and I am in desperate need of your assistance.
Please email me back. Dear “Prince A,” you can kiss
my ass. You have got to be kidding me— why would I
wire you large sums of money from my bank account
for promise of a larger reward, to extricate you from
your obviously manufactured distress, especially when
your message is from an unverified IP address?
Even the leaves of a green money tree
would not turn over in shock or awe, pity or fear,
which Aristotle reminds us are the absolute essentials
of tragedy, that mode of imitation whose power
lies in narrowing the gap and moving us to human
sympathy for another. And in the perfect tragedy,
we all know the hero: he or she was always
one among us, the golden boy or girl who grew up
on the block, everybody’s sweetheart, most likely
to succeed; the one we envied for getting the most
valentines, the one whose yearbook overflowed
with XOXOXs and signatures. Nice gal,
all around sort of chap. Upright,
well-meaning yet he fails from some blind spot,
some flaw of character or judgment and so
stumbles doggedly toward what he thinks
is love or truth or justice, though ultimately
it leads to his downfall or demise. False prince,
this sort of difficulty therefore is hard to fake:
it’s existential. And there are just
too many holes in your narrative.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.