William Steig’s Abel’s Island

Welcome to the week-end.

We’ve made it to February, so our chances of succumbing to diphtheria diminish as the days go by. A hearty congratulations to us all.

This weekend’s short is hewn from the novella Abel’s Island, an award-winning work written and illustrated by William Steig. Published in 1976 and animated with the prodigious talents of Michael Sporm (art) and Tim Curry (voice) in the ’80s, Abel’s Island is the tale of a posh mouse blown away in a gale; the following hundred pages detail Abel’s attempts to return to civilization and his dear wife. While some dismiss the book as Castaway-lite or Gulliver’s Maus, the spare prose and fragile illustrations of Abel manage, perhaps somewhat ironically, to capture more of the human experience than any of its lengthier peers in the genre.

Chapter 12 is where we join Abel today. He’s been in the wilds for half a year, and has made a home of sorts inside a log. Unfortunately, the silent predations of an owl haunt his steps. The bird is omnipresent — a representative of nature and mortality. Abel attempts to continue his work and recreation (vital to maintaining his sanity) under these conditions, all while waiting to see when the creek will drop low enough for him to make good his escape.

Steig writes:

In December, Abel began talking to himself. He had done it before, but only internally. Now he spoke out loud, and the sound of his own voice vibrating in his body felt vital. Addressing himself by name, he would give advice, or ask questions and answer them. Sometimes he argued back and forth, Abel with Abel, and even got quite angry when he disagreed with his own opinions. He often found himself hard to convince.

. . .

The first real snowfall was tail deep. Abel made himself snowshoes and went to his book with a homemade shovel in one arm, his spear in the other. He dug the book out of the snow and read Chapter XIX.

By Chapter XIX, the bear war was at its worst: many had been killed or wounded. It made Abel wonder about civilization. But, come to think of it, the owl, who was not civilized, was pretty warlike too. The hero, Captain Burin, was writing home from the battlefield to the one he had waltzed with in the first chapter, the one he loved. It was also winter in the story, and a drunken sergeant was saying things that were foolish and wise and funny—he wished he were hibernating instead of warring. Some of his statements made Abel roll around on the page, his cloudy breath exploding in spasms of laughter.

I’d like to draw your attention first to Abel’s internal debate. This may be navel-gazing, but nothing better describes the day of a writer than “argu[ing] back and forth, Abel with Abel, and even [getting] quite angry when he disagreed with his own opinions.” I grant that the name association may have something to do with my perception of the passage’s brilliance.

Then comes the owl, depicted in the clip below.

(Apologies for the two-part tweet. It refused to shear the first illustration.)

When Abel takes hold of the owl feathers and bellows his imprecations, Kevin Williamson’s wise words come to mind. Abel, a formerly principled, learned, and liberal mouse, becomes a raving shaman, wishing doom upon his effectively immortal enemy. I mention KDW because his writing on political histrionics and pagan rituals seems apt.

Whether it’s the Times going faint about Florida’s university system management or right-wing activists becoming so noxious that they undo gains on school boards, there’s a cost to being a blathering idiot — opportunity, goodwill, and energy costs all must be accounted for when applying one’s work to unreceptive ends. We hawk cankerous goods before the temple, and we’ll wonder why they’re cast to the ground.

Abel’s Island is worth reading for a host of reasons, but I most recommend it for its treatment of our smallness as well as the towering size of our passions. A lot of wisdom in a little book.