PlainGeets

On a rare Sunday, when we were at home, and had no chores pending, I found myself finally able to look at the article that was waiting for my attention for over a week – The Brothers Grimm were dark for a reason, published in The New Yorker earlier this month. Primarily a review of the biography of the Grimm brothers by Ann Schmiesing, the article took me back to a different me – one who devoured articles like this, read fairy tales and fables from different countries and delved into a similar analysis as the one I found in this article, on how how their work was influenced by their personal lives, their immersion in German folklore,  their role in the development of German nationalism and their efforts to create a cohesive national identity through the collection and preservation of German language and cultural traditions. Then there was the comparison between similar fairy tales emerging from different countries – German fairy tales, at least as presented by the Grimms, leaned towards a darker and more visceral style compared to the French versions, with which we more familiar. The Grimms prioritised authenticity over pleasantness, preserving the raw and sometimes unsettling aspects of the original folk tales. Of course, there is the fact that “fairy tales” weren’t originally meant for children, but were mostly entertainment for adults.

This distinction between fairy tales as adult entertainment and their later adaptation for children has always fascinated me. It ties back to their roots as part of the oral tradition—stories passed down through generations, shaped and reshaped by the storytellers and their audiences. When I first started studying fairy tales from different cultures, I was struck by how similar they often were, despite vast geographical and cultural divides. Tales of cunning tricksters, perilous journeys, or enchanted transformations appear across the globe, with variations that reflect local customs and values. It made me wonder: were these similarities a coincidence, or did they reveal something deeper about shared human experiences and aspirations?

For instance, the motif of a protagonist rising from poverty or obscurity to achieve greatness—be it through wit, bravery, or a stroke of luck—appears in countless folk traditions. The French Cendrillon mirrors elements of the Chinese Yeh-Shen. These tales go beyond their cultural specifics to echo universal desires for justice, recognition, and triumph over adversity.

What I had never truly considered until reading this article, though, was the political significance of fairy tales. The idea that the Grimm brothers’ work was not just an act of cultural preservation but also a subtle (and sometimes not-so-subtle) attempt to unify a fractured Germany felt both revelatory and intuitively logical. It does make perfect sense: storytelling is a powerful tool for shaping identity. By collecting tales from different regions of Germany and framing them as part of a shared national heritage, the Grimms were weaving a narrative of unity and continuity at a time when the country was far from cohesive.

It made me wonder if similar efforts have occurred elsewhere. Were there compilers in other parts of the world who used folk tales to construct or reinforce a sense of national identity? In India, for example, the Panchatantra and the Jataka Tales are often cited as cultural cornerstones. Could their collection and dissemination have served a purpose beyond mere entertainment or moral instruction?

The article took me back to 2006, a time when I was nurturing a dream of pursuing a PhD on one of my two pet topics: the evolution of fairy tales and fables across regions and ages, or the representation of women in romance novels. I was endlessly fascinated by the ways in which these stories mirrored societal norms, fears, and aspirations, and how they transformed with the times. Back then, I devoured books and articles on these subjects, filling journals with notes and thoughts, imagining a future where I would immerse myself in the academic study of these themes.

It was a version of myself I look back on with both fondness and a twinge of nostalgia. Life since then has taken a different course, one I value deeply, but there are moments when I find myself missing that version of me—when I wonder how I might hold on to that spirit of literary curiosity and academic expression. Reading the New Yorker article reminded me of how I felt delving into these subjects, and it has inspired me to carve out time to return to them, even if only as a personal pursuit.