ones tackled above is: Where is Nick Klaus now?” No
one knows for sure. I certainly don’t know. But he must be on his
way to solving his problems. He has to be. His parents have been
waiting for him ever since he slipped , and I’m sure that he
can’t wait to see them again. Who wants to remain stuck in an album
of photos forever, without getting old and forced to deal with
eccentric creatures? For the moment, all I know for certain is that
one day (and I don’t mean two this time) he will come back . . .
Though, I have heard some unpleasant rumors too. Nick Klaus may
have been turned into a frog. I personally remain skeptical. Do
frogs write fables? I never heard of one who does. Mind you, I’ve
been told that in the land of fables spotting a frog writing fables
would not be unusual. So if you do come across a frog writing
fables you may have found Nick. I beg you to inform me at once.
Before turning my attention to Nick Klaus’s writing,
I have to make a confession. This collection of fables is not
entirely all from him. I could not resist the temptation to try my
hand at writing one. So I have inserted “The Fabulist’s Fable,” as
a way to introduce you to the delicate tightrope walk that
fabulists expose themselves to. The fable’s merit (and it does have
some) is to explain the effective ways that fabulists use fables
and to what end. I hope that you will indulge me this little
detour.
But I must stop here. The editor of this book is
hitting my desk with her ruler. I’ve gone on too long. My Foreword
is already more than two pages long, which was my limit.
However, finally I would just like to add . . .
Ouch! Ouch!
Frederic Colier
The
Fabulist’s Fable (#1)
Once upon a time, a happy King woke up in the safe
tower of his castle. The sun was bright, high in the sky. “What a
beautiful day for a promenade,” the King said (that’s the French
word for a walk). Eager, he opened his window, only to turn quickly
pale. He held his breath for a long time, unable to utter a word.
When he could breathe again, he summoned all his counselors at
once. They came rushing down in a large cavernous hall, some still
slipping their boots on, others buttoning up their shirts.
“Something grave just happened. My royal life has
been threatened,” he said with rage. Now all the counselors were
holding their breath. “The wild animals from the zoo have escaped!”
The King cupped his hands around his head. “They are running around
town, roaming across the country.”
The counselors scratched their foreheads in
disbelief. “What must we do? What must we do?” they ask each
other.
“What good is a King who is not free to go on a
promenade?” said the King.
“This matter is truly serious, your Majesty,” said
one counselor. “These beasts could overthrow you and bite your head
off,” said a bearded counselor.
“They could tear you to pieces and then eat you
alive,” added another, watching the King roll his head on the
table.
“I suggest we take pictures of those wild creatures,
put them on posters, and shame them to death,” said with great
authority the first counselor.
“I suggest that we put them on skewers and roast
them like marshmallows,” said the second counselor.
“Whoever deprives me of my promenade will pay
dearly,” added the King raising his fists at the ceiling.
A little girl, who had been listening, and who
happened to visit the castle because she thought it was a museum,
tugged at the King’s regal gown.
“Your Highness, all you need is a fabulist,” she
said.
“A fabulist?” repeated the first counselor. “What
kind of weapon is that?”
“Fabulists know how to talk to wild animals. It’s
written in my nursery rhyme book,” she said with a preaching
voice.
The counselors groaned, grumbled and groused for a
while. So the King lost patience and hammered the table with his
fists. “Find me a fabulist now! My promenade is awaiting me!”
The army searched the
one knows for sure. I certainly don’t know. But he must be on his
way to solving his problems. He has to be. His parents have been
waiting for him ever since he slipped , and I’m sure that he
can’t wait to see them again. Who wants to remain stuck in an album
of photos forever, without getting old and forced to deal with
eccentric creatures? For the moment, all I know for certain is that
one day (and I don’t mean two this time) he will come back . . .
Though, I have heard some unpleasant rumors too. Nick Klaus may
have been turned into a frog. I personally remain skeptical. Do
frogs write fables? I never heard of one who does. Mind you, I’ve
been told that in the land of fables spotting a frog writing fables
would not be unusual. So if you do come across a frog writing
fables you may have found Nick. I beg you to inform me at once.
Before turning my attention to Nick Klaus’s writing,
I have to make a confession. This collection of fables is not
entirely all from him. I could not resist the temptation to try my
hand at writing one. So I have inserted “The Fabulist’s Fable,” as
a way to introduce you to the delicate tightrope walk that
fabulists expose themselves to. The fable’s merit (and it does have
some) is to explain the effective ways that fabulists use fables
and to what end. I hope that you will indulge me this little
detour.
But I must stop here. The editor of this book is
hitting my desk with her ruler. I’ve gone on too long. My Foreword
is already more than two pages long, which was my limit.
However, finally I would just like to add . . .
Ouch! Ouch!
Frederic Colier
The
Fabulist’s Fable (#1)
Once upon a time, a happy King woke up in the safe
tower of his castle. The sun was bright, high in the sky. “What a
beautiful day for a promenade,” the King said (that’s the French
word for a walk). Eager, he opened his window, only to turn quickly
pale. He held his breath for a long time, unable to utter a word.
When he could breathe again, he summoned all his counselors at
once. They came rushing down in a large cavernous hall, some still
slipping their boots on, others buttoning up their shirts.
“Something grave just happened. My royal life has
been threatened,” he said with rage. Now all the counselors were
holding their breath. “The wild animals from the zoo have escaped!”
The King cupped his hands around his head. “They are running around
town, roaming across the country.”
The counselors scratched their foreheads in
disbelief. “What must we do? What must we do?” they ask each
other.
“What good is a King who is not free to go on a
promenade?” said the King.
“This matter is truly serious, your Majesty,” said
one counselor. “These beasts could overthrow you and bite your head
off,” said a bearded counselor.
“They could tear you to pieces and then eat you
alive,” added another, watching the King roll his head on the
table.
“I suggest we take pictures of those wild creatures,
put them on posters, and shame them to death,” said with great
authority the first counselor.
“I suggest that we put them on skewers and roast
them like marshmallows,” said the second counselor.
“Whoever deprives me of my promenade will pay
dearly,” added the King raising his fists at the ceiling.
A little girl, who had been listening, and who
happened to visit the castle because she thought it was a museum,
tugged at the King’s regal gown.
“Your Highness, all you need is a fabulist,” she
said.
“A fabulist?” repeated the first counselor. “What
kind of weapon is that?”
“Fabulists know how to talk to wild animals. It’s
written in my nursery rhyme book,” she said with a preaching
voice.
The counselors groaned, grumbled and groused for a
while. So the King lost patience and hammered the table with his
fists. “Find me a fabulist now! My promenade is awaiting me!”
The army searched the
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