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ebonystar · 7 years

Text

I rant for a very long time about a story likely set as standard coursework by idiots in the Ministry of Education

http://www.eastoftheweb.com/short-stories/UBooks/LadyTige.shtml

I'm sorry. My teacher is making me suffer through this story again. I leave you this, which I wrote in my fury.

It is with the deepest fury that the most gracious masterpieces are formed. Either whomever wrote 'The lady or the tiger' was feeling rather happy when he did write it, or he was just so miserably inept and uncaring that he allowed his work to stagnate like the piece of school-standard literature it is.

'The Lady or the Tiger' is a story which postulates on the result of a situation so amateurishly created that it becomes blatantly obvious within the first sentence that it is setting something up. What setup is required does not pay out, as the final sentence, which would suffice as sufficiently dramatic to mark itself among its innumerable peers with identical morals, is thus followed by paragraph upon paragraph of postulation. In case our dearest author did not attend public school (and indeed, did not pass his English class) and study the beautiful and artisan intricacies of the English language, postulation is supposed to be done by the reader, in their head, not on the page, for is it not true that the art of writing most successful when it makes you think?

The most fiery pits of my soul could not describe how soulless and unerringly dull this story is. The author weaves long, tangled sentences which follow the upsettingly specific mind of a 'semi barbaric king', the likes of which has been seen in too many stories to count, teetering his way between moral and amoral like a drunken man meandering down a street at midnight. It is in stories like this, where a character is given absolute power over the rules and systems within whatever kingdom one chooses to name, that the most contrived statements of all come whispering out of the character's mouth, torn from the throat of the author. Truly, he is not a king at all, but a puppet for the author, the true king, who rules his kingdom with all the grace of a beached whale.

And so, the puppet of the king decides that he must have trials so very pettily contrived and so utterly pointless so as to let the king ask moral questions, the likes of which are the bane of philosophers all over, as it asks no question at all. Indeed, it is smartly enough that the reigns of fate are handed over clumsily to the reader, who, depending on their morality spectrum and indeed anything from their level of annoyance with this monstrosity to how easily they can imagine a handsome man being torn to bits by the mouth of a tiger or a woman, is offered the chance to decide how to judge a man's love. However, any reader who reads this story will inevitably come to the conclusion that this story offers no solution, and instead a series of choices with equally inadvisable results.

After all, life does not have two doors.

The story further complicates and elaborates and otherwise lengthens itself by musing over a criminal, the likes of which is either a new groom or a new grave depending on the location. In this story, it seems, the lad of esteemed appearance, kindness, and love, the likes of which would not be unwelcome to fill the role of an innumerable number of books dedicated only to the sexual and romantic satisfaction of misguided women or the general ego-boosting of teenaged boys, is given a choice between them, decided - whoop-dee-doo - by chance.

The author, in all his wisdom, decides to use chance as the ultimate judge - and indeed, done right, chance, luck, and justice can work well together. But here, used so unceremoniously to play the reader into deciding for them, the author fails to even express an inkling that the three queens of law - evidence, logic, and reasoning - exist in his fictional, philosophical world, in a setting so overused that it fails entirely to enthrall. Indeed, the setting could be no worse; space would prove more interesting, and space does not even fit in this story of primitive proportions.

This lad, inflated so by innocence, beauty, and his existence as a nameless Gary Sue, falls in love with the first woman most likely to get him in trouble, least likely to give him a stable, healthy relationship and astronomically likely to end up in his arms anyways. I am speaking, of course, of the Princess; a twat so important to herself and her kingdom of innumerable contrived coincidences that she must fall in love with the first lad to, in the authors' own words, be 'fine of blood and low of station, as common to the conventional heroes of romance who love royal maidens'.

I cannot express more disgust over the selection of these cut-out heroes, the likes of which you find in the back of fairy tale books in supermarkets and which children inevitably discard much faster than the author appears to have done.

Now, of course, the princess takes after her father in one of his highest sins; she becomes a mouthpiece of the author. Without hesitation, she decides his fate, and the author is sure to elaborate extensively on her petty worries and her entitled wailings over being unable to choose whether to kill her beau violently or have him married to a girl of esteemed beauty. Clearly, their love is not strong, as any who would love their significant other honestly would choose a path that they discuss at length and, lacking this, choose a path which puts live more firmly in the hands of their loved one. However, evidenced by the otherwise useless mutterings of a wordsmith who has never held a hammer, she cares very little for how it reflects on the life of her lover and rather more on how it reflects on her, her disgust always residing firmly with that which she cannot have or wishes not to see.

All I say to the ever growing Sue which is made of the boy at this point boils down to this; 'in his soul he knew' has no place in philosophy, and if it does, then I will end my sobriety in tears. No soul-bound love is strong enough to excuse the sheer selfishness of the princess, and thus it pains me to say that the attempt to further empower the man has failed spectacularly at the hands of a spoiled princess.

And finally, we find ourselves at a cliff, a most impossible cliff which further frustrates young minds all over my country. In every English class across the continent, it is the bane of young boys and girls to find what many a teacher have called "the moral of the story". Fortunately, our dearest author Frank has been kind enough to come right out and say, 'Now, the point of the story is this', were it not clear enough before. Unfortunately, he fails to see the moral of his own story, much like he fails to see the many shortcomings it possesses, and instead replies with a question which offers no answer at all. It is so plaintively disastrous that a setup of two and a half pages of writing in 12 point font must end so inexcusably and unsatisfactorily. After all that time spent reading, people are not looking for more questions, they are looking for answers which will change their world view instead of befuddle them in such a way as to sap as many brain cells as possible.

With such a terrible story, it is astounding that it brings up so many questions; and thus, I believe it is time I explore those many doors which the author seems so very fond of pretending are non-existent and break the little boxes into which he attempts valiantly to write himself.

Firstly, we must address this system as a whole, for the author, in his quite arguably entitled masculinity, has made an oversight or ten. What is to be done if there is a female criminal? Shall the wedding continue, regardless? Shall she be wed, and shall they prance along in ignorance of the attitudes of many a king in such settings? Or shall it be that a man is chosen instead, destined to be as ego-strokingly masculine as possible, and set upon the criminal as a husband who will inevitably fall into the practices of such times? I must insist that, without this vexing question answered, we cannot rule the situation we find ourselves in logical, and indeed, the system itself so fundamentally flawed that it does not function for a good half of the king's kingdom.

And, indeed, a lady is chosen as a flip side to the tiger, a beast described as a killing machine; a guillotine would have been more or less the same, such serves the tiger's role. Are women objects? Are women beasts? It is such things that the author is comparing a woman to, after all. And, despite being the assumed favourable fate, it cries foul at the slightest skew in a man's stereotypical base desires; namely, sex (or lovemaking, if you’re of a puritan mind).

Are both not equally horrible fates? To some, the only choice is between death and further suffering. In such case is it not wise to say that the best choice belongs only to they who choose it? And indeed, this story never hints to this question, instead firm in its belief that the tiger is a horrible fate and the woman only horrible to those present to be jealous of the ever-glorified man.

While it is easy to formulate other postulate endings for this increasingly vexing short, no other postulates are offered. Indeed, the author makes no effort to present the story with an open ending, the likes of which could last for hours or days in the head of an impressionable consumer, but instead leaves only two, and offers readers only the choice of which fate is superior and to judge the morality of a princess with the nerve to think nothing of the man she is directing.

Indeed; would it not be right to judge the princess whence whatever is chosen rises? It would be fitting, I believe, for her to choose a fate for herself. It would certainly be just as horrid for her as it would be for Gary the Sue, who feels things in his soul only for women with enough status to make men roll over and pant like a dog.

Never did I think 'every barleycorn a king' would be the most interesting sentence of a story, but there it be, as clear as day. This story cares not how it flows or how it moves from one thought to another, but instead takes a hammer five times the size required and unceremoniously slams neurotypical and stereotypical as deep into the story as possible, so ingrained in the roots that it cannot be salvaged. This philosophical story can be aptly described with a blunt knife; it is used to cut the dinner of unrefined whelps while wise men stare disbelievingly at the texts which have, over time, come to be accepted; as useful in a child's education as a blunt knife is to a kitchen. They stare at their plates, at their sharp knifes which weave truth and fiction together irrevocably and at their tenderloin, and then to the others who are cutting with vigor into meat so tough and unappetizing that it fails even to spark hunger in a starving man.

Were it my choice, to end this story, I would have a meteor the size of god's hand fall upon the unsuspecting heads of those within the arena. Begone be the lady and the tiger, whose uses extend only to offer a meaningless choice; begone be the princess, who is an utter twat, and a selfish git to boot; begone be the king who speaks for the author, who makes decisions so tangled and unclear as to their origin that they tear understanding from the roots, and who seems to enjoy catfights, both literal and very literal. May they all perish at the hand of that which they tried use to make their decisions for them, in the place of true justice, who is probably quite pissed with the lot of them.

The author fails to see more than two doors. I see a third, where I walk away and close it behind me, never to see this blasted story ever again.

#Yay I hate this #I hate Lady or the Tiger #I hope nobody has to read this piece of sh*t again

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