I came across this collection of mocked stylizations of the Little Red Riding Hood, thoroughly enjoyed them and translated them from Russian for this post. You might recognize the distinct literary styles of all or some of the writers: Richard Bach, Haruki Murakami, Guy de Maupassant, Victor Hugo, Jack London, Edgar Poe, Erich Maria Remarque, writing in different languages — English, French, German, Japanese.
Richard Bach espouses his philosophy in his hugely popular books Jonathan Livingston Seagull and Illusions: The Adventures of a Reluctant Messiah. According to Bach, our apparent physical limits and mortality are merely appearance…
“I’m a seagull!” said Wolf.
“It’s an illusion,” said Little Red Riding Hood.
The blue top of the magic forest swept under the wing of a 10.17 Cessna-152 carburetor equipped, four-cylinder 233.3 cu. in displacement, HO rated BHP at 2550 RPM. The plane landed at the edge of the forest by the cottage, built of the white stone.
“Do you see the house?” Little Red Riding Hood asked with a sly smile.
Wolf sighed. “We do attract houses and grandmothers into our life…”
Murakami’s fiction is often surrealistic and nihilistic, marked by a Kafkaesque rendition of themes of loneliness and alienation.
When I woke up, Little Red Riding Hood was still asleep. I smoked seven cigarettes one after another, went to the kitchen and began to cook the noodles. I always cook the noodles very carefully. I don’t like it when something distracts me in the middle of the process. The radio played Pink Floyd. When I was about to pour sauce over the noodles, the doorbell rang. On the way to the door, I peeked into the bedroom. Little Red Riding Hood was still asleep. I admired her ears, one of which was lit up by the morning sun. I had never seen such ears… As I opened the door, I saw Wolf, and Sheep immediately came to my mind…
Guy de Maupassant
Guy de Maupassant, a popular 19th-century French writer, is considered one of the fathers of the modern short story and the form’s finest exponents.
Wolf met her. He scrutinized her with that special look that any experienced Parisian libertine throws at a provincial coquette, who was still trying to pretend to be a virgin. But he believes in her innocence no more than she does, and he imagines her undressing, her skirts falling off one after the other as she is left wearing only a shirt, under which the sweet shape of her body is outlined…
Hugo, the author of Les Miserables and The Hunchback of Notre Dame, was a French poet, novelist, and dramatist of the Romantic movement, one the greatest and best known French writers.
Little Red Riding Hood trembled. She was alone. She was alone like a needle in the desert, like a speck of sand among the stars, like a gladiator caught amidst poisonous snakes, like a slug in the oven…
She was a worthy daughter of her race; the blood of strong white explorers of the North flowed in her veins. Therefore, and without batting an eye, she lunged upon the wolf, threw a devastating blow and immediately reinforced it by one of her classic left hooks. The wolf ran in fear. She watched him, smiling. It was a charming, womanly smile.
Edgar Allan Poe
At the edge of the old, gloomy, entwined into a mysteriously rigid veil forest, over which floated ominous dark clouds of sinister vapors and the dreadful sound of clanking chains was heard from miles away — there, in a mystical horror, lived Little Red Riding Hood.
A German writer and screenwriter, Süskind is the author of acclaimed Perfume — the novel that explores the sense of smell and the emotional meaning that scents, odors and vapors may carry.
Wolf smelled disgustingly. His odor was that of a tanner’s shop filled with decomposing corpses. His dirty gray fur reeked of decaying flesh, bitter-sweet and nauseating. Wolf himself was oblivious of his own horrible odor. He was admiring Little Red Riding Hood. She smelled of violets at sunrise, the indescribable fragrance that flowers exude moments before the daybreak, when the bud is not yet fully abloom…
Erich Maria Remarque
“Come to me,” said Wolf.
Little Red Riding Hood poured two glasses of cognac and sat beside him on the bed. They inhaled the familiar scent. In this cognac was a quintessence of longing and fatigue, desire, depression and an abatement of the dying twilight. Cognac was life itself.
“Of course,” she said, “we have no hope. We have no future.”