longish short story over thirty years ago, and I was just as floored then by the ending as I was last night when I read it again for perhaps the twentieth time. The complexity of the author’s discourse, a labyrinth of syntactic juggling and back-tracking, embedded clauses, and hyperbolic double-talk, is daunting because he manages to talk about love and falling into it for the entire story without ever saying anything directly. The story revolves around the dynamics of a couple, May Bertram and John Marcher, who definitely are a couple, but they never marry, have children, or formalize in any serious way their informal relationship. Everyone who knows them understands that they are a couple. May considers them to be a couple, but Marcher just can’t seem to formalize the relationship even though he participates fully in the relationship as if they were married, but they aren’t married, and are not having sex, which their particular society would frown upon. On the other hand, Marcher is obsessed with some imaginary “great thing” to which he will be exposed and which will change his life significantly. He has shared this delusion/idea/tragedy with May, and she agrees to “watch” with him for the horrendous event. He dismisses the question of love almost outright, but he enlists the help of May to help him watch for this “great thing” he is to experience. They discuss the nature of this “great thing” but one gets the sensation that Marcher is only ever more clueless about what this great thing might be, and one also understands, as does Marcher at some point, that May Bertram knows exactly what the “great thing” will be. She knows, he doesn’t, awkward moment. Over the decades through which the relationship endures they grow to love each other to the exclusion of all others, but they each maintain a dwelling, so they are never in an economic situation which might force them into living together–getting married, that is. Marcher is an independent fool who cannot get past his own ego, cannot understand that he is a man like all others, cannot understand that he is much more common than he pretends to be. He believes himself to be “above average” or “special” but the entire story only proves that he is of the most common type of man who lives under the delusion that he is in some significant way special. May, on the other hand, is paralyzed by the fear that if she expresses her love for Marcher that he will disappear and never come back. For her, his companionship is enough, going to the opera, the theater, out to dinner, eating dinner at her home. Their intimacy is mental and occurs through their conversations about Marcher’s “great thing.” Since their intimacy is not centered on sex, their verbal intimacy, based solely on their conversations, their shared meals, their public companionship, serves to bring them together in a way that is much more emotionally based than physical. Since they go together so well, their natural interactions are taken for granted by Marcher and treasured by May. Only when she gets sick and things happen, does Marcher realize what their relationship has been about all along, and he has been an all-too-willing participant. Whether the story is a bitter ironic comedy or a stone-cold tragedy is for each reader to decide. In the end, the reader is the only witness to Marcher’s comic/tragic suffering. Ultimately, one must decide to live in each day, never take anyone or anything for granted, and take great joy in relationships no matter what form they might take.
On Perry Mason
This television show, a black and white gem of the late fifties starring Raymond Burr, was a brilliant tour-de-force in the detective-noir genre of the mid-twentieth century. The show predates color television by about five years, and it was filmed in a glorious black and white and a million shades of gray, not just fifty. The plots are the same plots that crowd television today: jealousy, greed, evil, passion, sloth, ire, hate, and shame. The human creature is capable of almost anything driven by poor thinking, loose morals, and confused ethics. Into the middle of the chaos strides Perry Mason, ready to defend the innocent, pursue the guilty, and bring justice to all. The ever enigmatic Raymond Burr played Mason with a sly smile on his lips, but his eyes never gave away what he was thinking. Burr’s Mason was utterly and completely cerebral, always considering all of the possibilities while putting the pieces together and solving the crime. Sorting out who was lying from who was telling the truth was Mason’s strength, supported by the ever loyal Della Street and his energetic side-kick and investigator, Paul Drake. The conventions of the show–crime, innocent suspect, trial, confessing criminal, happy ending–were well-known to everyone. The show rarely varied from its well-established formula. Even so, the show was comforting because it was about establishing justice, resolving a mystery, and returning everything back to normal: the killer is caught and incarcerated, the innocent go free, and the ethical and moral social structure has been re-established, much to the relief of everyone. The weekly mystery always presented a world undone, tipped over, out of sorts. The police and other authorities always seemed, however, to get it wrong, and it was Mason’s job to set things right. In the Cold War world of the fifties, moral ambiguity was beginning to flower, and the moral certainty of the world which had been so clear right after World War II was beginning to wane. All of the problems which would explode in the sixties with drug use, the sexual revolution, civil rights, women’s liberation, and the Vietnam War, all existed in nascent form in the fifties and are reflected in the problems that all of the characters face. Mason, however, is a monolithic figure who never becomes very emotional or excited. We never get to see him outside of his personae as lawyer, never see him date or kick his shoes off at home. His black suit and white shirt are his armor and chain mail, and one would never see him out of that costume. Some questions, such as his true relationship to Della Street, are never meant to be answered–they add to the mystique. Larger than life, Mason was a big man with an imposing presence who could go toe-to-toe with any prosecutor, any law enforcement official, any lying witness, any stern judge, and come out on top. The show is still better than 99% of the crap that is on television today. He knew what was right and wrong, and he didn’t have to worry about moral relativism. If only things were that simple today.
On Perry Mason
This television show, a black and white gem of the late fifties starring Raymond Burr, was a brilliant tour-de-force in the detective-noir genre of the mid-twentieth century. The show predates color television by about five years, and it was filmed in a glorious black and white and a million shades of gray, not just fifty. The plots are the same plots that crowd television today: jealousy, greed, evil, passion, sloth, ire, hate, and shame. The human creature is capable of almost anything driven by poor thinking, loose morals, and confused ethics. Into the middle of the chaos strides Perry Mason, ready to defend the innocent, pursue the guilty, and bring justice to all. The ever enigmatic Raymond Burr played Mason with a sly smile on his lips, but his eyes never gave away what he was thinking. Burr’s Mason was utterly and completely cerebral, always considering all of the possibilities while putting the pieces together and solving the crime. Sorting out who was lying from who was telling the truth was Mason’s strength, supported by the ever loyal Della Street and his energetic side-kick and investigator, Paul Drake. The conventions of the show–crime, innocent suspect, trial, confessing criminal, happy ending–were well-known to everyone. The show rarely varied from its well-established formula. Even so, the show was comforting because it was about establishing justice, resolving a mystery, and returning everything back to normal: the killer is caught and incarcerated, the innocent go free, and the ethical and moral social structure has been re-established, much to the relief of everyone. The weekly mystery always presented a world undone, tipped over, out of sorts. The police and other authorities always seemed, however, to get it wrong, and it was Mason’s job to set things right. In the Cold War world of the fifties, moral ambiguity was beginning to flower, and the moral certainty of the world which had been so clear right after World War II was beginning to wane. All of the problems which would explode in the sixties with drug use, the sexual revolution, civil rights, women’s liberation, and the Vietnam War, all existed in nascent form in the fifties and are reflected in the problems that all of the characters face. Mason, however, is a monolithic figure who never becomes very emotional or excited. We never get to see him outside of his personae as lawyer, never see him date or kick his shoes off at home. His black suit and white shirt are his armor and chain mail, and one would never see him out of that costume. Some questions, such as his true relationship to Della Street, are never meant to be answered–they add to the mystique. Larger than life, Mason was a big man with an imposing presence who could go toe-to-toe with any prosecutor, any law enforcement official, any lying witness, any stern judge, and come out on top. The show is still better than 99% of the crap that is on television today. He knew what was right and wrong, and he didn’t have to worry about moral relativism. If only things were that simple today.