In William Goldman's novel, the story of The Princess Bride is wrapped in an altogether different, not-so-saccharine story. And it is this story that elevates the charming tale of The Princess Bride from a clever riff on fantasy cliches to a far more meaningful and ultimately moving book.
A new reader of Goldman's novel might think that his book is about nothing more than "Passion. Duels. Miracles. Giants. True love." But in fact the book is about the role of fantasy--and its tantalizing promise of escape--in the lives of ordinary people. As Goldman writes in his (fictional) prologue:
Take the title words--"true love and high adventure." I believed in that once. I thought my life was going to follow that path. Prayed that it would. Obviously it didn't, but I don't think there's high adventure left any more. Nobody takes out a sword nowadays and cries, "Hello. My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father; prepare to die!"
And true love--you can forget about too. I don't know if I love anything truly any more beyond the porterhouse at Peter Luger's and the cheese enchilada at El Parador's. (Sorry about that, Helen.) [NOTE: Helen is Goldman's fictional wife.]
The Princess Bride is escapist fantasy at its most effusive. Buttercup and Westley fall madly--madly--in love in the first chapter of the book. As Westley leaves Buttercup to find his fortune in America, he confesses his love with these words:
"I have stayed these years in my hovel because of you. I have taught myself languages because of you. I have made my body strong because I thought you might be pleased by a strong body. I have lived my life with only the prayer that some sudden dawn you might glance in my direction. I have not known a moment in years when the sight of you did not send my heart careening against my rib cage."
And so on and so forth. And, naturally, Buttercup responds with:
"I will never love anyone else. Only Westley. Until I die."
The Princess Bride is ostensibly an abridged version ("the good parts") of a much longer work of the same name by the fictional S. Morgenstern. Goldman frequently interrupts the narrative to comment on why he chose to cut a certain chapter, or he offers small commentaries on how effective he felt some passage to be. At first I found these interruptions annoying; why the hell did I want to read Goldman's often flippant remarks when the Rodents of Unusual Size were lurking just feet behind our protagonists? But as I continued reading I realized that the interruptions were coming from a part of the narrator that didn't want to let go of the escapism and high idealism of the story. This is supposed to be a book where the hero always wins, even when he dies; where the enemy is so evil, so dastardly, that we feel not a single shred of sympathy when he loses everything; where true love conquers all.
But that's fantasy. And the point of Goldman's interruptions--especially his subtly poignant ending--is that life isn't fantasy. It isn't fair, and it isn't inspiring. As Goldman writes, "It's just fairer than death, that's all."
What makes The Princess Bride so moving is that, by the end, you realize that the charming story of Westley and Buttercup is really nothing more than a long lament for lost youth and lost idealism. Since I read a lot of fantasy, the message hit me especially hard. I do have ideals that I've culled from hundreds of books--ideals about heroism, courage, loyalty, friendships, and, yes, love. And what this book tells me, by recounting the most ridiculously idealistic story of them all, is that none of those ideals are any use. By the time I die I will probably have lived a gray and mostly ordinary life, and if I do do extraordinary things they will happen by accident, and not by the fire of my passion for anything, or anybody. All that I'll have left, in the end, is the memory of a time when I believed in all of those ideals so firmly that the possibility of disillusionment hadn't even entered my mind.
At least that's what I got out of the book. Maybe other people will see other lessons. But that's why Goldman writes of the moral of his story, "What you do with it will be of more than passing interest to us all."
Copyright © 2002 Steven Wu 