the guy doing the original version was translating a manuscript he had and compiling it with other manuscripts and sending it off to be published, and the people back in france loved it. they fucking adored the thing. his publisher was like WE NEED MORE THIS SHIT'S SELLING LIKE HOTCCAKES
but they guy is fast running out of translatable book. he literally doesn't have more stuff to do. so what happens?
a random syrian guy he met named Hanna Diyab is like "bro. bro don't worry. lemme tell you this story i heard about these guys named Aladdin and Ali Baba. you just shove them in there and nobody's gonna notice a thing. they're like. based on some old folk tales. i totally didn't make them up just now. it'll work trust me"
and then it 100% did and now most of the world thinks "oh yeah aladdin" when they hear Arabian Nights. and the guy who came up with the stories got no credit and became a cloth salesman and the only reason we know for sure he did it is cause he wrote an autobiography
Further proof that old literature we remember as classics is as messy as any modern day Fanon in 200 years people will remember Bingus as canon and never know to question it.
And yet despite the mess this is still the most Arabian-Nights thing that could have happened
“Help me I am running out of ways to stall my publisher’s deadline and if I don’t make enough book happen I am as good as dead”
“Do not worry, my friend, here are some more stories to distract and amaze”
“Are they any good?”
“Does it matter? The sultan is half asleep anyway.”
Holy shit you’re absolutely right.
