The oldest surviving work of literary theory that we have is Aristotle’s Poetics. Even if you’ve never heard of it, if you write fiction, you’ve heard its lessons. In particular, you may have heard that your protagonist should have a flaw, and this flaw is key to the plot

Or maybe you’ve heard wrong. This post at the Sententiae Antiquae blog, No, Virginia…There is No Tragic Flaw, takes exception to that assertion on the grounds that “flaw” is a misinterpretation of the original Greek word hamartia, which means “mistake.” The post goes on to say that the idea of a flawed character comes from the Christian doctrine in which we are all flawed by original sin, while the Greek word refers to “a mistake that is not connected to an essential character goodness or badness.”

Even if the Christian idea might apply, the post says, “this is not the Aristotelian context and this is not what Aristotle had in mind.” (Sententiae Antiquae’s authors can be delightful pendants.)

In fact, the meaning of hamartia has been debated for a while, and I think it’s good to bear in mind those competing definitions while writing. Amid the plethora of competing literary theories about all aspects of fiction, I contend that one truth remains: If writing is a sort of test, it’s a test with an enormous variety of right answers. Does the protagonist possess a sinful flaw, or merely make a mistake, believe a lie, lack key knowledge, or attempt the wrong thing? Each answer suggests a different story. I hope all the stories get written and read.

Aristotle goes on in Poetics to discuss characters in a literary work. “The character will be good if the purpose is good. Goodness is possible in every class of persons. Even a woman may be good, and a slave, though the former is liable to be an inferior being, and the latter quite worthless.” To which I can only harrumph in the noisiest way possible. A mistake has been made here indeed, and it is deeply tragic. Sinful, even?

This is a translation of an old story from Spain, specifically from Aragón, a region whose main city is Zaragoza. As I began work on the translation, I ran into a problem: the story is about a baturro. How should I translate that?

Literally, at least today, it means “a rustic from Aragón” according to the Royal Spanish Academy. The story is older, though, and back then, the word meant a little bit more, according to the Great Aragón Encyclopedia. A baturro would not merely be rustic but a little foolish and not very intelligent. More than that, a baturro would embody the stereotypical virtues and defects of the people of Aragón, above all pigheaded stubbornness and no small amount of pride and independence.

How could I embody all that in English? Bumpkin, redneck, hayseed, hick, yokel? The roots for some of these words are too deep in United States culture. How about provincial? Merriam-Webster’s definition includes the ideas of “limited outlook” and “unsophisticated.” That might have to do, with an added adjective or two.

The story, then:

***

One day Saint Peter grew bored. He hadn’t needed to open the Heavenly gates for some time, so he asked God to return him to the world to see what was happening down there. “No mortal has come to see us in many long years,” he said. [Translator’s note: Maybe they were all headed the other way.] With His divine blessing, Saint Peter jumped down to Earth. He had barely arrived, traveling on the road to Zaragoza, when he met a local provincial rustic and asked him where he was going.

“To Zaragoza,” he said.

“God willing,” the saint replied.

But, filled with the typical stubborn pride of the Aragón people, the rustic insisted, “Whether He wills it or not, I’m going to Zaragoza.”

The Fisher of Men, unhappy with the answer, used his God-given powers and turned the rustic into a frog. Then he tossed him into a nearby puddle. There he spent several years suffering during bad weather, dodging stones thrown by children, and enduring a thousand other calamities.

When Saint Peter had finished his mission and was ready to return to Heaven, he revisited the road to Zaragoza, restored the rustic to his human form, and asked him again where he was going.

“You already know. Zaragaza,” he said, even more determined than the first time.

“God willing, my friend, God willing,” the saint said sweetly.

“Not by God nor by [the original tale redacts the word] prayers. I have already told you: to Zaragoza or to the puddle!”

And so, the Apostle, seeing how impossible it was to bend the man’s will, let him continue peacefully on his way.

***

This is why, if you visit Zaragoza, you might see a few little frog statues in the city.

We Who Are About To… by Joanna Russ
My rating: 3 of 5 stars

A spaceship goes off-course and crashes, leaving a handful of survivors, and all but one of them are determined to survive. That one, the narrator, knows they’re all about to die. She’s shrewd, perceptive, and has a lively voice, but she is also unstable, impulsive, and unreliable.

The first half of the novel recounts her interactions with the others, and it does so stylishly and well. The second half is her stream-of-conscious reflections and ramblings about the life she is about to lose. In the introduction, Samuel R. Delany calls the second half the best part, and some other readers agree, but I’m on the side of those who thought it was a bit too New Wave. It adds to the story, but only a little, and it goes on for far too long.

I treasure other works by Joanna Russ. This one is genius in the first half, but the second half doesn’t work for me. I’m glad I read it, but if I ever re-read it, I’ll only read the first part.

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My next book, Immunity Index, is now available at NetGalley.

I’ll be chatting with members of the Madrid Writer’s Club. I was a member when I lived in Spain. You’re welcome to join us!