'The Mysterious Stranger' and the human lot
It is one of those spine-tightnening stories that magnifies the feeling of hopelessness, uselessness, and worthlessness. It does not add anything, but takes away, eats away: hope, purpose, dream, humour, and friendship. By page and page, with the confident cadence of a master, it takes apart human life and stumps on every thing worthwhile.
It is hard to imagine 'the greatest humourist the United States has produced' writing a story like this: there is no greatness in it, no humour, no wit, only bitingly bitter disenchanment with human life. Yet, Clemens worked on this story from 1897 to 1908, -- worked with pauses, with revisions, without ever finishing it, but worked on it none the less.
The book spans eleven short chapters and eleven years of Clemens's life, of human life, and what had happened in those eleven years painted the pages crimson dark. In the 1890s, he experienced financial difficulties that led to his bankruptcy, then one of his daughters passed away in 1896, then his wife in 1904, and another daughter in 1909.
Each death was grieved through writing, Clemens was writing to keep his heart from breaking. Perhaps, that was why he wrote the story of the Mysterious Stranger. Perhaps, this is not a story written by a humourist, but a story written by a hurting man.
This hurt is vividly expressed in the book by a mother, who lost her child: 'Dear, dear, if we could only know! Then we shouldn't ever go wrong; but we are only poor, dumb beasts groping around and making mistakes.' This is the sentiment that 'The Mysterious Stranger' carries throughout eleven chapters: the sentiment of a man strained from carrying the human lot.
/dinkus