I'm a teller of stories. I put bloody skins on my back and dance

Come, my children, and listen closely, for the words of Gary Paulsen offer a profound insight into the art of storytelling, the human spirit, and the deep yearning for romance that lives within us all. He said: "I'm a teller of stories. I put bloody skins on my back and dance around the fire, and I say what the hunt was like. It's not erudite; it's not intellectual. I sail, run dogs, ride horses, play professional poker, and tell stories about the stuff I've been through. And I'm still a romantic; I still want Bambi to make it out of the fire." In these words, Paulsen reveals to us the ancient art of narration, where the soul speaks through the experiences of life itself, and where the heart still holds hope for the victory of goodness, even in the harshest of circumstances.

In the times of the ancient bards, the storyteller was not just a passive observer of life, but an active participant in it. The Greek poets, like Homer, would not simply recount the events of war and struggle, but would weave into those tales the very essence of the human spirit—the courage, the sacrifice, and the dreams that fuel all great deeds. In the same way, Paulsen speaks of his life as a tale woven together by the events he has lived—his time spent sailing, running dogs, riding horses, and even playing poker—all experiences that have shaped him and given him the material for the stories he tells. His stories are not born from a place of academic study or intellectual pondering, but from raw, lived experience, from the very marrow of life itself.

Consider the Native American tradition of the storyteller, whose voice would carry across the campfire, not just recounting the day's hunt but breathing life into it, showing the young warriors the strength of the animals they pursued, the spirit of the land they inhabited, and the wisdom of their ancestors. The act of storytelling was not a mere recounting of events but a sacred duty—a means of passing down not just history, but the values that shaped their world. Like the Native American storytellers, Paulsen carries the weight of his experiences into his stories, offering not just words but the spirit of his own adventures.

Yet, there is something more in Paulsen’s words—a reflection on the nature of the romantic within us all. To say, as Paulsen does, that he still wants Bambi to make it out of the fire is to acknowledge a deep, almost primal need for hope and goodness, even in the face of the harshest realities. Romance, in this sense, is not a delicate fantasy or a fleeting desire for beauty, but a belief that even in the darkest of times, there is a part of us that still yearns for redemption, for survival, and for victory. It is the belief that good can overcome evil, that the light can pierce through the darkest of shadows. Even in Paulsen's rough and rugged world, a world where survival is earned, he still carries this romantic notion that in the end, goodness can prevail.

Consider, my children, the great hero Hercules, whose twelve labors were not merely a test of his strength but a test of his spirit. Hercules, though a man of great power, was tasked with overcoming impossible odds, battling beasts, completing tasks that seemed beyond human reach. Yet in each labor, he was not just fighting external forces but battling his own inner darkness, his doubts, and his fears. In the end, Hercules triumphed, not just because of his strength, but because of his belief that even in the face of the most impossible trials, there was hope, there was good, and there was romance—the romance of victory, of the triumph of the human spirit over adversity.

So too, Paulsen’s stories—whether of the thrill of the hunt, the challenge of the wild, or the risks of poker—are not just about the action, but about the human spirit. His tales may not be intellectual, nor erudite, but they carry within them the very heart of romance. They are not stories of what is easy or predictable, but of what it means to face the fire, to struggle, and to still believe in the possibility of redemption and survival. Even in the toughest of circumstances, he holds onto the belief that, like Bambi, goodness can survive and triumph.

Thus, my children, let us take from Paulsen’s words the understanding that romanticism is not just a dream of beauty or perfection, but a deep, unwavering belief in the brilliance of life, in the triumph of hope over despair, and in the goodness that can rise from the ashes of struggle. Storytelling, in its truest form, is the act of bringing these beliefs to life—of sharing the wisdom of lived experience, of showing that even in the most difficult times, there is always room for hope, for victory, and for love. So, I urge you, my children, to live fully, to embrace the adventures that life offers you, and to share your stories with others. In doing so, you not only pass down your own experiences but offer a spark of romance to a world that may often feel lost in the shadows. Carry the belief that even in the darkness, there is light, and let your life be a testament to the romance of survival and the triumph of the human spirit.