Bluebelle Carroll
And Then? And Then? What Else?, by Daniel Handler aka Lemony Snicket. Liveright, 2024, 240pp., $26.99
One: A Note on Origins.
Starting, as is generally expected, with the beginning, I was first introduced to Lemony Snicket when I was six. No one I cared deeply about had died yet. My aunt—thirteen years older than me, just as I am thirteen years older than her son and my mum is thirteen years older than her—sat with me in my parents’ bed and pulled out a copy of “The Bad Beginning.” She read the first chapter aloud, and when it was finished I grabbed the book myself to take a look at the next. I was met with this line:
“If you have ever lost someone very important to you, then you already know how it feels, and if you haven’t, you cannot possibly imagine it”.
I couldn’t imagine it yet, and like a person who couldn’t imagine it yet, I wished that I could. I knew that this book would take up residence—permanent residence, as far as I can tell—in my mind, and I knew that I needed a little longer to prepare. I spent a month not reading it. Then I gave in.
Two: A Matter of Credentials.
Daniel Handler (aka. Lemony Snicket) likes to leave you in doubt. This is intentional. He knows that the central gambit of the reader’s search for answers is the longing, not the answers. Nevertheless, I am a firm believer in the sunk cost fallacy and I’m a sucker for fruitless searches. This annoys my friends, not least because I have discovered that, with a wide enough net, next to anything can be a Lemony Snicket reference. I’m on my fruitless way to find them all.
Three: A Dilemma Over Uncorrected Proofs.
Before writing this review, I had never seen an advance copy of anything before. I took delight in the missset blurb and 000s in place of page numbers on the contents page. I also took note of the request to “not quote for publication without checking against the finished book.” Since I don’t have the finished book, and won’t for another month, I will quote without attribution. What’s plagiarism, measured against putting words in someone’s mouth? If, by the time you read this, you have the book to check me against, then you can search for what I’ve stolen. See if you can spot them all.
Four: What is This Book Anyway?
Mostly, it’s a memoir. It has thirteen chapters, just as “A Series of Unfortunate Events” is thirteen books of thirteen chapters each, with a fourteenth thrown in, sonnet style, to bring everything to a close. If And Then? And Then? What Else? is all true—and I have my doubts—then it’s as personal as the questions you would only ask a close friend, or perhaps a celebrity.
Five: Odes to Odes.
It’s also a love letter to literature, and to the tiny secret reasons you love what you love. If you’re interested in what he loves, I’d recommend checking the appendix.
Six: On Childhood.
Maurice Sendak answered the question, “Why is my needle stuck in childhood?” by saying “I don’t know why. I guess it’s because that’s where my heart is.” Edward Gorey replied to questions about his own childhood with the line “you know, I would like to think that I was much more poetic and sensitive than anybody else, but I don’t think it was true.” Daniel Handler wrote about how childhood, whatever precisely that is, should have departed from his mind, but that instead, here it is. And Then? And Then? What Else? contains information about not only the author’s own childhood—one in which he apparently wished to be an old man who lives at the top of a mountain giving people advice—but also brief glimpses into the lives of those his books have shaped. Writing children’s books doesn’t seem to necessitate, or even encourage, a fondness for children (just look at Margaret Wise Brown), but there needs to be respect, and maybe a stuck needle or two.
Seven: When We Grab You by the Ankles.
I have a tattoo of an eye on my left ankle. Three letters are hidden inside. I got it on my 18th birthday, and not only my mum but also my gran and four aunts insisted on accompanying me to the tattoo parlour. I think (and they have verified) that my family wanted to see me in pain. They didn’t get the satisfaction.
Eight: Some Words Mr. Handler-Snicket Enjoys.
Lunatic. Jackal. Wench. Bewildered. Bathtub.
Nine: I Didn’t Realise This Was a Sad Occasion.
In a break between lockdowns, I was wearing sandals and waiting for an almost empty train. When the doors opened, a woman got out and stopped in front of me. She looked at my sandals, then gestured to her own ankle. We had the same eye tattoo. There’s a message that is meant to be exchanged at moments like these, so we did, then went on with our lives.
Ten: The Writing Process.
Handler’s writing technique involves writing by hand, typing, printing, sticking onto index cards, rearranging the index cards, piecing everything together back again. I’d recommend giving it a go. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve switched the order of these snippets.
He also used to keep his manuscript in his fridge, in case his house burnt down in a fire. His wife eventually insisted that a crisper is meant for vegetables. Anyone who has read “A Series of Unfortunate Events” book 10 will see where his inspiration came from.
Eleven: Coincidences.
At a strangely under-attended talk between Neil Gaiman and Daniel Handler, I met a woman named something like Veronica Bear. She had been a mathematician for the Post Office before transitioning to the role of children’s librarian at her son’s school. Her son was my age, it turned out, and soon to go to university. We had a pleasant conversation and left it at that. The next month, I went to a ticketed and over-attended talk by Neil Gaiman about the new play adaptation of his book. It was a large venue, so though it did make sense that Veronica Bear might be there, we still don’t know how we ended up seated next to each other. At least I got her email out of our second exchange.
Twelve: Music
Daniel Handler and Stephin Merritt are both naturally morbid people. If you like one, I would recommend the other. Or maybe the Gothic Archies is more your style. Incidentally, I’m writing this during intermission at a Magnetic Fields concert.
Thirteen: The End of The Beginning.
I spent part of last summer with my god-siblings, who are seven and nine and keep chickens which have a habit of dying. They told me they would never forgive me if one expired on my watch. Together we made up a story about cyborg bears named Bobbin and Spiel. The seven-year-old wrote a short piece that started with the line “one time a satsuma set sail. He had no idea that he would fail.” It was little surprise that they loved A Series of Unfortunate Events enough that, even when I set sail back to school and away from them, we still had to call each night so we could finish it together. Mr. Handler says that the luckiest part of his literary life is sometimes getting to see his own work arrive and settle into reader’s minds. I think he’s right.