{"id":141061,"date":"2019-11-22T09:00:02","date_gmt":"2019-11-22T14:00:02","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=141061"},"modified":"2019-11-22T09:41:46","modified_gmt":"2019-11-22T14:41:46","slug":"goatherd-storyteller-master","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2019\/11\/22\/goatherd-storyteller-master\/","title":{"rendered":"Goatherd, Storyteller, Master"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"\"<\/a>

Photo: Watson Perrygo. Courtesy of the Smithsonian Institution Archive, via Wikimedia Commons.<\/p><\/div>\n

My first encounter with Paul\u00e9 Bart\u00f3n\u2019s folktales came in the unlikeliest of places: trawling through the deep wilderness of HTML on the back end of The Paris Review<\/em>\u2019s website. I was an intern, dutifully scanning the archive for stories that had stumbled slightly on their way from print to the Web. Long before my time at the magazine, an error-prone computer program had been used to expedite the digitization process\u2014a necessity for such a small staff and such a trove of pages. But the program occasionally made mistakes, and many stories and poems and essays, long forgotten to most readers, hung imperfectly online. The trick was to read a sentence on the page, then read the very same sentence on the screen, then return to the page. You could spend hours like this, swiveling your head, attempting to achieve parity between these warring formats, constantly searching for hiccups.<\/p>\n

The discrepancies I found were usually minuscule: an extra space, a repeated word, an errant line break in the midst of a Merwin poem. There were those rare pieces, though, that looked like they\u2019d passed through a cheese grater. Wading into the text, I\u2019d find that every t <\/em>had been replaced by an f<\/em>, or vice versa; fhe<\/em>s and ot<\/em>s abounded. Spaces appeared at random, as though an ostrich had stood on the keyboard. Bart\u00f3n\u2019s \u201cThe Woe Shirt<\/a>,\u201d buried in the recesses of the Summer 1980 issue, was one such piece\u2014or so I thought at first.<\/p>\n

The story begins: \u201cB\u00e9lem did tinker repair his bicycle by the stink-toe tree. Better to work there it smells so bad, work gets done no lazy quick.\u201d I remember tracing these words with my cursor over and over, letting their music carve grooves in my head. What\u2019s a \u201cstink-toe tree\u201d? Why the double verb in that first sentence? \u201cLazy quick\u201d? And yet the printed page confirmed that all of this was correct, intentional. I read on. Despite initial appearances, most of it was intact. A few minutes later, as I arrived at the end, my eyes welled with tears. In the middle of a quiet, cold office in New York, in a matter of minutes, a Haitian folktale had leaped out of history, stolen my heart, and vanished. <\/p>\n

Little is known about Bart\u00f3n. According to Howard Norman\u2019s introduction to The Woe Shirt: Caribbean Folk Tales<\/em>, the book in which this and twelve other of his tiny fables originally appeared, Barton was born in Haiti in 1916 and earned a living as a goatherd\u2014though he, like many on the island at the time, aspired to work as a storyteller, peddling tales in the markets of Port-au-Prince. At some point, he was arrested and later exiled by the violent, repressive Duvalier regime, likely for violating Haiti\u2019s loosely defined, and thus incredibly restrictive, law against \u201cpolluting the minds of tourists with information about Haiti not sanctioned by the government.\u201d He spent the rest of his life skipping across the Caribbean, settling down for a time on one island before packing up with his wife and children and goats and heading to another.<\/p>\n

Despite the thin trace he left in the world of letters, Bart\u00f3n was clearly a master. His work, scant on detail but rich with character, is the perfect combination of magical and mundane. In his tales, a witch advises a man not to touch ducks, lest his bedridden wife get sicker; a \u201cwand-trick man\u201d celebrates a night carnival by shooting moths into the sea like confetti; and a mysterious merchant sells clothing that shimmers with sewn-in memories. Beyond nailing this difficult combination of real and surreal, Bart\u00f3n\u2019s work exhibits a quality that\u2019s long drawn me to folktales: a seeming simplicity, a kind of economy where every word counts. It\u2019s a gestural storytelling that builds a sturdy, spare world into which an imagination can wander and expand, without the limitation of unnecessary detail.<\/p>\n

Most folktales drive at morals or messages. Although you could certainly derive lessons from Bart\u00f3n\u2019s stories\u2014don\u2019t dwell on the past, don\u2019t wallow in indecision\u2014the true pleasure here is in the language. Bart\u00f3n, in Etienne Joseph\u2019s vivid translation from the Haitian Creole, speaks elliptically but clearly. Consider the loping beauty of this passage from \u201cThe Woe Shirt\u201d: \u201cB\u00e9lem said, \u2018Good-bye, I go begging, I\u2019ll have a woe shirt to beg in soon,\u2019 twice he said this to his parrot. The parrot blink and green flutter the air and nibble fruit, said nothing back.\u201d<\/p>\n

Or this, a perfect collapse of a sentence from the same story, which never fails to make me cry: \u201cB\u00e9lem saw days past, all sewn on the shirts, he felt sad old and wanted all the shirts to wear on him those times over again.\u201d I\u2019d never heard nor read anything else like this.<\/p>\n

Folktales are, presumably, intended to be retold again and again in new voices. But what sets Bart\u00f3n\u2019s apart is that the storyteller is thoroughly woven into the fabric of the story. The linguistic idiosyncrasies contained within\u2014each repeated dialogue tag, every eschewed comma\u2014wholly summon Bart\u00f3n\u2019s voice. When reading these tales, it\u2019s impossible not to project a phantom Bart\u00f3n upon the stretched bed sheet of your brain: a living, breathing narrator with a gift for spinning yarns that dance like shadows thrown off from a campfire.<\/p>\n

The fifteenth episode of The Paris Review Podcast<\/em><\/a> features the singer-songwriter Devendra Banhart\u2019s reading of \u201cThe Woe Shirt.\u201d What a gift it is to hear a favorite story brought to life. Banhart delivers the tale as it was meant to be experienced, lifting us out of our office lives and into the strange, capacious imagination of Paul\u00e9 Bart\u00f3n.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Brian Ransom is a writer who lives in New York City. He is the assistant online editor at\u00a0<\/em>The Paris Review.<\/em><\/p>\n

Listen to Episode 15 of\u00a0<\/em>The Paris Review Podcast, \u201cMemory, Rich Memory<\/a>,\u201d which features Devendra Banhart\u2019s reading of \u201cThe Woe Shirt<\/a>,\u201d by Paul\u00e9 Bart\u00f3n, translated from the Haitian Creole by Etienne Joseph.<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Paul\u00e9 Bart\u00f3n\u2019s folktales, scant on detail but rich with character, provide the perfect combination of magical and mundane.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1359,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[419],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-141061","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-arts-culture"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nGoatherd, Storyteller, Master by Brian Ransom<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"Paul\u00e9 Bart\u00f3n\u2019s folktales, scant on detail but rich with character, provide the perfect combination of magical and mundane.\" \/>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2019\/11\/22\/goatherd-storyteller-master\/\" \/>\n<meta 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