Waterland

The meaning of reality is blurred time and again, but one aspect of its absolute existence is the harshness of life on the Fens, which prompts the Cricks to delve into their imaginations for relief from toil and drudgery. Tom reflects that “there’s no saying what heady potions we won’t concoct, what meanings, myths, manias we won’t imbibe in order to convince ourselves that reality is not an empty vessel” (41). He asserts that storytelling is an outlet that fills an inner void:

“What do you do when reality is an empty space? You […] conjure up, with all the risks, a little token urgency; you can drink and be merry and forget what your sober mind tells you. Or, like the Cricks who out of their water toils could dredge up a tale or two, you can tell stories” (61).

“Historia,” as opposed to “history,” delves into a complex web of fact and fiction with myriad implications. Tom says “man […] is the story-telling animal” for various reasons, such as to soothe children afraid of the dark and tell “the fabulous aura of history” (62). Wherever man goes, “he wants to leave behind not a chaotic wake, not an empty space, but the comforting marker-buoys and trail-signs of stories […] as long as there’s a story, it’s all right” (63). Stories allow people to manipulate the facts to create a “happy ending,” making life palatable even when it is full of suffering and catastrophe.

Tom uses storytelling as a lifelong coping mechanism. He relies on it in his youth, when he sees others looking at Mary as they frolic on the Fens and flirt with nudity and each other, when “he escapes to his story-books” (207), and when he recounts numerous memories after imploring his students to “listen, listen. Your history teacher wishes to give you the complete and final version” (8). Waterland strongly suggests that storytelling, the panacea for life’s harsh realities, should be embraced, and “even if we miss the grand repertoire of history, we yet imitate it in miniature and endorse, in miniature, its longing for presence, for feature, for purpose, for content” (41).

The powerful theme of love and sacrifice permeates this novel in both obvious and subtle ways, and often with tragic consequences. Tom acts as a support system during the dreadful night of Mary’s abortion. He implores her, “Hold my hand, Mary. Hold on, Mary. Love you, Mary” (301), even though he thinks her child is someone else’s. Subsequently, Tom’s character undergoes a figurative death when he sacrifices fatherhood to wed Mary. In an attempt to fill that void, he addresses his students as “children” and all but adopts Price. His sacrifice does not end there, as he must also relinquish his personal passion—teaching history—for Mary.

When Mary gives up her religion for a secular life of sexual love and exploration, she begins events that will result in sacrifices of sanity, her chance at motherhood, and her very soul. Dick’s convoluted display of love and sacrifice is primarily seen in his suicide, which he commits out of immense guilt for killing Freddie in an envious rage over his relationship with Mary.

Stories about Helen and Henry’s relationship likewise center on love and sacrifice. When Helen chooses to love a life of love with Henry, she sacrifices her earlier moral stance by reluctantly agreeing to have a child with her own father. In her mind, incest is a sacrifice to the greater good of love. Though guilty of incest, Mary’s father, Ernest, exhibits sacrifice when he agrees to let Mary leave and marry Henry. Ernest loves his daughter in many ways, but he ultimately supports her happiness. His suicide, though representative of guilt, also highlights sacrifice by removing himself from the picture, as well as love—albeit thwarted love—in that his son by Mary won’t know him until he’s long gone from the world.