In Lubomír Doležel’s article “Possible Worlds of Fiction and History,” he suggests that although history and fiction are oddly similar, history has and maintains a truth functionality that fiction does not. In history, he claims, new facts must remain true when tested against provable, established facts. In fiction, however, this type of truth functionality does not necessarily have to exist, allowing significantly more departure from the world as we know it, as well as the invention and elaboration of other “possible worlds,” or “sovereign realms of possibilia” (Doležel 3).
First person narration is especially intriguing when viewed through the context of possible worlds theory, because first person narration is such a close relative of autobiography, a supposedly historically accurate and therefore non-fictional account of a person’s life written by that person. The relationship between first person narration and possible worlds theory is where reality, history, and fiction culminate into the deepest questions concerning our existence. Ivan Klíma’s fictional collection of short stories, My Merry Mornings: Stories from Prague, is a particularly deft example of a fictional work that assumes an oddly autobiographical feel; one that could potentially describe the narrating Klíma’s “merry mornings” each so called “day” of the week. As the collection continues, however, the stories grow progressively bizarre, more omniscient, and more symbolic. The book’s odd taint of reality begs the question: what is the difference between retelling a story and creating it? Is there a difference? Klíma asks us to consider how or if facts ground stories in reality, and whether or not we are all simply narrating our lives, and the lives of others, with an unfit authority of omniscience.
In his first story, Monday morning, A Black Market Tale, we are introduced to Klíma’s world with the shock of young Freddie falling onto his balcony, bleeding. This story, while a bit odd, seems completely plausible. While Freddie’s refusal to cry is disturbing, as is his father’s jail sentence and heavy involvement with the black market, the story still seems probable, as strange neighbors are not terribly difficult to comprehend. Even so, Klíma the narrator allows the reader behind the veil of his possible world of balcony-jumping children with criminal fathers, when he remarks that “[he] cannot help thinking that [he has] been somewhat less than fair when describing [Freddie’s] father. He certainly isn’t as accomplished a villain as he would like to be” (Klíma 9). This admission of biased storytelling quietly points to the first person narrator’s position as a creator of a “possible world.” Eerily enough, even if Freddie’s story was non-fiction, it is improbable that Klíma’s account of events would exist within the same possible world as any of the other people in the story. Because Klíma, as narrator, has the power to inform the reader about Freddie’s father, he recreates the history and the perception of Freddie’s entirely discomforting home-life situation.
The next few mornings become progressively stranger, as Klíma assumes a job as carp salesman and an orderly in order to make some extra money. What is slightly amiss in these tales are not the professions he assumes, nor the details surrounding his work, but the subtle sense of omniscience that Klíma’s narration so easily inhabits while working his odd jobs. In A Christmas Conspiracy Tale, Klíma briefly takes comfort in the “warm feeling which comes of belonging” at the thought of becoming one of “them,” (58) or a cog in the clockwork of the country, as opposed to an outsider, an observer, a writer. This warm feeling, however, is temporary, as he concludes that he will never live in the possible world of carp sales, because “they, [the insiders], will always find a way to cheat [him] (61). Equally probable, however, is that Klíma has cheated them with the creation of his tale. We know nothing of the motivations of any of the other characters, or who or what damaged the tank. We know Klíma’s story of events—nothing more than a possible world where people lack the strength to consistently adhere to any kind of internal principle.
In An Orderly’s Tale, the story appears reasonably realistic and possibly still autobiographical, until Klíma’s letter to Tanya. In his letter he documents, with omniscient narration, the story of the dying old woman and her husband, presumably the old man who is waiting by her bedside. The tale of the old man and his dying wife is tragic, concluding with the old man signing for her possessions, as he regrets his selfish ways. In an ironic commentary on inhumane mandate, the nurse says to the old man, “but of course, we must keep some kind of order,” as if that will allay the old man’s pain (110). While this statement clearly does not ease the old man’s suffering, Klíma’s letter to Tanya, has, on some level, eased her pain of working with doctors who administer lethal injections to the elderly when they reach a certain decline in health. Klíma’s naivety of this terrifyingly common medical practice is demonstrated through the sentimental story in his letter. However, his letter is more than simply naïve. He creates yet another possible world where the old woman experiences a natural death, as opposed to a scheduled one. This possible world of natural death for the elderly gives Tanya hope of a distant world where the elderly are not scheduled to die by lethal injection—hope for a possible future.
By the last tale, A Foolish Tale, all notions of autobiography are put to rest, as the characters become more animated and peculiar, and the likelihood of events and meetings become all too perfect, even symbolic. In his time away from the city, Klíma finds himself in the presence of several outcasts, including Charlie, who suffers from hallucinations, Luke, an eccentric “feeble minded” youth, and Magdalen, a provocative young woman who ran away from home. While each character is vividly individual, they are each eerily symbolic of society’s traditional outcasts; the mentally ill, the disabled, and the fallen woman. Through an unlikely course of events, including a flood, the professor who frequently visited Klíma earlier in the story joins the outsiders as the whacky philosopher, with Klíma, as always, taking his position of the writer. While highly improbable, Klíma designs this possible world as one where outcasts are forced together and forced to be honest—no doubt a possible future world for Czechs, should they abandon the fear of being outcasts in society for the seemingly foolish hope of a miracle similar to the one that brought these characters together.
If Klíma’s stories have affirmed anything, it is that words are not neutral. It is not possible to simply describe something or someone without the process of recreating and therefore creating that thing, person, or world. And yet we assume this false role of omniscience frequently, as we chat about our days with a loved one, as we write down our experiences, even as we remember quietly to ourselves. For a moment, we become the creator of a world that is built on our personal biases, whatever those biases may be. In this way, stories cannot possibly come from reality, because reality stubbornly refuses to be wholly and perfectly recreated by the human mind. There is, however, a trace of reality left in all stories, even the most abstract. Stories are neither created out of nothingness, nor a mirror of reality. They are, instead, possible worlds: worlds that could be, might be, or possibly have been. And while certain historical facts are indisputable, it is the way in which the facts are ordered and how one recounts history that ultimately matters, and what makes history more like a highly probable, eerily fictional possible world, rather than a past reality.
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