PDF Grimms Fairy Stories (Illustrated)

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*FREE* shipping on qualifying offers. A collection of Grimm's fairy tales illustrated by Walter Crane and Arthur Rackham (70 tales with illustrations).
Table of contents

• The Most Beautiful Illustrations from Years of Brothers Grimm Fairy Tales – Brain Pickings
• The Fairy Tales of the Brothers Grimm
• The Equality Conundrum

They are depicted in poses of intense activity or passion, so that their part in the drama can be easily read from a distance. Some of the characters in fairy tales come in sets of multiples. The 12 brothers in the story of that name, the 12 princesses in "The Shoes that were Danced to Pieces" the seven dwarfs in the story of "Snow White"— there is little, if anything, to distinguish one from another. James Merrill's reference to the commedia dell'arte is apposite here: the commedia character Pulcinella was the subject of a famous set of drawings by Giandomenico Tiepolo — , depicting him not as a single character but as a swarm of identical nitwits.

In one drawing there may be a dozen or more Pulcinellas all trying to make soup at the same time, or gazing in astonishment at an ostrich. Realism cannot cope with the notion of multiples; the 12 princesses who all go out every night and dance their shoes to pieces, the seven dwarfs all asleep in their beds side by side, exist in another realm altogether, between the uncanny and the absurd.

Celerity: swiftness is a great virtue in the fairy tale. A good tale moves with a dreamlike speed from event to event, pausing only to say as much as is needed and no more. The best tales are perfect examples of what you do need and what you don't: in Rudyard Kipling's image, fires that blaze brightly because all the ashes have been raked out. Once there was a poor man who couldn't support his only son any more. When the son realized this, he said, "Father, it's no use my staying here. I'm just a burden to you.

I'm going to leave home and see if I can earn a living. Once there was a farmer who had all the money and land he wanted, but despite his wealth there was one thing missing from his life. He and his wife had never had any children. When he met other farmers in town or at the market, they would often make fun of him and ask why he and his wife had never managed to do what their cattle did regularly. Didn't they know how to do it? In the end he lost his temper, and when he got back home, he swore and said, 'I will have a child, even if it's a hedgehog. The speed is exhilarating. And that, of course, is part of the explanation for the flatness of the characters.

The tale is far more interested in what happens to them, or in what they make happen, than in their individuality. When composing a tale of this sort, it's not always easy to be sure about which events are necessary and which are superfluous. Every paragraph advances the story. Imagery and description: there is no imagery in fairy tales apart from the most obvious.

As white as snow, as red as blood: that's about it. Nor is there any close description of the natural world or of individuals.

A forest is deep, the princess is beautiful, her hair is golden; there's no need to say more. When what you want to know is what happens next, beautiful descriptive wordplay can only irritate. In one story, however, there is a passage that successfully combines beautiful description with the relation of events in such a way that one would not work without the other. The story is "The Juniper Tree", and the passage I mean comes after the wife has made her wish for a child as red as blood and as white as snow.

It links her pregnancy with the passing seasons: One month went by, and the snow vanished. Two months went by, and the world turned green. Three months went by, and flowers bloomed out of the earth. Four months went by, and all the twigs on all the trees in the forest grew stronger and pressed themselves together, and the birds sang so loud that the woods resounded, and the blossom fell from the trees.

Five months went by, and the woman stood under the juniper tree.

It smelled so sweet that her heart leaped in her breast, and she fell to her knees with joy. Six months went by, and the fruit grew firm and heavy, and the woman fell still. When seven months had gone by, she plucked the juniper berries and ate so many that she felt sick and sorrowful. After the eighth month had gone, she called her husband and said to him, weeping, 'If I die, bury me under the juniper tree.

This is wonderful, but it's wonderful in a curious way: there's little any teller of this tale can do to improve it. However, that is a great and rare exception. In most of these tales, just as the characters are flat, description is absent. In the later editions, it is true, Wilhelm's telling became a little more florid and inventive, but the real interest of the tale continues to be in what happened, and what happened next.

The Equality Conundrum

The formulas are so common, the lack of interest in the particularity of things so widespread, that it comes as a real shock to read a sentence like this in "Jorinda and Joringel":. It was a lovely evening; the sun shone warmly on the tree trunks against the dark green of the deep woods, and turtledoves cooed mournfully in the old beech trees. Suddenly that story stops sounding like a fairy tale and begins to sound like something composed in a literary way by a Romantic writer such as Novalis or Jean Paul. The serene, anonymous relation of events has given way, for the space of a sentence, to an individual sensibility: a single mind has felt this impression of nature, has seen these details in the mind's eye and written them down.

This is not a text: William Wordsworth's The Prelude , or James Joyce's Ulysses , or any other literary work, exists as a text first of all. The words on the page are what it is. It's the job of an editor or a literary critic to pay attention to what exactly those words are, and to clarify places where there are divergent readings in different editions, to make sure that the reader can encounter exactly the text that the work consists of.

But a fairy tale is not a text of that sort. It's a transcription made on one or more occasions of the words spoken by one of many people who have told this tale. And all sorts of things, of course, affect the words that are finally written down. A storyteller might tell the tale more richly, more extravagantly, one day than the next, when he's tired or not in the mood.

A transcriber might find her own equipment failing: a cold in the head might make hearing more difficult, or cause the writing-down to be interrupted by sneezes or coughs. Another accident might affect it too: a good tale might find itself in the mouth of a less than adequate teller. That matters a great deal, because tellers vary in their talents, their techniques, their attitudes to the process.

I was equally impressed when working on her tales for this book. Similarly, this teller might have a talent for comedy, that one for suspense and drama, another for pathos and sentiment.

Naturally they will each choose tales that make the most of their talents. When X the great comedian tells a tale, he will invent ridiculous details or funny episodes that will be remembered and passed on, so the tale will be altered a little by his telling; and when Y the mistress of suspense tells a tale of terror, she will invent in like manner, and her inventions and changes will become part of the tradition of telling that tale, until they're forgotten, or embellished, or improved on in their turn.

The fairy tale is in a perpetual state of becoming and alteration. To keep to one version or one translation alone is to put a robin redbreast in a cage.

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A fairy tale is not a text. Of course, the writer might not wish to. There have been many, and there will be many more, versions of these tales that are brimful of their author's own dark obsessions, or brilliant personality, or political passions. The tales can stand it. He heard a voice, and it seemed so familiar to him that he went towards it, and when he approached, Rapunzel knew him and fell on his neck and wept.

Two of her tears wetted his eyes and they grew clear again, and he could see with them as before. He led her to his kingdom where he was joyfully received, and they lived for a long time afterwards, happy and contented. There was once a man who had seven sons, and still he had no daughter, however much he wished for one. At length his wife again gave him hope of a child, and when it came into the world it was a girl.

The joy was great, but the child was sickly and small, and had to be privately baptized on account of its weakness. The father sent one of the boys in haste to the spring to fetch water for the baptism. The other six went with him, and as each of them wanted to be first to fill it, the jug fell into the well. There they stood and did not know what to do, and none of them dared to go home. Hardly was the word spoken before he heard a whirring of wings over his head in the air, looked up and saw seven coal-black ravens flying away. The parents could not recall the curse, and however sad they were at the loss of their seven sons, they still to some extent comforted themselves with their dear little daughter, who soon grew strong and every day became more beautiful.

The parents now dared keep the secret no longer, but said that what had befallen her brothers was the will of Heaven, and that her birth had only been the innocent cause. But the maiden laid it to heart daily, and thought she must deliver her brothers. She had no rest or peace until she set out secretly, and went forth into the wide world to trace out her brothers and set them free, let it cost what it might. She took nothing with her but a little ring belonging to her parents as a keepsake, a loaf of bread against hunger, a little pitcher of water against thirst, and a little chair as a provision against weariness.

And now she went continually onwards, far, far, to the very end of the world. Then she came to the sun, but it was too hot and terrible, and devoured little children. The maiden took the drumstick, wrapped it carefully in a cloth, and went onwards again until she came to the Glass mountain.