It amazes me to this day how eager the masses are to take the writings of a sensational journalist at, shall we say, face value. That is not to say that the novel of Monsieur Leroux is wholly inaccurate, his little "Interview with the Persian"contains within it both some truth and some literary merit. I will refrain from saying just how much of either it possesses in my mind.
Whatever its faults The Phantom of the Opera laid down the bare bones of something that is extremely important- the fact of the matter. For all its overblown details, nervous ticks, and various other artistic shortcomings the basic events are there, if one can look beyond the philosophy and moralizing of our friend the Persian, and the ridiculous 'please buy my books' additions of Leroux.
Who am I, you ask, to pass such judgment on a classic tale? A literary critic perhaps? I'm qualified, to be sure. But, allow me to introduce myself. I am Erik. Yes, that Erik. Enchante, etcetera. Now, if you will, allow me to continue.
It took me several years after its publication to discover the tome, and when I did, I assure you I was something less than pleased. I had half a mind to have a little talk with that rat the Persian, but he was difficult to find at that point, so I settled for a chat with the author of the tale.
The chat ended rather successfully, with a piece of the residuals (which never amounted to much I'm sorry to say) and some odd marks round dear Gaston's neck which convinced his wife he'd taken up the unpleasant sport of bar fighting.
He had meant, Leroux assured me, not character defamation, rather to cast pity on what he called, and occasionally I am inclined to agree with him 'my sad life'. The fact that he had no right to set down my biography without permission seemed to totally escape him. After some convincing he promised never to do it again. This unfortunately wasn't much consolation, and I was rather miserable for a time.
During the conversation I asked him why he'd chosen to tell everyone that I had died. It couldn't possibly have been an attempt to lend me privacy. The answer, which I had quite nearly forgotten in the intermittent years, was that everyone thought I was dead. I had, after all, told the Persian quite emphatically that I was going to.
When I had come to speak with him, I was fully prepared to demand that Leroux release a new version of the book, as edited by myself, with all of the inaccuracies and exaggerations removed. I realized however, that this was not going to be sufficient, mostly because interest in the book had already waned, to the annoyance of both the author's ego and my own.
Resignedly, I left the man in relative peace.
I brooded on the subject for a great while, and felt generally maligned by the public eye once more. What a dreadful thing it was for a man as private as myself to have his inner demons dragged out onto the stage of unlicensed biography! At least I could take solace in the fact that due to a great many bibliographical errors on Leroux's part everybody took it as a work of fiction.
Eventually I came to the conclusion that I must write my own novel, a sort of companion piece to the original. But again my artistic side was bothered by the fact that it would seem I was merely rewriting Leroux's work, and adding my own commentary. This was not satisfactory. There was only one solution, not only would I have to set the original work straight, but I would also have to tell people what happened afterwards.
So it is with certain reservations that I lay down this text. I assure you that it is completely factual, allowing for lapses of memory, and personal interpretation. Turn the page, dear reader, and learn the truth behind the Phantom of the Opera.
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Based on the novel Phantom of The Opera by Gaston Leroux
Copyright 2005 by Lejindarybunny
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