Monika B. Hilder, Letters to Annie: A Grandmother’s Dreams of Fairy Tale Princesses, Princes, & Happily Ever After (FriesenPress, 2022).
Review by Ron Dart
“And I must say, girl, I can’t think of a more exciting field of study than the one of theology, imagination, and the arts”—and so ends Monika Hilder’s beauty of a book, Letters to Annie, 33 letters written by Omi Barbara from the time Annie was born to her 25th birthday, Omi being eighty-eight when the final missive was penned.
There is a wise and generous, gracious and kindly way that Monika weaves together the perennial wisdom of multiple fairy tales, the layered life lessons packed into such tales, and the careful knitting together of Biblical insights and fairy tales in this must-read of a book.
I was reminded, as I sat with each letter, in a different way of more than Erasmus’ 4000 adages (with commentary and annotations) and Myth Made Fact: Reading Greek and Roman Mythology through Christian Eyes by Louis Markos. Both Markos and Hilder draw deeply from the grace-filled wisdom of myth and fairy tales, and both are substantively grounded in the mother lode of the Inklings (mentors and friends), MacDonald, Lewis, Sayers, Tolkien, Chesterton, and L’Engle, given their needful nods and due. We are also, given their significance in the fairy tale genre, walking side by side with Grimm, Andersen, Wilde, and Perrault, and the timeless beauty of Shakespeare and Milton offering us their epic vision in tales told.
There is an underlying theme and thesis in Letters to Annie that needs to be pondered and unpacked in a needful way. We dwell in an ethos of much cynicism and deconstruction—such a path walked too far can and does lead to soul and life paralysis and impotence. Most cynics are not cynical of cynicism just as most deconstructionists lack the courage to deconstruct deconstructionism. The epic vision of life that myths, fairy tales, Shakespeare, Milton, the Inklings, and the Bible offer has been marginalized and is held with a great deal of suspicion in our ethos. When we turn from the large macro-vision of the human journey, we often shrink to micro-tales in the culture wars just as when the secular negates the sacred, the secular becomes the sacred—therefore the human soul, mind, and imagination, shrinks and goes round and round in the smallest circle turns, as Rilke rightly noted when such moves are made. Letters to Annie comes as a challenge to such an approach to thought, word, and deed, and does so as a thoughtful grandmother kindly and sensitively shepherds her ever-growing granddaughter throughout her first 25 years of life, a dream vision of enchantment via fairy tales: the sacred and magic key.
There is in fairy tales, as in myths, the notion that the journey is fraught with challenges and perils, “Agon” is the Greek word from which we get agony, protagonist, antagonist, or Milton’s Samson’s Agonistes. The future path of each protagonist and antagonist (princesses, princes, witches, ogres, dragons, etc.) in fairy tales and myths is about growing into the challenges (“agon”) of the journey and, for the most part, overcoming, and in the overcoming of the challenges becoming a fairer, finer, and more mature princess and prince, “happily ever after,” the oft contested ending when real life meets fairy tale. Monika, to her credit, visits, again and again, this “happily ever after” ending to many fairy tales, such approaches more comedic than tragic. There is much massaging of such an approach to the life-fairy tale tension as more nuance and refinement is pondered in Letters to Annie, no flinching from the hard questions of sadness, suffering, and the tragic on our all too human journey. Letters to Annie does cover many of the disappointments, betrayals, and confusions of the faith and life journey and the dangers such challenges pose to the aspiring (or not so aspiring) princesses and princes—many discerning insights can be gleaned, when read wisely and well, from fairy tales—Monika certainly asks of her readers much deeper and layered reads of such classic tales, tales sadly so domesticated and sanitized by the Disney industry.
I worked with Amnesty International for about 15 years, and in those years I met many a noble princess and prince who for a variety of reasons faced into the unjust political context of their time and suffered terribly (some tortured to death, others years of solitary confinement, some freed from their cells but psychological damage for the rest of their years)—in short, decidedly no “happily ever after”. I’m married into a family of German Roman Catholics who opposed Hitler in the 1930s, many within the family were sent to death camps and exterminated, some slowly starving to death, others housed with those who had multiple illnesses and diseases—good people but goodness crucified with no resurrection in time or history. Most of us have favourite novels—Doctor Zhivago is in my top ten. The finale to Zhivago is Zhivago’s tender poems, and a poem that is repeated is “Fairy Tale” about the perennial prince who is meant to slay the dragon and rescue the princess. “Fairy Tale” by Zhivago, though, has the dragon unseating the prince, the horse charging the dragon, both damaged beyond repair, prince and princess, future unclear and unsure, in an ambiguous place—certainly no “happily ever after”. I have also watched many dear friends die slow, slower and sad deaths, years of physical suffering, drugged to prevent intense pain.
I agree with Monika that cynicism is a cul-de-sac, and it is essential when facing into the dire tragedies that war, poverty, political conflicts, and much else create that we seriously know how to tell fairy tales that discern how to live within the comedic-tragic tension, God the Shepherd and Father (to use but two classical Biblical metaphors) often silent, eclipsed or seemingly absent. And we can’t only explain the tragic by a flaw in the character of those who suffer as did Aristotle or many of Shakespeare’s tragic characters.
How do we, in short, infuse the tragic into the “exciting field” of theology, imagination, and the arts that includes the comedic and the tragic, that includes “happily ever after,” but prevents such a position from becoming a bromide that ignores the stubborn and obstinate nature of the tragic? Such is the future of fairy tales and myths.
Ron Dart