The Tale of a Burnt Offering

SAROYAN'S FABLES--William Saroyan --Harcourt Brace ($7.50).

Once upon a time there was a young man named Anarosy who decided that he was a genius.

Anarosy wrote a great many stories, mostly about himself. At first people would not buy them, but after a while they did, and some agreed with Anarosy when he told them he was a genius. He told them that in a very loud voice.

One day, carrying a manuscript, Anarosy went to see a publisher of books.

I wish you to publish this book, Anarosy said.

All right, the publisher said. What kind of a book is it?

It is a book suitable to bear the name of the greatest writer in the world, Anarosy said. I have an uncle who has told me many wise and quaint fables from the old country. I have set them down in simple, quaint, and moving language, spiced here and there with modern slang and swear-words. That will deposit the customers in the aisles.

What are the fables about? asked the publisher.

Anarosy said, They are about kings and beggars, wise men and fools, deaf men and blind men, good men and bad men. Here is one about the devil.

The publisher took the manuscript and read the following: "My friend, the devil said, where are you going? I am going to Bitlis, the other said. I am going to Bitlis too, the devil said. Let us journey the rest of the way together. That will be a pleasure, the other said." And the tale went on to tell how the young man fooled the devil.

Do you think that people will buy a book like this? the publisher said. It is a very short book.

Why, certainly, Anarosy said. This will not be a commonplace book. We will prepare it on fine paper, in large beautiful type, with quaint illustrations. It will have long and quaint chapter headings in italics, like those in the old translations of Rabelais and Apuleius. We will prepare only one thousand copies of this book, and we will sell each one for seven hundred and fifty pieces of copper. In each copy I will sign my name. This book will be a burnt offering, not from worshipers to their god, but from a god to his worshipers.

All right, the publisher said. What shall we call this book? "The Fables of Anarosy?"

No, Anarosy said. Let us put the name first. Let us call it "Anarosy's Fables."

When Anarosy had gone away, the publisher pondered. I suppose, he said to himself, there is much quaint and homely wisdom in this book, even though some of it has been kicking around for quite a spell. And I do not doubt that the admirers of Anarosy will buy many copies at seven hundred and fifty pieces of copper. But I hope that, a year after it is published, Anarosy does not enter the place of a merchant of drugs and find a copy of this book for sale at forty-nine pieces of copper. If that happened, Anarosy would fall down in a fit.

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