Quiet Mountain Essays

Copyright © 2010

From Inner Dwarf to Royal Child: Creativity and Emotional Maturity
in "Rumpelstiltskin" and May Sarton
by
Brigitte Goetze

“STRONG MEDICINE—NOT TO BE TAKEN INTERNALLY BY SARTON FANS.”  This
disclaimer, placed in the prologue of May Sarton, A Biography surprised me. Why did Margot Peters,
the biographer whom May selected herself, find this warning necessary? Like many others, I thought
of May as a friend, and was saddened by her death in 1995 at age 84. I had read her novels, my
favorite being Joanna and Ulysses, loved her poems, and cherished her non-fiction books Plant
Dreaming Deep and Journal of a Solitude.

After finishing Peter’s engrossing book, I found my head spinning. What to make of May’s life-long
complaints about insufficient recognition, given that she received honorary doctorates and prizes for
her poetry? How to reconcile May’s writing about healing and transcendence with her many broken
relationships?

May was aware of her problems. Still, she was unable to achieve that kind of integration in her
psyche which she described in her work. While she claimed that she had grown during her life, the
biography told of struggles that lasted into old age: her many money woes; the push-pull between
needing to be the center of attention and yet feeling drained by her readers' letters and visits; her
powerful angers which she expressed unrestrained. Though she noticed the negative effects of her
behavior, she was unwilling to control herself. She believed her rages were part of her animus and
necessary for her creativity.

This startled me; such a claim seemed to be an obvious rationalization—but then I remembered
"Rumpelstiltskin", a Grimm’s fairy tale. I love these tales and believe that they are more than stories of
a by-gone era, preserved for the entertainment of children. They contain, clad in symbolic language,
the wisdom of previous generations. These tales warn about dangers and propose solutions on the
level of the psyche, that is, they speak about attitudes, beliefs, and self-concept.

"Rumpelstiltskin" is about transformation. A miller brags about his daughter’s spinning skills. The
king locks the girl up, ordering her—under the threat of death—to spin straw into gold. A magical
dwarf enters her prison and offers to do the job. In the first night, the girl barters her necklace, in the
second night her ring. On the third night—not believing the dwarf’s prophecy that she will marry the
king—she agrees to surrender her firstborn. Yet, on the next morning, the king weds the heroine who
in due time gives birth. Now the dwarf demands his reward. Unwilling to surrender her baby, the
queen negotiates a new deal: he will relinquish his claim if she discovers his name. The queen sends
out messengers. One of them overhears a little man, deep in the woods, singing “nobody knows that
I’m called Rumpelstiltskin.”(Zipes) When the queen guesses correctly that this is the name of her
dwarf, he—furious about having been found out—rips himself apart.
  
To spin a yarn is to tell a tale. But to spin straw into gold is magic: the transmutation of ordinary
experience into golden awareness, that is—art. Hence, "Rumpelstiltskin" can be understood as the
story of a young woman who is propelled by her father (either her parent or an inner aspect) to create
art.

Interestingly, there are surprising similarities and telling differences between the fairy tale and May’s
life. Both, the miller’s daughter and May, had fathers skilled in analysis and discrimination. A miller
grinds grain (a symbol for analysis) and sifts it (that is, discriminates). May’s father, George Sarton, a
historian of science, held a doctorate in physics and mathematics from the University of Ghent.
Unfortunately, both fathers put his ego’s needs first. The miller, boasting, overstated his daughter’s
skill and thus endangered her. Similarly, George considered his research more important then being
a father. Whenever his wife, Mabel, was unable to take care of May, George sent his small daughter
to friends of the family. However, George, just like the miller, was proud of his daughter’s skill; for
example, he supported the publication of her first book of poetry.

Both fathers taught their daughters the importance of work, as well as the importance of analysis and
discrimination. These are important values, as the beginning poet must be able to critically evaluate
her own writing. In addition, both daughters benefited from parental pride, giving each confidence in
her own talent. On the negative side, both daughters were taught by her father's example a disregard
for the needs of others. However, the miller does so by exaggerating his daughter’s skill; that is, he
recognizes and communicates her value, even if he does so to bolster his own ego. George’s actions,
however, sent the message that May was a bother who distracted him from doing something more
important. Thus he set up a dangerous pattern of “I come first” for May’s intimate and professional
relationships.

This disparity may explain why May and the miller’s daughter dealt differently with relationship
issues. The miller’s daughter didn’t assert herself in front of the king, a move which might have
incurred his wrath, jeopardizing not only her safety, but also her father’s. Nor did she beg or wail,
meaning she didn’t let her feelings dictate her behavior. Neither did she repress her emotions. Rather,
she stayed composed under trying circumstances and wept only when she was alone. Instead of
acting out, she responded to her situation by transforming—in the quiet of the night, with the help of
the dwarf—the prickly straw of her experience into the shining gold of her art.

May, however, vented without any consideration for others. When confronted, she defended herself
by accusing others of a “fear of feelings.” Thus, she hid from herself how she used outburst as a
means of control. When old age and disease limited her strength and ability, May relied on the
assistance of loyal friends, whom she called her “minions.” Of course, she meant that humorously,
but in the context of her life, I am reminded of the adage 'Many a truth is said in jest.'  

Behaviors, such as these, are shaped by an intra-psychic attitude which also affects an artist’s
understanding of and relationship to her creativity. The miller's daughter (a symbol for the ego) knew
that she was an accomplished spinner—a talented storyteller—but not (yet) an artist. To become that,
she needed the dwarf's help. The dwarf is a part of the psyche that didn’t develop properly and is thus
a symbol for the wounded inner child. Creativity can flow through this channel because the inner
child knows how to play, is open to possibility, and nonjudgmental. Imagination, wonder, truth
speaking, unencumbered ability to feel, these are the gifts of the child to the artist.

The dwarf shows up when the fairy tale’s heroine is desperate. Intense feelings can bring the inner
child to awareness and thus create an opening for creativity. Curiously, feelings of desperation also
colored May's loves and friendships. She said that she attached herself to others with the same
tenacity that a limpet adheres to a rock. More significantly, for most of her life May was only able to
write poetry when she was in love. Usually, her attraction led to a relationship with the adored
person, but not always. She called the beloved her “muse.”  While her romantic feelings lasted, the
poems would come. Whenever they ended, the inspiration for poems dried up. Though her work on
novels and journals was not affected in this way. Only in her seventies did May learn to write poems
without a “muse.”

The dwarf’s assistance has a price. The miller’s daughter gladly gives him her only valuables, her
necklace and her ring. For an aspiring artist, who often has to make a living with some other
endeavor, the valuables are time and effort. Like the miller's daughter, May was willing to dedicate
herself to her craft. She reserved the morning hours for writing, a schedule she maintained most days,
even during vacations.

Making a living is a conundrum for the beginning artist. Craft, requiring time and effort, may be at
odds with generating income. When making money or fame become the sole motivations, an artist is
imprisoned by the greed of the inner king. The king is a symbol of mastery and its rewards, such as
financial success and recognition. The miller’s daughter is freed when the king becomes aware of his
greed, and values creativity more than monetary gains. This symbolizes the insight of an ambitious
young artist who found after initial success that the only possible motivation for creative work is “to
write for joy,” as poet and writer Erica Jong put it.

Unfortunately, May never managed to liberate herself from her inner king’s demands. He held her
captive in two areas: financial and literary success. Economic problems troubled May most of her life.
In her early adulthood, May repeatedly turned to family and friends to bail her out. Even after her
writing generated enough income to live on, May requested money from her father when she wanted
to do this, buy that, travel there. No matter how much she earned, it was never enough, for she spent
lavishly on herself or others without consideration to the consequences. Her fiscal dealings made little
sense to her biographer who called them “May economics.”  

Though May’s writing skills earned her a dedicated readership, she believed that she did not receive
the critical acclaim she deserved. A Guggenheim grant and two nominations for the National Book
Award were not enough. She craved for her work to be included in the literary canon taught at
universities, even though she realized the dangers of such ambition. “What I have had to kill, the big
DRAGON, has been ambition of the wrong kind. In the end one’s work is between oneself and God,
not between oneself and the critics, the fashion, or the dealers.”(Peters 265) But then she continued:
“Yet, there is this terrible need to crash through somehow.” Other writers shared May’s yearning for
a specific kind of approval. Henry Miller, for example, hoped all his life to receive the Nobel Prize
(Jong). But for May the issue of critical acclaim wasn’t just a life-long longing—it was a torment.

In fairy tales, marriage indicates that two opposing forces have come into equilibrium. The king, at
first an overpowering presence, turns into a supportive husband, while the heroine, once a shy and
unassuming spinner, reigns as a queen. For the artist that means a psychic adjustment in which
success and craft are now equally important.

May, however, didn’t achieve that balance. All her life she chafed against what she considered the
poverty of her youth (caused in her mind by the stinginess of her father.) This made her susceptible to
prodding from her publisher to produce one book per year. She tried to keep this schedule, even
though it limited time available for polishing. Though she was terrified of the reviews, she did not
slow down. She was not willing to curtail her spending in order to stretch her money and thus have
more time for revisions. Rather, she justified her pace with her need to generate an income.

Balance allows something new to emerge. In the story of "Rumpelstiltskin", marriage is followed by
the birth of a baby. The royal child symbolizes a new attitude of the artist to creativity, the artist
becomes a “mother” to her art, provides it with nourishment (information, experiences, feedback
from trusted fellow practitioners) and shelter (solitude, protection from undue influences.) This
requires the awareness that creativity, like a child, comes through the artist but is not of the artist, to
paraphrase Kahlil Gibran. Other poets have also expressed this view. For example, Jane Kenyon saw
herself as a servant of truth, spoke of poetry’s “priestly function,” felt that the poet’s job was to
console the reader (Kenyon). May, too, dedicated her art to a higher goal; however, her view of herself
as a poet differed from Kenyon: “I think really I am a troubadour and my business is celebration of
the people I love.”(Peters 105) Hence, it may not be surprising that poems would flow through May
only when she was in love, when the energy of her feelings was directed towards the appreciation of
another and not solely focused on satisfying her own desires.

Before creativity can flow through the new venue of the royal child, the valid demands of the dwarf
must be attended to. After all, he has been given a promise. It is significant how the queen solves her
dilemma. She does not call for the king’s soldiers to kill the dwarf (i.e. doesn’t try to kill a part of
herself) or throw him into a dungeon (repress that aspect of herself.) Rather, she negotiates a new deal
(enters into communication with this part of herself.) If she can find out the dwarf’s true name (his
identity,) he will relinquish his claim on her newborn. The queen takes the obvious route: she sent
messengers (her thoughts) into the outside world with the charge to uncover the dwarf’s name for
her. But the dwarf can not be found there; he lives deep in the woods of her unconsciousness. In other
words, the queen has to engage in a process of introspection to learn the nature of the unhealed
wound within. This takes time and effort. And only in the last moment does her emissary (her self-
inquiry) encounter her inner dwarf and learns his name: Rumpelstiltskin. This name is linguistically
related to the German words “to rumble” and  “to limp,” which implies that the dwarf isn’t just
handicapped by his size, but also by a limp, indicating an old injury. The name also calls up the
notion of a “poltergeist” (literally translated “a rumbling ghost,”) a loud spirit, behaving childishly,
given to outbursts, just as May was.

When the queen confronted Rumpelstiltskin (May's propensity for temper tantrums), he gave her one
last performance: stomping his foot so hard that it sunk in the earth, and—growing increasingly
furious—he ripped himself into two pieces while screaming, “The devil told you my name!” This
scene symbolizes the violent nature of a sudden insight, an “Oh, my God, what have I done!” The
ego recognizes the excessiveness and inappropriateness of its past behavior and resolves to never do
that again.

While May knew that her temper tantrums were tactless and damaging, she did not go so far as to
stop them. Like Rumpelstiltskin, she avoided responsibility for her actions by passing blame. In her
last journal, she attributed the paucity of positive reviews to the actions (“I have an enemy”) or
inactions (“I have no defenders”) of others. She agreed with Andy Lightfoot, who said, “Poets are,
inevitably, disturbed and disturbing people, vulnerable, archaic, never quite grown up, feeling their
way by hunches, in touch at times with mysterious powers, always engaged in knocking walls down,
opening locked doors, and making nuisances of themselves.”(Peters 296) Contemporary poets such
as Kathleen Norris have challenged such thinking, as does this interpretation. But it is probably not
surprising that May sided with Lightfoot; his view allowed her to protect her behavior by defending it
as being “necessary.”

My review of May’s life in terms of a fairy tale is an attempt to find and understand underlying
patterns. I find such an approach beneficial, because, as a beginning writer and poet, I can use all the
help I can get. However, it is good to keep in mind that a life is always more complex than an
observed pattern.

May’s life was rewarding and rich in many ways. She had followed her calling, lived on her own
terms, supported herself by her writing, received prizes and awards. She was beloved by her readers,
even enabled some of them to change their lives for the better. Despite these achievements, which she
recognized, near the end of her life she wondered if her life had been a failure. At first her disquiet
surprised me. But now I think the question which troubled her was: Had she become an artist of the
quality to which she aspired? Maybe she somehow sensed that her unresolved emotional problems
hindered her from growing further as a person and maybe even as an artist.

Though the fairy tale doesn’t give any clues about the miller’s daughter’s early years, I infer from her
behavior when in distress that she was not burdened by any trauma. May, however, had had a
difficult childhood which left its scars on her psyche. Out of pure self-preservation, she had to develop
a strong will to prevail in the atmosphere in which she was raised. Over time, this became a
personality trait. In addition, May feared that curbing her emotional outbursts would deprive her of
her ability to write. And much hinged on that capacity, not just income, but also identity, and
recognition from others. The latter was a stand-in for the emotional security which she craved as a
child, but didn’t receive.

May, active and creative till the end of her long life, avoided addiction and suicide, pitfalls which
caught many other artists. While she did not reach the kind of emotional maturity which would have
helped her to resolve her long-lasting conflicts, she did not not mature. In the words of one of her
lovers, May was two people “the writer, sensitive, intuitive, wise, and the chaotic child, irrational,
angry, demanding.”(Peters 289) It is the former part who was expressed in the books I love. Though
she tried again and again to find inner peace, she failed. I can’t help but wish that she had succeeded,
and then told the rest of us how she did it and how it changed her life and her art.

Notes

Jong, Erica. The Devil at Large: Erica Jong on Henry Miller. Grove Press, 1993.

Kenyon, Jane. A Hundred White Daffodils. Graywolf Press, 2000.

Peters, Margot. May Sarton, A Biography. NY: A. A. Knopf, 1997.

Zipes, Jack  (trans.).Complete Fairy Tales of the Brothers Grimm. NY: Bantam, 1987.

Contributor's Notes...

Ms. Goetze has been published by Oregon Humanities, Thresholds, Outward Link, Four and Twenty and
others. She lives in Western Oregon.

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