picket fences — the story dances on the surface of reality, offering only an ephemeral semblance of authenticity. Within this lyrical tapestry, Pierrot, Columbine, Haverstraw, Laura, Smitry, and Danny find their nocturnal enchantment. Millhauser delivers to his readers what Coop longs for from his mannequin — a momentary escape into "unshakable unreality" and an "out-of-this-world thereness" that transcends mere imitation of life.

For many, the allure of metafiction can be as maddening as it is intriguing, often because it dares to disrupt the delicate balance of belief that literature seeks to foster. Some readers hesitate to delve too deeply into its layers, wary of missing the nuanced play between reality and artifice, particularly when an author hints at the profound role of art in society. This hesitance often stems from a fear of misinterpreting the satirical undertones or ideological stances within such works. For those who view fiction primarily as a vessel for enjoyment rather than a tool for enlightenment or persuasion, books like Enchanted Night might seem daunting. Yet, dismissing Steven Millhauser's intellectually provocative aesthetic would be a disservice to any reader seeking a blend of wit and wisdom. Thus, I advocate for approaching his works with both an open mind and a spirit of playfulness. Enchanted Night dazzles with its artistic flair and clever humor, while also engaging the intellect with its depth.

The Sisterhood of Night

In "The Sisterhood of Night," anxious parents suspect that rebellious young women are drawn to pagan practices, claiming these girls are "made restless by the boredom and emptiness of middle-class life." By frequently casting everyday individuals as subjects of supernatural allure, Millhauser suggests that people in suburbia, USA are yearning for a reconnection with age-old mystical beliefs. The persistent allure of the Pan legend to modern American readers poses an intriguing question: why do such tales continue to enchant?

Creative Obligation

When Haverstraw voices his mistrust of the pronoun "I," Mrs. Kasco cheekily advises him to explore "a little Marx," asserting it wouldn't harm him to ponder "class, about class values." As Haverstraw champions his independence, likening it to paddling his own canoe, Mrs. Kasco pointedly questions who provides the canoe, the stream, and the means for his journey. Should creative writers engage with sociopolitical themes in their work? Is there a moral duty to society in this regard?

Character Complexity

Mary Kinzie's examination of Millhauser's earlier works, such as Martin Dressier, observes that his characters often lack "psychological relatedness," a depth that could otherwise render them compelling likenesses of human fate. Within Enchanted Night, do any characters transcend this typical flatness? Does Haverstraw possess the complexity of a Martin Dressier?

The Female Form

Consider the depiction of the female body in Enchanted Night. Does Millhauser challenge or reinforce the stereotype of females as either virgins or whores? Which female characters are subject to sexualization, and which escape this scrutiny? Moreover, what drives Millhauser's Diana/Artemis to commit such a controversial act?

The Morning After

What transpires in the aftermath of the Enchanted Night? Does the enchantment, the sense of fulfillment, and hope evaporate with the dawn?

Beneath the Cellars of Our Town

In "Beneath the Cellars of Our Town," found in The Knife Thrower and Other Stories, residents relish the liberty of exploring an underground labyrinth, embracing the ever-present chance of losing their way. In Enchanted Night, Haverstraw must wander off the beaten path, daring to explore the unknown, to escape his monotonous routine. How does this creative approach echo similar sentiments by other authors, like Robert Frost?

Seize the Day

In Robert Herrick's "To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time" and Andrew Marvell's "To His Coy Mistress," the carpe diem motif urges readers to savor life's pleasures without fretting over what lies ahead. How does Millhauser's novella resonate with or diverge from the rhetoric of these classic exhortations?

Literary Influences

Though Millhauser once immersed himself in Kafka's letters during the crafting of The Barnum Museum stories, Kinzie finds stronger parallels between his writing and that of Jorge Luis Borges. Does Enchanted Night echo the works of other authors? Does its richly allusive style amplify or diminish its originality?

Nonlinear Narrative

Reflect on the nonlinear structure of Enchanted Night. Are there any segments that feel superfluous? Is the "Song of the One-Eyed Cuddly Bear" perhaps a touch too whimsical?

Freedom in Anonymity

The solitary woman declares that "you are free" when "you are hidden." What might she mean by this? How much power do the Daughters glean from their anonymity?

The Unique Narrative of Millhauser

Unlike the intricate plot of Theodore Dreiser's Jennie Gerhardt—a novel offered to the introspective protagonist at the heart of Enchanted Night to "enhance his social awareness"—Steven Millhauser’s tales often steer clear of blatant sociopolitical discourse. As Douglas Fowler keenly observed in a piece for Critique, Millhauser's creations could be aptly termed "exquisite," but are undeniably "apolitical" and marked by a certain "social detachment." The Pulitzer Prize-winning Martin Dressier (1996), which delves into both the commercial and whimsical realms of architectural design, stands as a bit of an outlier when juxtaposed with the more enchanting vignettes found in In the Penny Arcade (1986), The Barnum Museum (1990), or The Knife Thrower and Other Stories (1998).

Magical Realism and the Mundane

Though Millhauser's literature has been defined as magical realism, solipsistic minimalism, and even a postmodern celebration of "art for art's sake," some critics argue that his compact narratives lack the wondrous depth of his Latin American peers. They attribute this difference to the continuous presence of the mundane in his stories. By setting his suburban fantasies in southern Connecticut, Millhauser constantly brings readers back to the unremarkable reality surrounding his magical and unreal manifestations. For instance, when the mythic Diana peers down from her celestial perch in Enchanted Night, she spies "telephone poles adorned with glass insulators," "trucks rumbling along the highway," "gas tanks and water towers," "railroad tracks and white picket fences," "lifeguard chairs and... limestone quarries," "high-voltage lines stretched between steel pylons," "winding country lanes marked by a double yellow line," as well as a boy "slumbering in his backyard between the clothesline and the garage."

A Portrait of Ordinary Lives

Repeatedly, Millhauser unveils scenes from Enchanted Night set in an unassuming neighborhood, where his characters are partly defined by their association with clotheslines, basketball hoops, lawn sprinklers, and other human-made items. Predominantly, the inhabitants of Millhauser's microcosm appear civil: a thirty-nine-year-old author residing with his mother; a somewhat repressed young woman who encountered a handsome stranger on the beach earlier that day; a melancholy drunk enamored with a department store mannequin; a solitary woman who dances on the grass, musing that "surely there is no law against it."

Even the rebels here are mild-mannered. A group of high school girls, dubbing themselves the Daughters, intrudes into homes only to "purloin trivial items like refrigerator magnets, toothbrushes, and eyeglass cases." Simultaneously, three adolescent boys infiltrate the public library, indulging in the sort of crude, yet frustrated, sexual banter usually confined to locker rooms. Although a would-be rapist lurks in the shadows behind the junior high school’s athletic field, his wicked plans are disrupted by an unlikely hero armed with a book (the aforementioned Jennie Gerhardt) as a weapon.

Enchanted Night: A Modern Dream

As suggested by Boston Globe critic Robert Taylor, Enchanted Night sometimes reads like a modern American adaptation of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Echoing Shakespeare's comedy, Millhauser’s narrative allows for a temporary suspension of social conventions as characters escape the constraints of society. Although the narrative hints at a return to normalcy by dawn, many characters manage to break free from old habits, release inhibitions, and engage in spontaneous exuberance. They heed the mysterious cricket-and-flute call that ushers them out of enclosed rooms and identities, into the relative wilderness of woods, shadows, or the thickets behind Denner’s Body Shop. Much like Shakespeare’s Bottom, the bleary-eyed William Cooper (known as Coop) finds himself in the embrace of a mystical lover, who cherishes his corporeal humanity because she too is enchanted. In Millhauser’s tale, the mischief-maker is not Puck, but "a strange man with a bare chest and sharp ears, hairy flanks and prancing goat-legs," embodying both the pied piper and Pan, the god of fertility.

It seems that, contrary to Victorian assertions, the great god Pan is very much alive, merely having traded Arcadia for the American Dream. His melodies beckon the assorted "dreamers and drowners," "loafers and losers," "shadow-seekers and sun's orphans" who populate Millhauser’s novella. He sings, "Come out, come out, you flops and fizzlers, you good-for-nothings and down-and-outers, day's outcasts, dark's little darlin's," directing his tune at:

all you who are misbegotten and woebegone, all you with black thoughts and red fever-visions, come on, you small-town Ishmaels with your sad blue eyes, you plain Janes and hard-luck guys, come, you gripers and groaners, you goners and loners, you sadsacks and shlemiels, come on, come on, you pale romantics and pie-eyed Palookas, you has-beens and never-willbes, you sun-mocked and day-doomed denizens of the dark: come out into the night

Exploring Dreamers and Doubters

Featuring personalities typically cast as side characters in others' adventures, Millhauser continues to delve into themes central to Martin Dressier. While Dressier embodied a risk-taking genius with faith in the American dream and his own inner muse, the characters in Enchanted Night are dreamers fraught with self-doubt.

Take Haverstraw, the scholarly figure, who has been laboring over his magnum opus ("an experiment in memory") for the past nine years. Much like George Eliot’s Casaubon from Middlemarch, Haverstraw seems destined to never complete his Key to All Mythologies, remaining tethered to the past and unable to embrace the present. Yearning for validation and redemption, he hesitates to act with resolve. Likely still a virgin despite a long-standing relationship with an older woman, he clings to cereal box trinkets and bubblegum cards, unable to relinquish childhood memories. On this night of enchantment, however, Haverstraw finally realizes his failures stem from his reluctance to stray from "the beaten track," to venture onto "wilder" paths.

Under the silvery glow of the moon, Haverstraw wanders, allowing his mind to drift into a tapestry of dreams where he dons the identities of countless others. He envisions himself as:

A sovereign of the untamed frontier: adept trapper, skilled hunter, master fisherman, diligent farmer, joyous planter of apple seeds, celestial navigator, intrepid trailblazer, sharp-eyed pathfinder, stealthy deer slayer. He imagines himself as a sun-kissed barefoot lad, akin to Huck Finn along the Housatonic, a philosopher of rustic wisdom perched on a cracker barrel, a crafty elder donning a coonskin cap, an astute Yankee with an inventor's spark. The creator of the cotton gin, the architect of the printing press, the developer of the typewriter, a pioneer of libraries, the provider of denim to Native Americans, a self-made magnate residing in a sprawling thirty-room estate, a hometown hero who climbed the ranks, a singular entity among millions, a solitary ranger, a wandering soul, an inherent underdog, a man caught in a web of misfortune.

The Awakening

In the realm of these fantasies, this man—untouched by the wild's embrace, without tangible achievements to boast about—sees himself inhabiting roles crafted by the imaginations of James Fenimore Cooper, Mark Twain, F. Scott Fitzgerald, and Horatio Alger. Hitherto, Haverstraw had never dared to embody individualism, nor to cast himself as the hero even within his own illusions. Yet, on this magical night, he emerges as a savior, shielding a young girl from a potential predator. His weapon of choice? Threatening with the sheer force of Jennie Gerhardt. This act, both comical and profound, affirms for Haverstraw the "social value of art."

Exploring Millhauser's Mythography

To truly savor Millhauser's enchanting contributions to mythography, particularly those tales concerning the fabled, goat-footed minstrel, one might first dive into the rich tapestry of other fictional renditions from the late 1800s and early 1900s. Within the realms of inventive storytelling, Nature’s metaphysical embodiment—the horned and hoofed deity—often stands as a multifaceted figure: sometimes sinister and corruptive, at other times protective and benevolent. Arthur Machen’s The Great God Pan serves as the quintessential representation of the darker aspects, while Kenneth Grahame’s The Wind in the Willows presents a gentler, more nurturing view. Yet, more often than not, Pan—named for “all” in Greek—is portrayed as a spirit of profound duality.

The Unease of "The Story of a Panic"

In E. M. Forster's compelling tale "The Story of a Panic," a group of unsuspecting British tourists picnicking in the idyllic Italian countryside find themselves seized by an inexplicable terror, a panic as sudden and overwhelming as the madness that drives sheep to plunge over cliffs to their doom. No character, including the narrator, can articulate the mysterious dread that grips them, prompting a descent into chaos. These travelers, traditional and content in their conventional beliefs, are meticulously yet complacently repressed.

Among them, only young Eustace, a fourteen-year-old known for his lethargic demeanor, remains after the rest forsake dignity in their flight. This encounter with an unseen force—evidenced by cloven imprints in the soil—imbues Eustace with newfound vitality. Upon their return, the tourists are baffled by his manic transformation, manifest in dog-like play, hare-catching, and embracing strangers with abandon. Despite efforts to restrain him, Eustace defies captivity, leaping from a window to a life of notoriety, his escapades chronicled in the media.

Revelations of "The Man Who Went Too Far"

In E. F. Benson's narrative "The Man Who Went Too Far," we meet Frank Halton, an artist invigorated by Pan’s blessings. Dedicated to pure joy, Halton meticulously avoids sorrowful sights, striving to purge the suffering tied to Puritanical views—termed by him as the "awful and terrible disease" advocating "useless renunciation." In his pursuit of Pan's "gospel of joy," he abandons smoking and embraces vegetarianism. Like a character out of D. H. Lawrence, he revels in passionate bouts, caressing earth among daisies and cowslips.

Despite his rejuvenating lifestyle and the youthful glow it bestows, Halton ultimately acknowledges that suffering is an inherent trait of Nature. Only by accepting the dark alongside the light does he succeed in summoning the goat-god, leading to his death. However, as he confides to the narrator, such an end does not daunt him: he anticipates a "final revelation" that will unveil life’s interconnectedness, embracing both mortality and eternity.

"throw open to me, once and for all, the full knowledge, the full realization and comprehension that I am one, just as you are, with life. In reality there is no 'me,' no 'you,' no 'it.' Everything is part of the one and only thing which is life. . . . I shall see Pan. It may mean death, the death of my body, that is, but I don’t care. It may mean immortal, eternal life lived here and now and for ever."

Much like Haverstraw, Halton contemplates the ephemeral nature of identity. Yet, unlike Haverstraw, Halton is unperturbed by the fragile construct of selfhood. Eager to transcend the barriers of individuality, where one exists isolated and apart, Halton dismisses the estrangement rooted in language. As a visual artist, he seeks no truth in words, unlike Haverstraw, who remains hopeful of completing his literary opus. Halton, at thirty-five, has forsaken a quest for public acclaim, abstaining from exhibiting his art for years. Instead, he communicates his artistic vision through the life he leads.

Dion Fortune's Pan-related Fictions

In the Pan-centric tales woven by occultist Dion Fortune, such as "A Daughter of Pan" from the 1926 edition of The Secrets of Dr. Taverner and "A Son of the Night," published in the 1978 reprint, Pan is celebrated as the guardian of "the abnormal, the subhuman, and the pariah," as well as "the lunatic and the genius." Through these narratives, Fortune posits that those deemed mentally unstable might actually possess extraordinary gifts. Often, it is society's conventional constraints that push such individuals toward self-destructive paths. Their salvation lies in the freedom to roam with spectral creatures, to create music that shatters conventional norms, and to dissolve inhibitions, awakening to past incarnations and primal passions lurking within the collective unconscious.

In her gripping 1936 novel, The Goat-Foot God, Fortune delves deeply into the intricate dance between repression and reincarnation. Here, we encounter Hugh Paston, a spiritually listless man navigating his early thirties, who finds himself ensnared in a psychological maelstrom following the demise of his unfaithful spouse. Paston, a man seemingly drained of vigor and character, is often described as "a nondescript individual." Much like Haverstraw, he flounders, trapped in the despondency of self-doubt, until he embarks on a transformative journey by invoking Pan. This daring act is his attempt to reconnect with the elemental forces embodied by ancient pagan deities. Though he has never embraced religion, Paston harbors a disdain for Christianity, perceiving it as stifling and devoid of the raw passion he craves, dismissing it as mere "old maid’s insanity."

For Paston, the god Pan transcends the trivial image of a "cosmic billy-goat" that one might whimsically expect to "materialize on your hearth-rug." His true invocation involves a profound surrender to the fundamental truths of nature, a return to the wild and untamed essence of the cosmos. It's a descent back into the primal life force, forsaking the relentless climb towards an artificial state of humanity. To Paston, Pan is the guardian of wild, hunted souls that find no solace in the structures of a man-made world.

Although Paston's turmoil is portrayed as a complex psychological disturbance, triggered by traumas of past lives, Fortune hints that such crises are not his burden alone. She suggests this dilemma is a pervasive ailment of modern society. As an adept of the occult, Fortune believed her peers could find solace in resurrecting pagan rites, which she linked to a holistic, earth-centric consciousness. She rejected the notion that progressive science had eradicated our psychic needs, needs once fulfilled by the natural faiths of yore. She would likely have applauded the instinct that drove the inhabitants of Millhauser's suburbia into the night, to revel beneath the stars. Fortune would find in Millhauser's novella a commendation of the vital, primal energies we forsake when we sever ties with the wild spirit within us all.

The stories that most closely echo the essence of Enchanted Night spring from Steven Millhauser's imaginative anthology, The Knife Thrower and Other Stories. In "Clair de Lune," the restless spirit of a fifteen-year-old insomniac leads him to flee the stifling confines of his bedroom. Much like Laura in Millhauser's novella, he instinctively follows a path illuminated by a moon that seems alive with intent. Transported by his imagination, he envisions himself on a rope swing in the backyard of a scarcely familiar schoolmate, reminiscent of Janet's mysterious liaison in the novella. Yet, the narrator of "Clair de Lune" soon finds himself ensnared in a game of Wiffle ball, a clandestine ritual, akin to an ancient fertility rite. The girls he plays with, familiar faces glimpsed in the halls of school, are transformed; under the enchanting glow of the moon, even their gender blurs into ambiguity. This night, brimming with revelations, imparts a buoyant spirit to all who abandon their homes—or venture into those of others—in Millhauser's later work.

In what feels like a preliminary canvas for the richer tapestry of Enchanted Night, another tale is presented in the form of fragmented hearsay about a clique of teenage girls, self-styled as "The Sisterhood of Night." Much like the Daughters, this assembly of twelve- to fifteen-year-olds weaves a secretive fraternity driven by an urgent desire "to withdraw," "to become invisible," and "to remain untouchable," seizing the power of anonymity for themselves. In Enchanted Night, the solitary woman articulates the Daughters' kindred motives when she embraces her own alias. "They cannot stay in their rooms alone," she muses, "they cannot, cannot, they must venture out into the night and remain unknown. For to be known is to lose oneself, but to be hidden is to be truly free." Meanwhile, the vigilant parents and townsfolk of "The Sisterhood of Night" refuse to accept the innocence of their daughters, preferring instead to spin tales of wild-eyed maenads congregating in clandestine covens, drinking the blood of beasts, exploring their sexuality, and serving the dual deities of Pan, the goat-like figure, and the witch-goddess Hecate beneath the moon's seductive, tainting glow.