These similarities—and they may be straight or ironic or comic or tragic—begin to reveal themselves
to readers after much practice of reading.
All this resembling other literature is all well and good, but what does it mean for our reading?
Excellent question. If we don’t see the reference, it means nothing, right? So the worst thing that
occurs is that we’re still reading the same story as if the literary precursors weren’t there. From there,
anything that happens is a bonus. A small part of what transpires is what I call the aha! factor, the
delight we feel at recognizing a familiar component from earlier experience. That moment of
pleasure, wonderful as it is, is not enough, so that awareness of similarity leads us forward. What
typically takes place is that we recognize elements from some prior text and begin drawing
comparisons and parallels that may be fantastic, parodic, tragic, anything. Once that happens, our
reading of the text changes from the reading governed by what’s overtly on the page. Let’s go back to
Cacciato for a moment. When the squad falls through the hole in the road in language that recalls
Alice in Wonderland, we quite reasonably expect that the place they fall into will be a wonderland in
its own way. Indeed, right from the beginning, this is true. The oxcart and Sarkin Aung Wan’s aunties
fall faster than she and the soldiers despite the law of gravity, which decrees that falling bodies all
move at thirty-two feet per second squared. The episode allows Paul Berlin to see a Vietcong tunnel,
which his inherent terror will never allow him to do in real life, and this fantastic tunnel proves both
more elaborate and more harrowing than the real ones. The enemy officer who is condemned to spend
the remainder of the war down there accepts his sentence with a weird illogic that would do Lewis
Carroll proud. The tunnel even has a periscope through which Berlin can look back at a scene from
the real war, his past. Obviously the episode could have these features without invoking Carroll, but
the wonderland analogy enriches our understanding of what Berlin has created, furthering our sense of
the outlandishness of this portion of his fantasy.
This dialogue between old texts and new is always going on at one level or another. Critics speak
of this dialogue as intertextuality, the ongoing interaction between poems or stories. This intertextual
dialogue deepens and enriches the reading experience, bringing multiple layers of meaning to the text,
some of which readers may not even consciously notice. The more we become aware of the
possibility that our text is speaking to other texts, the more similarities and correspondences we begin
to notice, and the more alive the text becomes. We’ll come back to this discussion later, but for now
we’ll simply note that newer works are having a dialogue with older ones, and they often indicate the
presence of this conversation by invoking the older texts with anything from oblique references to
extensive quotations.
Once writers know that we know how this game is played, the rules can get very tricky. The late
Angela Carter, in her novel Wise Children (1992), gives us a theatrical family whose fame rests on
Shakespearean performance. We more or less expect the appearance of elements from Shakespeare’s
plays, so we’re not surprised when a jilted young woman, Tiffany, walks onto a television show set
distraught, muttering, bedraggled—in a word, mad—and then disappears shortly after departing,
evidently having drowned. Her performance is every bit as heartbreaking as that of Ophelia, Prince
Hamlet’s love interest who goes mad and drowns in the most famous play in English. Carter’s novel
is about magic as well as Shakespeare, though, and the apparent drowning is a classic bit of
misdirection. The apparently dead Tiffany shows up later, to the discomfort of her faithless lover.
Shrewdly, Carter counts on our registering “Tiffany = Ophelia” so that she can use her instead as a
different Shakespearean character, Hero, who in Much Ado About Nothing allows her friends to
stage her death and funeral in order to teach her fiancé a lesson. Carter employs not only materials
from earlier texts but also her knowledge of our responses to them in order to double-cross us, to set
us up for a certain kind of thinking so that she can play a larger trick in the narrative. No knowledge
of Shakespeare is required to believe Tiffany has died or to be astonished at her return, but the more
we know of his plays, the more solidly our responses are locked in. Carter’s sleight of narrative
challenges our expectations and keeps us on our feet, but it also takes what could seem merely a
tawdry incident and reminds us, through its Shakespearean parallels, that there is nothing new in
young men mistreating the women who love them, and that those without power in relationships have
always had to be creative in finding ways to exert some control of their own. Her new novel is telling
a very old story, which in turn is part of the one big story.
But what do we do if we don’t see all these correspondences?
First of all, don’t worry. If a story is no good, being based on Hamlet won’t save it. The characters
have to work as characters, as themselves. Sarkin Aung Wan needs to be a great character, which she
is, before we worry about her resemblance to a famous character of our acquaintance. If the story is
good and the characters work but you don’t catch allusions and references and parallels, then you’ve
done nothing worse than read a good story with memorable characters. If you begin to pick up on
some of these other elements, these parallels and analogies, however, you’ll find your understanding
of the novel deepens and becomes more meaningful, more complex.
But we haven’t read everything.
Neither have I. Nor has anyone, not even Harold Bloom. Beginning readers, of course, are at a
slight disadvantage, which is why professors are useful in providing a broader context. But you
definitely can get there on your own. When I was a kid, I used to go mushroom hunting with my father.
I would never see them, but he’d say, “There’s a yellow sponge,” or “There are a couple of black
spikes.” And because I knew they were there, my looking would become more focused and less
vague. In a few moments I would begin seeing them myself, not all of them, but some. And once you
begin seeing morels, you can’t stop. What a literature professor does is very similar: he tells you
when you get near mushrooms. Once you know that, though (and you generally are near them), you can
hunt for mushrooms on your own.
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