You know the story. It’s variously attributed to storytellers in India, to a Spanish writer, or most famously to Danish author Hans Christian Anderson. It is about a king who is hoodwinked by his tailor into believing he is wearing a miraculous invisible garb when, in fact, he’s naked.
The Emperor’s New Clothes intrigues for a couple of reasons. First, it titillates readers with the notion of a public person blithely walking about sans clothes. Perhaps “titillate” isn’t the right verb, given the condition of most aging monarchs’ bodies. It is a startling image, in any event.
Second, the story elevates the masses to a position of parity with royalty. It is clear to all that the strutting emperor has lost more than his clothes. As his subjects gaze upon him with amusement bordering on contempt, his aura is stripped away.
The story climaxes when some boys blurt out the obvious: “Look! The Emperor has no clothes!” Townspeople had noticed the same thing, of course, but chose to say nothing. Called out by their children, they joined in ridicule and the pretense of an invisible gown unraveled before their eyes.
Speaking up—openly acknowledging nonsense—can be so revealing. The power of the obvious is awesome. Kids say the darnedest things, as Art Linkletter used to say, and adults should, too. Candor especially is needed when public absurdity is sown by “experts,” because failure to puncture official nonsense has enormous consequences.
The emperor’s tale is relevant today because the tailor seems to have found a home here in the New World. Nakedly nonsensical policies are being trotted out every day without embarrassment.
To wit, we are assured that men and women sharing athletic dressing rooms is a good idea. Appointing people to positions according to race, gender and sexual orientation rather than skill set and competence is good management. Nations having borders is an archaic, if not racist, concept. Punishment for criminal behavior should depend upon who commits the crime. And, of course, Mother Nature is out to kill us.
It’s as if our society has been dragged into a funhouse with distorting mirrors and tilting floors. The difference is, fun-seekers can emerge from a funhouse amusingly misoriented, but our contemporary funhouse is a 24-7 operation. The din of nonsense follows us home.
Here’s a writerly question: If someone were to publish a novel today containing all this magical thinking, would it be categorized as fantasy, satire, or apocalyptic literature? And if the novelist didn’t end the story with all the protagonists being rewarded for their craziness, would the book be banned? (Or shunned by the publishing industry, which is pretty much the same thing.)
Sometimes joking can puncture pernicious nonsense. How about… what breed of dog learns to say “Welcome” in 14 different languages? A border collie. Or this … how did the biological male athlete greet the biological female athlete as they undressed together? “Nice to see you.”
What do you think about all this? Speak up.