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The Tale of Tales
Unavailable
The Tale of Tales
Unavailable
The Tale of Tales
Audiobook18 hours

The Tale of Tales

Written by Giambattista Basile

Narrated by Full Cast

Rating: 4 out of 5 stars

4/5

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Currently unavailable

Currently unavailable

About this audiobook

Before the Brothers Grimm, before Charles Perrault, before Hans Christian Andersen, there was Giambattista Basile, a seventeenth-century poet from Naples, Italy, whom the Grimms credit with recording the first national collection of fairy tales. The Tale of Tales opens with Princess Zoza, unable to laugh no matter how funny the joke. Her father, the king, attempts to make her smile; instead he leaves her cursed, whereupon the prince she is destined to marry is snatched up by another woman. To expose this impostor and win back her rightful husband, Zoza contrives a storytelling extravaganza: fifty fairy tales to be told by ten sharp-tongued women (including Zoza in disguise) over five days.

Funny and scary, romantic and gruesome--and featuring a childless queen who devours the heart of a sea monster cooked by a virgin, and who then gives birth the very next day; a lecherous king aroused by the voice of a woman, whom he courts unaware of her physical grotesqueness; and a king who raises a flea to monstrous size on his own blood, sparking a contest in which an ogre vies with men for the hand of the king's daughter--The Tale of Tales is a fairy tale treasure that prefigures Game of Thrones and other touchstones of worldwide fantasy literature.

LanguageEnglish
Release dateFeb 9, 2016
ISBN9780451482099
Unavailable
The Tale of Tales

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  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    This obscure and wonderful collection of fairytales is not, perhaps, quite as filthy as you might expect from something called Lo cunto de li cunti, but it's still full of bizarre and scatological delights. Written in the early 1600s – before the Grimms, before Perrault – it contains the first known versions of famous tales like Cinderella, Rapunzel, Hansel & Gretel, or Sleeping Beauty, all of them dramatically different from how they're told today, and throws in for good measure a host of more recondite folk-stories that I had never heard before.Their author, Giambattista Basile, was a kind of itinerant courtier and sometime soldier from outside Naples, who wrote in an elaborate, rococo form of Neapolitan as well as (elsewhere) in standard Italian. In The Tales of Tales, Basile gathers his stories together under a frame narrative, in a half-parodic imitation of Boccaccio: the tone is set early when a princess gets a curse put on her for laughing at an old woman's vagina, as a distant result of which it becomes necessary – don't ask why – for ten women to tell five stories each across the space of five days. Hence the alternative title of the Pentamerone.Each story is no more than four or five pages long, which makes this an easy book to read, despite its length. And each begins with a helpful one-paragraph synopsis. I can give you an idea of the kind of thing we're dealing with by quoting one of these in its entirety – here's the précis of tale 5.1, ‘The Goose’:Lilla and Lolla buy a coin-shitting goose at the market. A neighbor asks to borrow it, and when she sees that it's the opposite of what it should be, she kills it and throws it out the window. The goose attaches itself to a prince's ass while he's relieving himself, and no one but Lolla can remove it; for this reason the prince takes her for his wife.Yep. The scene where the prince is trying to wipe his arse on the dead goose's neck is particularly to be recommended.And this flair for the Rabelaisian is put to surprisingly effective use within the stories, generating some impressive insults and metaphors. ‘Why don't you shut that sewer hole, you bogeyman's grandmother, blood-sucking witch, baby drowner, rag shitter, fart gatherer?’ yells one character, while another is dismissed as ‘a flycatcher who wasn't worth his weight in dog sperm’. Someone else is described as being so terrified that ‘they wouldn't have been able to take an enema made of a single pig's bristle’.Basile's obscurity, at least in the English-speaking world, is due in no small part to the lack of decent translations, which makes this new rendering from Nancy L Canepa – the first since the 1930s – extremely welcome. More than welcome; it feels staggeringly overdue. Most previous editions have been based on Benedetto Croce's ‘not always faithful’ 1925 translation into Italian, whereas Canepa is working straight from the original Neapolitan. To show what a difference it makes, let's return to that coin-shitting goose we met earlier. A line from the original tale runs:Ma, scoppa dì e fa buono iuorno, la bona papara commenzaie a cacare scute riccie, de manera che a cacata a cacata se ne ’nchiero no cascione.The previous complete English translation – from Penzer in 1932, working from Croce's Italian – translated this like so:But dawn comes and it turns out to be a fine day: the worthy goose began to make golden ducats, so that, little by little, they filled a great chest with them…But Canepa's translation restores the forceful vulgarity of the original:And when morning breaks it's a nice day, for the good goose began to shit hard cash until, shitload upon shitload, they had filled up a whole chest.You can see that it really feels like we're hearing Basile for the first time now. This gives a wonderful sense of discovery to Canepa's translation, even if for my own taste she sometimes seems to favour word-for-word accuracy over English readability (with the convenient, if believable, justification that Basile's own Neapolitan must have been quite a challenge even to contemporaries). Any quibbles are more than made up for by the wealth of notes and other apparatus, which give generous citations of the original and explain those flourishes of wordplay or references that Canepa has not attempted to modernise.Taking this fabulous, irreverent tour of seventeenth-century life is an exhilarating experience, and even an uplifting one. Although he deals with violence, revenge and death, Basile is not especially interested in tragedy or cruelty; it's impossible to imagine him other than with a smile on his face. And indeed impossible to read him without one, either.