I’ve Always Liked Ducks

I picked up Harold Bloom’s Stories and Poems for Extremely Intelligent Children of All Ages this morning and randomly turned to a poem, followed by another poem, and then this short story by Oscar Wilde. The name of the story is “The Remarkable Rocket.”

I don’t think I’ve ever read anything by Wilde before. Immediately I liked his style; this paragraph in particular pleased me:

For the next three days everybody went about saying, “White rose, Red rose, Red rose, White rose” and the King gave orders that the page’s salary was to be doubled. As he received no salary at all this was not of much use to him, but it was considered a great honour, and was duly published in the Court Gazette.

The story seems at first to be about the wedding of a lovely young princess to a handsome prince, but when it is mentioned that there will be fireworks at the wedding celebration the story takes a different turn.

The different fireworks hold conversation with each other as they prepare to be set off at the wedding. I’m not sure if this was Wilde’s intention, but I saw a microcosm for much of humanity and the world in the collection of fireworks. Humanity’s short-sightedness is commented on, as well as our inability to see things as they really are. This was very much the case with the Rocket.

The Rocket considered himself to be the all-in-all of the firework race. He loved to hear himself talk, and proudly proclaimed that fact to the others. He thought of himself as very sensitive, intelligent, and the most spectacular performer among his counterparts. But when some of the other fireworks joke with each other while he is speaking and seem to not feel remorse for this action, he cries until he soaks himself with his tears.

At the end of the wedding celebration all of the fireworks are set off, and the people appropriately ooh and ah, but the Rocket is too soggy to be lit. So the next day those cleaning up toss him into a mossy area. He convinces himself that he must have been placed there for special reasons.

The Rocket meets a collection of animals and tries to convince each of them of his importance, but struggles to do so. The last animal he meets is a large White Duck. The Duck discovers the Rocket and begins to question him about his condition. He responds thusly:

It is quite evident that you have always lived in the country, otherwise you would know who I am. However, I excuse your ignorance. It would be unfair to expect other people to be as remarkable as oneself. You will no doubt be surprised to hear that I can fly up into the sky, and come down in a shower of golden rain.

I love the Duck’s reply:

I don’t think much of that, as I cannot see what use it is to anyone. Now, if you could plough the fields like the ox, or draw a cart like the horse, or look after the sheep like the collie-dog, the would be something.

The story ends, following the conversation with the Duck, with a couple little boys finding the Rocket and using him as kindling to boil a kettle. He shoots off from the fire, but the boys are asleep, and the only one to notice is a goose that he lands on after exploding in the sky. But somehow the Rocket “dies” still thinking that “I knew I should create a great sensation.”

Do we all have a little of the Rocket in us?