The Unpopular Review, Number 19: July-December 1918Various
History
The Unpopular Review, Number 19: July-December 1918
Various
American periodicals
Everybody is familiar with the kind of story that depends for its effect
upon a surprising "point" that comes at the end, unanticipated by the
hearer and amusing to him largely in proportion as it is unexpected.
Stories of this kind are frequently elaborate; a great deal of detail is
introduced, as artfully as possible, every bit of which must
tantalizingly lead towards the point that is coming, but no word of
which must really divulge that point until the moment when the
_raconteur_ is ready to "spring" it, as we say, with a sudden burst.
Obviously the listener must not guess the point before that moment, or
the story will fall flat, and just as obviously the narrator must have
it in mind continually, or he could not tell the story. He could hardly
recount a tale of this variety unless he knew how it was "coming out."
Especially if it were considerably involved, he could scarcely pick his
way through it step by step towards an end that he did not himself
foresee, arranging in their places dozens of details leading he knew not
where, and then come nicely to a climax that he himself did not
anticipate--a climax which, in this hardly conceivable case, would
obviously surprise him as much as it could his listener. The waking
mind, unless by the rarest of accidents, cannot work in such a fashion.
And my puzzle is, how can the dreaming mind do so? For I, at least, do
dream occasionally in just this manner. I make up a story of this
species in my dream, and usually a complicated story. In it I proceed
from point to point without having any notion of my destination; I
string together a small host of details, though I remain ignorant of
their meaning and unsuspicious of any climax that is coming later to
explain them; and when finally I reach that climax, and see the joke
that I have plotted so unwittingly, I am myself ingenuously amused by
it. And how I manage to do this is my enigma. For obviously I either do
foresee the point of the story or I do not. If I do, how can I be
surprised when it arrives? If I do not, how can I prepare for it so
carefully? Either case supposes a manner of mentation hardly
comprehensible.
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