II.
The Child in Me
Introduction
Salarrué’s
headstone in El Panteón de los Ilustres,
where distinguished citizens are buried in San Salvador, is inscribed with the words:
Amó a los niños. Los niños lo aman (He
loved children. Children love him.). His work that most clearly embodies the
truth of this epithet is Cuentos de
cipotes/Kids’ Stories, 155 delightful, whimsical, silly stories narrated
with a sense of humor and an affectionate respect for the creative souls of
children (first edition 1961 with illustrations by his wife Zelie Lardé; second
edition 1971 illustrated by his daughter Maya). Invented words, malapropisms
and fractured syntax make translating these stories a unique challenge but I
think I have communicated their spirit.
The
following excerpt is from Salarrué’s prologue, in which he explains kids’
stories are.
What
Are "Kids' Stories"?
[. . .] they are the stories that
our child is telling us, in his own way.
Not in my way, but in his. My way
of telling stories is well known to you.
I tell them somewhat differently in Stories
of Clay than I do in That and More
and in O'Yarkandal, but the
difference is just a matter of time and place and atmosphere. I could also tell children's stories (and
perhaps someday I will, God willing). I
might tell them in the style of Anderson or Wilde, who have written the most
beautiful children's stories in the world.
But
my "kids' stories" are not stories for children, they are children's
stories, first of all, and then Cuscatlecan children's stories.[1]
Do
kids tell these stories to one another? Yes. Do they tell them they way they are told in
this book?
Kids
tell these stories everywhere, but adults don't hear them for one simple
reason: because they don't believe children are capable of telling a story they
would be interested in, they think kids only tell stories to each other. Adults don't want to lower their attention to
this insignificant level and so children aren't heard; perhaps their efforts
are doomed to fail because they know from the start that adults don't
understand their stories. But they also
know that their playmates understand them even less and so, not having the
sustained attention of adults, kids stories become jokes, they entertain, they
make us laugh, which is fine, but this doesn't allow us to see how enchanting
they really are. With these kids' stories,
we hope to focus adults' attention on the story-telling abilities of children,
their ability to entertain us, lighten our spirits and make us younger. Children's stories are not stories for
children but for adults. If adults don't
listen to them, the stories are lost.
Why
don't adults listen to these stories?
Well, when adults focus their attention and get in touch with the
universal, immortal child (who is always hidden in them), they listen, as I
have and as others have who have been touched by these stories. In general, adults don't listen to kids'
stories because they are so silly, yet that is their greatest merit. They are
not dumb stories that are offensive, but silly stories that make us laugh,
which is their appeal. So, who is going
to pay attention to the thousand and one inanities that an annoying little kid
is telling us? Not many of us. Inside every adult there is a remembered
child, just as inside every child there is a hoped-for adult. They are usually asleep. Kids' stories are
the magic that inspires the adult sleeping inside the child to comfort the
child within the adult. This is the
profound mystery of those silly kids' stories.
Where
did the idea for these kids' stories come from?
One
long ago afternoon, the adult, the child and I found ourselves waiting for
something at a three-way intersection.
What were we waiting for? I no
longer know, maybe it was these kids' stories, because that's where they were
born. The adult was a traffic cop; he
was stationed there to take down the license numbers of cars entering and
leaving the city and to say flattering things to the servant girls who crossed
the street there. The child was a street
kid--most notably for me at the time--the unknown kid. There were no cars going by; no girls were
passing; the street was dark and practically deserted; the man was obviously
bored. I was waiting for the bus and
observing the landscape and the two other people. The little boy talked constantly, directing
his conversation to the cop. He seemed concerned
about the policeman's boredom, as if he were trying to amuse him with his silly
talk. The man was tired and directed his
gaze elsewhere without listening. The
boy told his story with all the interruptions and digressions typical of a
kid's story, which is a story that flies on its own wings, pokes itself in the
arm and laughs at itself. After every
paragraph there is a silly joke, an innocent swear word or an incongruous
whistle.
I
listened to you, I delighted in your crazy tale and I applauded your inimitable
silliness, that enchanting silliness that you and I share. I took into my heart the delectable
foolishness of kids' stories, that I now share with all the bored policemen of
the world, so they can stop being so important for a moment and turn to you,
listen to you with pleasure and appreciate your worthy cause!
[.
. . ]
[1]
Cuscatlán is the indigenous (Nahual) name for the approximate geographic area
which is now the republic of El Salvador.
Salarrué's choice of the adjective cuscatleco
rather than Salvadoran, pays homage to his indigenous roots.
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