It would be disenchanting, if, at a magic show, between each trick, the magician asked if you had yet accepted Jesus Christ as your personal savior. Comedy shows with regular intermissions for the discussion of politics, an evening out with a recent love interest that is persistently punctuated with fond talk of past lovers and chronic bowel obstruction—both things that might take us out of the mood. A phenomenon equally represented in Mark Twain’s A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court.
Twain is indubitably a master rhetorician and humorist, and he is at his best when knows this. His rhetorical sleights of hand, riotous turns of phrase, and Romantic depictions of sylvan scenes enchant, enliven, and enrapture. In A Connecticut Yankee, however, Twain achieves high marks in poor form by reminding us that, should a moralist pamphleteer want to masquerade as a fiction writer, he should, at least, do it subtly, as the opposite usually leaves one feeling sinful, humorless, and limp.
There seems to be something of a formula as regards the abovementioned fun-to-guilt ratio. Let us briefly revisit our abovementioned reverent magician. He has about an hour to create insecurity in adults’ intellects and instill in children a reason to live. Religion can perform both of these feats. Even the most pious of deacons known to nod off. Perhaps, however, instead of suggesting his audience follow the path to peace and understanding between each trick, he could just open and end with a powerful, tangential quip about our Lord and Savior—people do worse consistently.
Twain might have employed this sage advice, during his book-length snoozer on Modernity. After his hundredth mentioning of how he “was afraid the Church” and then again, just a yawn later, during a novel moment about how he “was afraid of a united Church,” he felt it a necessity to redefine redundancy: “[the church] makes a mighty power, the mightiest conceivable, and then when it by and by gets into selfish hands, as it is always bound to do, it means death to human liberty, and paralysis to human thought.”
The like continues ad infinitum. Believe it or not, is this not the same gentleman who, when asked about his tips for good writing, noted “don’t say the old lady screamed. Bring her on and let her scream”? Seems to me that Twain, in this case, decided put on the wig and muumuu himself and grab a bullhorn.
What about our politically concerned comedian? Is it so wrong to be worldly, informed, and possess a desire to help others understand the multitude of historical and political contexts that shape the very foundations of consciousness? Yes. This is called being annoying, and it is illegal.
Just as it is the death knell of comedy to complete each joke by subsequently asking if one has fully realized the weight thereof, it is equally important to assume that an audience can form its own thoughts and opinions. Twain, unfortunately, though a former steamboat captain himself, in A Connecticut Yankee, misses the boat the entirely. Only because I cannot, due to laws and so forth, quote the entirety of the book, provided herein is but one of a thousand of Professor Twain’s Intro to Political Science classes:
The painful thing observable about all this business was, (sic) the alacrity with which this oppressed community had turned their cruel hands against their own class in the interest of the common oppressor. This man and woman seemed to feel that in a quarrel between a person of their own class and his lord, it was the natural and proper and rightful thing for that poor devil’s whole caste to side with the master and fight his battle for him, without ever stopping to inquire into the rights and wrongs of the matter…this was depressing…it reminded me of time thirteen centuries away…
Hmm? Excuse me. Was I snoring? Well, this goes on for another two-hundred pages or so, punctuated by what Twain does best: write excellently.
The rule of assuming that your audience also has a sophomoric understanding of political theory applies well here. There are plenty of excellent books as regards the critical examination of political theory, and readers of A Connecticut Yankee are implored read them.
What about our beautiful date from the beginning who just will not stop going on about someone named Devin—a great person with whom an amicable split was made and who still contacts your date regularly, usually at night—and has repeatedly referred to a chronic gastrointestinal disturbance hereditary in its origins? The hard truth of the matter is that Twain’s writing is almost always a 10. It looks good. It swells one with a love for aesthetics. But, then, it speaks, and something happens. The spell is broken. Things go flat.
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