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While this serves as a renowned example to testify the existence of such a character, I am interested in where it concerns Antoine de Saint-Exupéry’s novella, Le Petit Prince, or in English, The Little Prince. The Little Prince follows a fictional prince of alien origin and his curious interaction with an array of anthropomorphic characters (a rose, fox and snake) that facilitate the narrative. The little prince is an inquisitive child, who abandons his beloved rose, to seek clarity from ventures among planets. His learnings, which he, in turn, bestows on both the narrator and audience, exist through his role as an ephemeral character. Once the little prince satisfies himself and the narrative, his return back to his planet is a willing bargain with death, by which he can rid himself of his shell, and ensure not to cross the threshold of youth.

“You understand… it is too far. I cannot carry this body with me. It is too heavy. But it will be like an old abandoned shell. There is nothing sad about old shells…” (Exupéry 117)

The approach of the text opens up an avenue regarding its audience as children. Such is determined by its use of anthropomorphic characters in exploring thematic abstractions. These characters elucidate their contribution to fulfilling fundamental human needs and addressing life’s complexities, allowing simpler interpretations in its navigation.

“Then the thorns – what use are they?” (Exupéry 31)

Deceptively simple, the questions the Little Prince proposes have depth and abstractions. Therefore, in the appeal to an audience of a child, the need for anthropomorphic intervention is necessary. The narrator is insufficient in regarding the prince’s question as vital, which motivates him to seek clarity elsewhere, in the comforts of the natural world in his solitary existence. His interactions with the rose, fox and snake, each inanimate but symbolically rendered human are what determine his comprehension of love with labour, wisdom in the intangible, and a resignation to death respectively.

His first interaction, a spat with his beloved rose is the reason for the little prince’s arrival on Earth. Her character is symbolic of the love that accompanies labour in a complex feminine body, that expresses affection through pride and vanity. The little prince admits to frustration when the rose “torments him with her vanity”, but soon after regrets his inability to comprehend “all the affection that lay behind her poor little stratagems.” (Exupéry 41)

The little prince remarks on how unique his rose is from all the flowers of his planet and seems to determine his own affection for her basis her distinctive beauty. Yet, on earth, the little prince encounters a rose garden, appalled that his rose is in fact, not unique at all. His despair is comforted by the fox, who asks for the little prince to tame him. To tame, or establish ties is the way in which love renders what is common in the world, unique to you. The fox teaches the prince that the labour that accompanies love is in fact an expression of it that is only seen with the heart.

“What is essential is invisible to the eye. It is the time you have wasted for your rose that makes your rose so important. Men have forgotten this truth, but you must not forget it. You become responsible forever for what you have tamed. You are responsible for your rose.” (Exupéry 95)

A love as pure as what is defined by the fox here can only be accomplished by a non-human being, the conceptualised, ephemeral child. This is why the final interaction the little prince has is with the snake, an acceptance of his removal from the narrative.

“Whomever I touch, I send back to the earth from whence he came,” the snake spoke again. “But you are innocent and true, and you come from a star…” The little prince made no reply. “You move me to pity — you are so weak on this Earth made of granite,” the snake said. “I can help you, someday, if you grow too homesick for your own planet. I can —” “Oh! I understand you very well,” said the little prince. “But why do you always speak in riddles?” “I solve them all,” said the snake. And they were both silent.” (Exupéry 80)

The three anthropomorphic interactions that the little prince has, each reveal complex abstractions that the adult narrator aspires to navigate through the construction of the ephemeral child. This constructed child coincides so closely with the divine as a means of solace and proximity to moral perfection that it dehumanises the real child engaging with it as a text.

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My final association with the ephemeral character is not exclusively from literature, as have my previous ones been, but from the 2005 PS2 video game, Shadow of the Colussus.

Wander, the protagonist is a young boy in search of the supernatural revival of a girl named Mono. He is given the task to locate and destroy sixteen colossi, distinct creatures scattered across the forbidden land he has arrived on. The exchange is made with Dormin, an entity that seeks release and manifestation. Although cautioned by Dormin that he may have to pay a great price to revive Mono, Wander sets out to search the land for the colossi and destroy them.

For the sake of Mono’s revival, Wander endures physical deterioration, and his naivety is deceived by Dormin. We learn how each of the colossi harbour fragments of Dormin’s essence, that had been scattered to render the entity powerless, but now inhabit Wander post his demolition of them. The game embeds its players into the expanse of the setting to such depth, that through its audience, and the character of Wander, this connection to the land and its species ascribes him an instance of the ephemeral character. Interestingly, although he too must succumb to death, he is given an opportunity for rebirth, before he can cross the threshold of youth.

Essentially, I mean no accusation or conclusion from this analysis, rather I merely recall a unique series of connections to a strain of characters I have been keenly fond of.

Goodreads summary of the novel: In a remote Polish village, Janina devotes the dark winter days to studying astrology, translating the poetry of William Blake, and taking care of the summer homes of wealthy Warsaw residents. Her reputation as a crank and a recluse is amplified by her not-so-secret preference for the company of animals over humans. Then a neighbor, Big Foot, turns up dead. Soon other bodies are discovered, in increasingly strange circumstances. As suspicions mount, Janina inserts herself into the investigation, certain that she knows whodunit. If only anyone would pay her mind . . .

While Berland and Warner’s argument focuses on queer theory and heteronormativity, the underlying concept that the public holds responsibility for the curation of normativity remains relevant to Tokarczuk’s work. Tokarczuk’s take on deviation from normativity is expressed through her protagonist, Janina’s approach to yielding her own means for justice. Janina conforms to her prescribed stereotype of the ‘mad woman’, to take advantage of the lack of suspicion she would evoke by committing her crimes.

While Sex in Public argues that the construction that heteronormativity considers the queer identity as deviant, Janina’s rejection of the characteristics ascribed to her, becomes an act of deviance. This deviance is unknown to the readers until the conclusion, where even her first-person narrative channels suspicion away from herself. With her outright adamancy to have the cases investigated, lengthy accounts for the predictability of astronomical destiny and genuine passion toward her theory on animal-administered vengeance, Janina is unlikely even to her audience to be responsible for the murders herself. Her concoction of the narrative is blatantly ignored, yet successful in ascribing her older age and gender as a woman, into the category of delusional and timid. The ability of Tokarczuk to invoke such complacency in the perception of her readers itself, emphasises how simply the public’s construction of normativity can conceal one’s ability to recognise and acknowledge the existence of so-called ‘deviants’. Janina’s comprehension of her own perceived identity within her society is what propels her to aptly capitalise on it. Moments prior to her confession, Janina introspects:

To Kill a Mockingbird, narrated from the perspective of the young protagonist, Jean Louise Finch is a tale that captures the parallels of a young girl’s life growing up in Maycomb, a small town in Alabama in the
1930s.  Beside the cusp of a so-called ‘regular’ childhood, she watches from the margins, a court case her father, Atticus, is appointed. As the novel primarily revolves around these parallels, secondary characters such as Scout’s friend Dill, as well as the so-called victim of
the court case, Mayella Ewell, play defining roles in drawing out the influence isolation, as a theme has on discrimination and loneliness.

On the other hand, the play Death of a Salesman deals with a man, Willy Lowman’s pursuit of a self-deluded ideal of the American Dream. The play is a montage of memories, dreams, confrontations, and arguments, all of which make up the last 24 hours of Willy Loman’s life. Willy’s younger son, Happy Loman, is the secondary character here, who, for a majority of the play, lives in the shadow of the inflated expectations of his brother, Biff. This results in his blind adaptation of his father’s role and identity throughout the play.

Charles Baker Harris or ‘Dill’ from To Kill a Mockingbird is a diminutive, carefree boy with an active imagination. Dill quickly manages to befriend Scout and Jem during his visits in the summer when he stays with his aunt, Miss Rachel Haverford, who owns the house next to the Finches’.

His growing fascination with Boo Radley represents the presence of childhood innocence throughout the novel. A silent companionship he shares with Boo’s lonliness.

“Why do you reckon Boo Radley’s never run off?”

Dill sighed a long sigh and turned away from me.

“Maybe he doesn’t have anywhere to run off to. . . .”

[146]

This innocence is present when Dill dominates the early part of the novel – a mere summer visitor with no connection to Maycomb’s adult world. As this adult world asserts itself later in the novel, Dill fades from the story, maintaining only minor participation. This absence of Dill from Maycomb coincides appropriately with the continued intrusion of the adult world upon Scout’s childhood. Dill’s final reappearance in Maycomb during an integral juncture of the novel, offers Scout an opportunity to flee for a short time back into the blithe of childhood.

Dill has a seemingly dynamic childhood, rejecting him of his early years of stability and comfort. This is what gives his trips back to Maycomb its due importance as the only sense of static relief he can have.

“He was worn out, dirty beyond belief, and home.”

[143]

From his intricately made-up captivating tales to his uneasy reluctance to talk about his father – it is evident that Dill has a troubled home life.

“Beautiful things floated around in his dreamy head. He could read two books to my one, but he preferred the magic of his own inventions.”

[156]

Within the parameters of the same novel, we come across Mayella Violet Ewell, a pitiable 19-year-old girl whose isolated existence almost allows her to join the novel’s parade of innocent victims. In this sense, she too is a kind of mockingbird, injured beyond repair by the forces of loneliness, poverty, and hatred that surround her.

Lee’s presentation of Mayella emphasizes her role as a victim as it is revealed that her father most likely abuses her and possibly molests her while she has to deal with her unhelpful siblings.

Scout additionally reflects on Mayella’s physical context, which was situated behind the town garbage dump in a tin-roofed cabin with a yard full of trash. She notes, though, that buried among all this is shone an orderly corner of the yard, planted with well-tended red geraniums rumoured to belong to Mayella. Further, Scout’s physical description of Mayella states that she “looked as if she tried to keep clean,” and “she seemed somehow fragile-looking”. These attributes are reminders of Mayella’s personality that set her apart from the Ewells, similar to the row of red geraniums she tends that stands starkly against the Ewells’ yard.

“It came to me that Mayella Ewell must have been the loneliest person in the world. She was even lonelier than Boo Radley, who had not been out of the house in twenty-five years. When Atticus asked her if she had any friends, she seemed not to know what he meant, then she thought he was making fun of her.”

[194]

Scout reconciles Mayella’s lonely nature to that of the mixed folks, since her rejection from the whites was how “she lived among pigs” and to the blacks, that she was white to begin with. This suspended state of isolation is what drives Mayella to victimise herself further than necessary, using the ounce of white privilege she bore to put down the one man who showed her compassion.

This compassion Mayella saw in Tom was something that she hadn’t ever seen in her dismal and secluded life. Her loneliness compelled her towards a man who was the recipient of fierce hatred from the citizens of Maycomb, which led her, probably under the guidance of her father, to provide false testimony in Tom’s case. Yet, unfortunately, as Atticus quotes,

“And so, a quiet, respectable, humble Negro who had the unmitigated temerity to ‘feel sorry’ for a white woman…”

was faced with punishment because a white woman

“…must destroy the evidence of her offence. What was the evidence of her offence? Tom Robinson, a human being.”

[207]

Finally, from the play, we are introduced to Happy Loman, a seasoned womanizer who encourages his fragile self-image by acclaiming a false sense of success. He emulates his father in a couple of ways. First, he believes in his father’s theory that success comes from being ‘well-liked’ rather than applying hard work. However, he constantly lives under the shadow of his brother Biff who is idolised by his father and takes the primary focus of the play. Happy reinforces his sense of accomplishment by bragging about his sexual exploits. Even though he possesses all the hallmarks of material success, he still feels unfulfilled and, quite contrary to his name, is unhappy.

“It’s what I always wanted. My own apartment, a car, and plenty of women. And still goddamnit, I’m lonely.”

[12]

This state of awareness is reduced of any developmental value as Happy continues to remain lost, scheming the perfect ways to change his life, yet doing nothing to implement those changes.

Happy has always idolized Willy, in part because Willy always paid more attention to Biff. In this isolated state of living in Biff’s shadow, Happy has internalized Willy’s lessons about being liked that he thinks nothing of lying to seem more important than he is. He also seems to think little of women, a reflection
of Willy’s lack of respect for Linda. These instances only further remove Happy from attaining his own sense of identity, being lost until the very end of the play, with no significant arc or development for his character.

Happy continues to believe that “selling” hope, even if it means lying, is the best policy. By denying his relation to Willy, Happy reveals himself as a person capable of rejecting any truth that does not suit his convenience—the ultimate salesman. An instance that exposes him is in Frank’s Chop House, Happy hurriedly pays their bill and, embarrassed, tells the girls he picked up that Willy isn’t really his father, and instead “just a guy.” Willy’s physical illness embarrasses Happy, and so, blinds him from accepting how closely he resembles his father.

At the end of the play, once Willy has died, Happy rejects himself the final straw of happiness he could achieve by remaining bound in the comfort of someone else’s shadow. Biff invites Happy to come out west with him, as they had conspired at the beginning of the play, a prospect that seemed to excite Happy. Yet he puts down the offer, saying “I’m staying right in this city, and I’m gonna beat this racket!” and that he will win Willy’s dream for him, a helpless attempt to gain approval from a man who will not be able to validate him anyway.

Happy & Dill

As far as crucial father figures come into play, both Happy and Dill have had inconsistent attention from their fathers. Happy being overshadowed by his brother Biff, and Dill never having a static paternal head to look up to. As a result of this, both characters lose their grasp with reality and live in a self-deluded state of being. Dill with his elaborate made-up stories and lies and Happy, blindly following a hollow ideal of Willy’s version of the American Dream.