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PhillipPullman, notable for His Dark Materialstrilogy is not alone in believing that fairy tales bear no psychological heft andtherefore call for no psychological discussion. “There is no psychology in a fairytale,” he avers: “The characters have littleinner life; their motives are clear and obvious.” And he goes on: “”Novelist A. Byatt,for she states that fairy tales “don’t analyse feelings.” Of course, this is superficiallyright. We are not privy to the inner worlds of Hans, Cinderella, or Little Conradin the story of The Goose Girl.

Indeedmost fairy tale characters go unnamed; they perform no Shakespearean soliloquies;they do not ruminate aloud. Rather, they reveal their thoughts in action. But sincewhen is action exempt from psychological scrutiny? And are there not fairy talecharacters who do, on occasion, both wish and dream? A postcard showing the golden goose from the fairy tale by the brothers Grimm. Hulton Archive / Getty ImagesScholars,moreover, when pressed to consider the problem of motivation in fairy tales, tendto invoke fate, chance, inevitability and magic. Not psychology.

They claim thattellers, hearers, and readers of the tales accept without question the sufficiencyof fate, chance, inevitability or magic. Yet, we must ask why. Whatinclines tellers, hearers, and readers to accept fate or magic as causal? What isit about fairy tale and the human psyche that enables this unquestioning acquiescencein a realm of discourse that defies ordinary modes of understanding and common sense?Even if there were nothing else to probe, there is this.

And, indubitably, thisis a psychological question. MarinaWarner touches on the matter in her chapter “The Worlds of Faery,” where she remindsus of the moment in theatrical versions of the modern fairy tale Peter Pan, when Tinkerbell is dying of thepoison Captain Hook had intended for Peter, and audience members are asked to claphands to save her if we believe in fairies. Children have no trouble with this,but adults clap sheepishly, if at all, while telling themselves they are doing sofor the sake of the children. But the audience’s reactions go much deeper, and Warnerstrikes home when she claims the motivation for “these untrue stories” is “a needto move beyond the limits of reality.” This is a verity explored psychoanalyticallyby the notable French analyst Janine Chasseguet-Smirgel in 1984, when she writes,“Man has always endeavored to go beyond the narrow limits of his condition” (afterwhich, however, she heads off in a different direction). Fairy tale carries us back to this primordial kind of attention, the attention we gave the world when everything was “for the first time.”The acceptanceof magic and fatedness in wonder tales can be fruitfully considered, I propose,from a child developmental perspective.

Dark and light. If we take that point of view, we can understandthat our vulnerability or susceptibility stems from a persistence in the mind ofa receptivity we had when all the world was new. Fairy tale carries usback to this primordial kind of attention, the attention we gave the world wheneverything was “for the first time.” In earliest childhood, noticing and remarkingmatters most.

Have you watched a small child gaze around, letting her eye be caughtby this and that? Have you asked her to tell you about her day?

The narrative willbe disjunctive, lacking formal reason, yet filled with all that truly matters: filledwhat was seen, heard, tasted, touched, smelled, felt. The “why?” comes later. Andof course such a way of perceiving is full of surprise: both unexpected delightand terror.

Here is how a typical tale proceeds: Something happens. Then somethingelse. Another occurrence.

And yet again another. But the nature andorder of these events defy logic. Connections seem arbitrary if they exist at alland contiguous in a purely temporal register, with one experience simply followinganother. Let’stake the Grimms’ Tale 42, in which a poor man with many children dreams he mustask the first person he sees to be their godfather. He does so, and the strangergives him a bottle of water, which he says will cure a moribund individual if Deathstands at the person’s head but not if Death stands at the person’s feet. The king’schild falls ill. Death stands at the child’s head; the poor man cures him.

The king’schild falls ill again, and it goes the same way. The third time, Death stands atthe foot of the bed; now the child dies. The poor man goes to tell the godfather.On the way, he notices a shovel and a broom quarreling. Next, he encounters a pileof dead fingers that also talk. Then, a pile of speaking skulls. Finally, he comesupon some fish who are frying themselves in a pan.

Each group tells him to climbhigher so as to find the godfather. The poor man does so and finally peeps througha keyhole, where he sees the godfather with a pair of long horns. The godfatherhides under a blanket and, after interpreting the other visions, denies that hehas horns: “Now, that’s just not true,” he says, and the story is over!VivianGussin Paley, a distinguished MacArthur prize-winning writer on young children’sstory creation and on their impromptu performances of their own stories, and SelmaFraiberg, beloved author of The Magic Years,a classic book on child psychology, would, I feel certain, detect inthis tale the form of narration plotted by childrenwho spring for vivid imagery with no concern for binding logic. Faerie employs aprimordial mode of narration. Little Red Riding Hood hides from the wolf in the forest.

Hulton Archive / Getty ImagesLet’smake an anachronistic thought experiment and imagine Aristotle, in his unsurpassedtreatise on poetics, analyzing the plot of Tale 42. Indubitably, he would characterizeit as “post hoc,” rather than “propter hoc,” its events tumbling pell-mell, itspaucity of causal logic, and the story ending up so far from where it begins. Trustingin reason and seeking to understand the elements of a refined, well-crafted plot,Aristotle would scarcely approve of this mode, or possibly he would treat it ascomical, which, in part it is.Turningthe clock back even further than fourth century BCE Athens, again for just a moment,let’s consider Genesis. Genesis, like fairy tale, is paratactic: it strings eventstogether by conjunctions absent the subordinate clauses that perform causality.Like faerie, Genesis yields minimal, non-elaborated stories. Its characters arenever described in detail (we learn only that Leah had weak eyes), and we are nomore privy to Adam’s feelings when Eve offers him the forbidden fruit than we areto the poor man-in-Tale-42’s feelings when he comes upon the blanketed godfather.

The seven dwarves find Snow White asleep in their bedroom. Hulton Archive / Getty ImagesIn Once Upon a Time, Warner includes“On the Couch,” a chapter in which she acknowledges the relevance of psychoanalysisfor fairy tales but reveals a certain ambivalence by adding a flippant subtitle,borrowed from Angela Carter: “House-Training the Id.” The chapter begins with ameasured appreciation of Bruno Bettelheim’s iconic study, The Usesof Enchantment (1976), in which, in my view, Bettelheim dons hand-blown Germanantique spectacles, seedy and wavy, that permit vision but impel distortion. Heuses them to read a chosen set of European fairy tales, including Little Red Riding Hood, Sleeping Beauty, and so on, for their sexualand developmental themes, sometimes in a ham-handed way, for subtlety is not hisforte. Yet, Warner’s assessment of his work seems wise, fair-minded, and charitable,for Bettelheim became notorious rather quickly for his alleged reductionism, andhe has been mercilessly satirized for exemplifying the excesses of psychoanalyticzealotry. Generously and tactfully, Warner realizes there is much of value to begleaned from his book.Apoint Bettelheim overlooked is that fairy tales can be regardedas psychologically interesting in formas well as in content. Their mode ofnarration, the structure of the stories, matters as much as the imaginarypsychic lives of specific characters.

A keyconcept here is Freud’s notion of the uncanny,by which he meant the way in which familiar objects and events and people can suddenlyseem strange and vice versa. This is of course part of the strategy at play in Tale42.

Selma Fraiberg, previously mentioned,has gracefully shown how the first few years of life are inevitably “uncanny” forchildren, a topic noted and often brilliantly exploited by the finest children’sbook authors and illustrators. An example would be Russell Hoban and GarthWilliams, Bedtime for Frances, wherethe title character, a little girl badger, in the dark at night, sees her bathrobethrown over a chair and thinks it a giant that has come to “get” her. The uncannyhas connections, moreover, with the absurd and with notions of epistemological uncertainty.We accept the irrational elements of faerie and its enchantments in the same waywe acknowledge that parts of our minds are unconscious—unknown and unknowable tous—and yet very much there, extant, real, true, significant.If, bythe term “psychological,” we mean relevance for mental life in its entwined cognitiveand affective functioning, we are right to invoke it here, for fairy tales speakdirectly and indirectly to the psyche. They stimulate rainbows of feeling, insatiablecuriosity, and inexhaustible searches for meaning.

Psychology, moreover, pace Bettelheim,Pullman, and others concerns more than the so-called imaginary inner lives of characters;it concerns the experience of listeners and readers. Year after year, we still needto know what will happen to Cinderella and Rapunzel, to Jack, to the man who neededa godfather, and to the unnamed youngest daughter who asked her father for a rose.Beyond glittering imagery of silver and golden-haired princesses, roses, shiny keys,and iron caskets, thorns, and fry-pans, we are pulled by our deep yearning for,and terror of, that which defies understanding. Beyond sense and beyond justiceand morality, the fairy tales beckon us and we sit on the edge of our chairs waitingto find out what lies ahead—even when we have heard the tale a dozen times before.Lead image: A postcard showing the princess from the fairy tale ‘The Frog Prince’ by the brothers Grimm.