The Immortal Gazette: Step into the World of Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm
Alice lounged on her grand velvet chair, idly flipping through an old, leather-bound book that smelled of ancient ink and untold mischief. Across from her, Loki adjusted his coat with a smirk, while Rumplestiltskin leaned against the library shelves, already grinning like he knew some long-forgotten secret.
"Alright, darlings," Alice purred, tapping the book with her perfectly manicured fingers. "Today, we step into the world of the Brothers Grimm—Jacob and Wilhelm. The men who took every terrifying bedtime story they could find, stitched them together with just a hint of nightmare fuel, and called it a collection for children."
Loki chuckled, resting his chin on his hand. "Oh, you mean the charming gentlemen who turned folklore into absolute chaos? Tell me, Alice, how exactly did we go from sweet tales to wicked stepmothers and cannibalistic witches?"
Alice smirked. "Ah, now that is where our dear Grimms get interesting. Born in the late 1700s in Germany—when life was all about war, poverty, and a complete lack of personal space—Jacob and Wilhelm were linguists, historians, and, most importantly, collectors of oral tradition. They weren’t just making up stories; they were gathering them from peasants, travelers, and old folks who had been telling them for centuries."
Rumplestiltskin wagged a finger. "And that’s the key, isn’t it? They didn’t invent these stories. They preserved them. But, of course, they added a little… flair."
Alice nodded. "Indeed. Their first major work, Children’s and Household Tales, was published in 1812, and—well, let’s just say it wasn’t quite as sugar-coated as the versions we know today. Cinderella’s stepsisters? Mutilated their own feet trying to fit into the slipper. Snow White’s evil queen? Forced to dance in red-hot iron shoes until she dropped dead. Rapunzel? Not-so-immaculate conception situation with her prince. And then there's Hansel and Gretel—child abandonment, starvation, and baking humans alive? Oh, what delightful bedtime reading!"
Loki whistled. "Sounds like a joyous childhood experience. And people read this to children?"
Rumplestiltskin grinned. "Well, back then, fairy tales weren’t for really for very young children. They were warnings, moral lessons—‘don’t talk to strangers, don’t be greedy, don’t wander into the woods unless you like getting eaten.’ The Grimms weren’t just writers; they were historians of fear."
Alice lifted a brow. "And let’s not forget our dear Italian predecessor—Giambattista Basile. He came before them in the 1600s, writing down some of the very first versions of Cinderella, Sleeping Beauty, and Puss in Boots in his book The Pentamerone. His versions were…well, let’s just say darker than even the Grimms’ takes. Sleeping Beauty? Wakes up not from a kiss, but from giving birth after being, shall we say, visited in her sleep. Lovely, isn’t it?"
Loki grimaced. "Charming. So, the Grimms were just building on an already disturbing legacy?"
Alice sipped her tea. "Exactly. They took the ancient oral traditions—the real stories—and put them into books, tweaking them here and there. As time went on, people softened them. By the time Disney got to them? Poof—happily ever after, talking animals, and not a single case of cannibalism left."
Rumplestiltskin sighed dramatically. "A tragedy, really. The real magic was in the danger, the consequences, the sheer absurdity of it all."
Loki smirked. "So, the Grimms were just the latest in a long line of collectors, turning old horror stories into something a little more…palatable."
Alice winked. "Precisely. They weren’t just writers—they were the ones who made sure these centuries-old nightmares didn’t vanish into the void. And that, my dears, is why we remember them today."
She closed the book with a flourish, the scent of aged parchment still lingering in the air. The fire crackled, and for a moment, the flickering shadows on the walls almost looked like figures—lurking, listening, waiting for their stories to be told again.
➡ The Grimms’ collection was literally titled Children’s and Household Tales (Kinder- und Hausmärchen), which, considering the sheer horror in those stories, is either hilariously ironic or a prime example of 19th-century parenting philosophy—aka, “Scare them straight.”
The first edition (1812) wasn’t exactly what we’d call “kid-friendly.” It was filled with brutal punishments, supernatural horrors, and enough nightmare fuel to last several lifetimes. But here’s the fun part—over the years, they edited the stories, softening some elements, removing certain ahem suggestive themes, and making them slightly more "moral." By the later editions, they were far more polished for young readers.
So, they did label it for children, but whether that was good judgment or a 19th-century prank is up for debate.
🖋️✨📜🖤
