Contains some spoilers for Prince Caspian
Conventional wisdom holds that C. S. Lewis wrote The Chronicles of Narnia as a Christian allegory, so the main source for the series must be the Holy Bible. This is certainly an important influence, but we shouldn't neglect the other sources Lewis used. In my most recent reading of Prince Caspian, I was surprised to see a number of allusions to the plays of William Shakespeare.
The backstory about Caspian's wicked Uncle Miraz, who kills the king and takes his place while Caspian is still too young to rule, is very similar to rhe plot of Hamlet, in which the title character's Uncle Claudius kills King Hamlet, marries Queen Gertrude, and becomes the new monarch of Denmark, preventing Hamlet from succeeding his father to the throne.
Miraz's wily counselors Sopespian and Glozelle, who manipulate the king into entering combat by pretending that they want him to avoid battle, recall a number of Shakespearean villains, such as Iago, the treacherous advisor in Othello, and Sebastian and Antonio, the fratricidal conspirators in The Tempest.
Another reference to The Tempest appears in the chapter "Aslan Makes a Door in the Air," in which Aslan informs the Telmarines of their true origins. Like the Pevensie children, the Telmarines are Sons of Adam and Daughters of Eve (humans from the "real world"). They are descendents of pirates who shipwrecked on a South Sea island, and Aslan proposes to send them back to this island to begin a new life. The Tempest, which also begins with a shipwreck on a beautiful tropical island, presents a story of punishment and redemption: the banished Prospero forgives the brother who tried to kill him, and Prospero's daughter, Miranda, sees the newcomers to the island as the beginning of a "brave new world."
Prince Caspian's final Shakespearean allusion is to the famous prophecy in Macbeth that the title character shall be defeated when "Birnan Wood do come to Dunsinane." Since woods can't move, Macbeth believes this is a colorful way of saying he will never be defeated, but he is tricked by the opposing army, who approach under camouflage of branches and leaves. Lewis makes the trick even better by including Dryads, Hamadryads, and Silvans (tree-spirits) in the Old Narnian forces, so that the actual woods advance on Miraz's army and terrify them into thinking that the world is ending.
In a previous posting, I explained why Prince Caspian was my least favorite book in the Chronicles of Narnia when I was a young reader. I stand by the critique I offered yesterday, but I must admit that even the weaker books in the series include some gems. Lewis's use of Shakespearean allusions confirms what I have often argued in this blog: children's fantasy is literature worthy of careful examination and should not be dismissed as cheap entertainment. Even after more than fifty years, the sophistication of the Chronicles of Narnia has the power to surprise and delight us.
Showing posts with label children's lit. Show all posts
Showing posts with label children's lit. Show all posts
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
Saturday, January 5, 2008
The Great Escape?
Popular literature as therapy
I've been reading a lot of scholarship about romance novels lately (yes, there actually are romance scholars), and I'm struck by the fact that nearly all of them describe popular literature as escapist, although they don't agree on whether this is a good or a bad thing. Some say that pop lit works as a kind of therapy, providing a much-needed break from the stresses of daily life without the expense of an actual vacation. Readers enter into another world by identifying imaginatively with the book's protagonist and return to their own lives feeling refreshed and better able to deal with the problems they left behind.
Popular literature as drug addiction
Other scholars describe escapist literature much more negatively. Reading is irresponsible because it allows the individual to avoid problems instead of dealing with them. Reading is at best a means of procrastination, at worst a dangerous kind of self-medication. Because the fantasy world acts as a safety valve for the reader's frustration by vicariously fulfilling all his or her wishes, the reader has less motivation to face problems head-on, resolve them, and achieve his or her dreams in the real world. These critics argue that escapist literature sedates people into accepting the undesirable circumstances of their lives (such as unhealthy habits, unhappy relationships, unsatisfying work, or social injustices) instead of inspiring them to change.
Are fantasy and sf really escapist?
Fantasy and science fiction are especially vulnerable to this kind of criticism because the genres are seen as unrealistic and therefore useless in bringing about any personal or social transformation. However, I've noticed that the imaginary societies in fantasy and science fiction have just as many problems as ours does; in fact, many authors create these fantasy worlds in order to address real-world problems through a strategy of defamiliarization. They describe a society based on unfamiliar laws and customs that seem illogical, unfair, or simply wrong; as the novel progresses, readers are able to recognize their own society in this depiction and see its successes and shortcomings much more clearly. This strategy is similar to the question posed by sociologists about how a Martian visitor would perceive life on earth: sometimes the author allows us to visit another alien world; sometimes we become the Martians and are surprised or even horrified by what we discover about Earth.
For example, Scott Westerfeld's Uglies series presents a future society that insists on cosmetic surgery for everyone over 16 to prevent anyone from enjoying an unfair biological advantage based on appearance. The surgery prevents young people from developing eating disorders like bulimia and anorexia, and it guarantees that political elections and job hires are no longer based on the candidate's looks--when everyone is beautiful, everyone is equal.
This seems like democracy, but Westerfeld explains that this is actually tyranny. Why should someone else decide how you "should" look? Who has the authority to determine what is and isn't beautiful? What's wrong with simply being yourself? And why do the "New Pretties" seem so conformist, so trivial, so obsessed with fitting in instead of acting independently? Why doesn't their beauty free them? Through the exploration of an unfamiliar society, Uglies enables us to recognize our society's arbitrary standards of beauty, critique the media's enforcement of these standards, and confront our own complicity in obeying them.
By locating his or her story in another world where familiar allegiances and divisions don't apply, an author is able to create sympathy for an argument without running up against preconceived objections like "Well, an America-hating liberal WOULD say that" or "I don't have to listen to this paranoid conservative rant." Fantasy and science fiction create space for new ways of looking at old problems. Witness Orson Scott Card's critique of war and the military complex in Ender's Game or J. K. Rowling's protest against government intrusion into education in Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix.
Indeed, the more fantastic the text, the easier it is to find parallels to our own experience. This is why Lewis Carroll's Alice books have been so beloved and so influential. Who hasn't felt as bewildered and disoriented as Alice on her travels through Wonderland? Who hasn't run up against a regulation every bit as nonsensical and frustrating as the one the White Queen explains to Alice in Through the Looking Glass: "The rule is, jam tomorrow and jam yesterday, but never jam today"?
I'm not denying the pleasures of escapism. There's nothing I like better than snuggling up in my fleecy pajamas and losing myself in a good book. However, a really good book doesn't just help you get lost; it also helps you find your way back to a world you can see more clearly.
I've been reading a lot of scholarship about romance novels lately (yes, there actually are romance scholars), and I'm struck by the fact that nearly all of them describe popular literature as escapist, although they don't agree on whether this is a good or a bad thing. Some say that pop lit works as a kind of therapy, providing a much-needed break from the stresses of daily life without the expense of an actual vacation. Readers enter into another world by identifying imaginatively with the book's protagonist and return to their own lives feeling refreshed and better able to deal with the problems they left behind.
Popular literature as drug addiction
Other scholars describe escapist literature much more negatively. Reading is irresponsible because it allows the individual to avoid problems instead of dealing with them. Reading is at best a means of procrastination, at worst a dangerous kind of self-medication. Because the fantasy world acts as a safety valve for the reader's frustration by vicariously fulfilling all his or her wishes, the reader has less motivation to face problems head-on, resolve them, and achieve his or her dreams in the real world. These critics argue that escapist literature sedates people into accepting the undesirable circumstances of their lives (such as unhealthy habits, unhappy relationships, unsatisfying work, or social injustices) instead of inspiring them to change.
Are fantasy and sf really escapist?
Fantasy and science fiction are especially vulnerable to this kind of criticism because the genres are seen as unrealistic and therefore useless in bringing about any personal or social transformation. However, I've noticed that the imaginary societies in fantasy and science fiction have just as many problems as ours does; in fact, many authors create these fantasy worlds in order to address real-world problems through a strategy of defamiliarization. They describe a society based on unfamiliar laws and customs that seem illogical, unfair, or simply wrong; as the novel progresses, readers are able to recognize their own society in this depiction and see its successes and shortcomings much more clearly. This strategy is similar to the question posed by sociologists about how a Martian visitor would perceive life on earth: sometimes the author allows us to visit another alien world; sometimes we become the Martians and are surprised or even horrified by what we discover about Earth.
For example, Scott Westerfeld's Uglies series presents a future society that insists on cosmetic surgery for everyone over 16 to prevent anyone from enjoying an unfair biological advantage based on appearance. The surgery prevents young people from developing eating disorders like bulimia and anorexia, and it guarantees that political elections and job hires are no longer based on the candidate's looks--when everyone is beautiful, everyone is equal.
This seems like democracy, but Westerfeld explains that this is actually tyranny. Why should someone else decide how you "should" look? Who has the authority to determine what is and isn't beautiful? What's wrong with simply being yourself? And why do the "New Pretties" seem so conformist, so trivial, so obsessed with fitting in instead of acting independently? Why doesn't their beauty free them? Through the exploration of an unfamiliar society, Uglies enables us to recognize our society's arbitrary standards of beauty, critique the media's enforcement of these standards, and confront our own complicity in obeying them.
By locating his or her story in another world where familiar allegiances and divisions don't apply, an author is able to create sympathy for an argument without running up against preconceived objections like "Well, an America-hating liberal WOULD say that" or "I don't have to listen to this paranoid conservative rant." Fantasy and science fiction create space for new ways of looking at old problems. Witness Orson Scott Card's critique of war and the military complex in Ender's Game or J. K. Rowling's protest against government intrusion into education in Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix.
Indeed, the more fantastic the text, the easier it is to find parallels to our own experience. This is why Lewis Carroll's Alice books have been so beloved and so influential. Who hasn't felt as bewildered and disoriented as Alice on her travels through Wonderland? Who hasn't run up against a regulation every bit as nonsensical and frustrating as the one the White Queen explains to Alice in Through the Looking Glass: "The rule is, jam tomorrow and jam yesterday, but never jam today"?
I'm not denying the pleasures of escapism. There's nothing I like better than snuggling up in my fleecy pajamas and losing myself in a good book. However, a really good book doesn't just help you get lost; it also helps you find your way back to a world you can see more clearly.
Saturday, September 8, 2007
Remembering Madeleine L'Engle
I learned today that Madeleine L'Engle has died, and suddenly my world is a darker place.
I have loved Madeleine L'Engle since third grade, when I first read A Wrinkle in Time. I've read it many, many times since then, and it has never failed to touch me with its message of hope and redemption. I strongly identified with Meg Murry, a social misfit who travels across space and time to rescue her imprisoned father and discover her own unique worth. (Perhaps the story resonated more personally with me because one of my best friends was another Meg with glasses, braces, impossible hair, and an attic bedroom.) I still remember thrilling to Meg's declaration "Like and equal are two entirely different things!" and her revelation that she had something the supremely evil IT lacked: the ability to love.
As I look back, it seems to me that I rediscovered L'Engle at every stage of my growing up. I read A Wrinkle in Time and A Wind in the Door in elementary school; Meet the Austins and The Moon by Night in middle school; A Swiftly Tilting Planet, The Arm of the Starfish, and A Ring of Endless Light in high school; and An Acceptable Time and Troubling a Star after college. Along the way, L'Engle taught me about Einsteinian physics, empathy, genetics, Shakespeare, grace, marine biology, Robert Frost, interdependence, the value of poetry, and the restorative properties of cinnamon toast.
L'Engle also taught me that it is possible to be both an intellectual and a Christian, to combine a faithful heart with an active mind, a lesson I value all the more because I hear it so infrequently in this increasingly polarized society.
My husband struggles to comfort me as I mourn my hero's passing. He wants to be sympathetic, but he's clearly bewildered by my grieving for a woman I didn't even know. True, I never met Madeleine L'Engle, but I did know her, or at least she knew me. She was my friend and teacher all of my life, and I would not be the person I am without her loving and thoughtful influence.
"She was eighty-eight years old," my husband reminds me. "That's a long life by any standard." He's right, of course, but this is not the way the heart reasons. How can Madeleine L'Engle be old? How can Madeleine L'Engle die? This simply isn't possible.
The authors we read as children become our parents, ideal mothers and fathers frozen in time. It never occurs to us that these beloved perfect parents might be only human after all.
I have loved Madeleine L'Engle since third grade, when I first read A Wrinkle in Time. I've read it many, many times since then, and it has never failed to touch me with its message of hope and redemption. I strongly identified with Meg Murry, a social misfit who travels across space and time to rescue her imprisoned father and discover her own unique worth. (Perhaps the story resonated more personally with me because one of my best friends was another Meg with glasses, braces, impossible hair, and an attic bedroom.) I still remember thrilling to Meg's declaration "Like and equal are two entirely different things!" and her revelation that she had something the supremely evil IT lacked: the ability to love.
As I look back, it seems to me that I rediscovered L'Engle at every stage of my growing up. I read A Wrinkle in Time and A Wind in the Door in elementary school; Meet the Austins and The Moon by Night in middle school; A Swiftly Tilting Planet, The Arm of the Starfish, and A Ring of Endless Light in high school; and An Acceptable Time and Troubling a Star after college. Along the way, L'Engle taught me about Einsteinian physics, empathy, genetics, Shakespeare, grace, marine biology, Robert Frost, interdependence, the value of poetry, and the restorative properties of cinnamon toast.
L'Engle also taught me that it is possible to be both an intellectual and a Christian, to combine a faithful heart with an active mind, a lesson I value all the more because I hear it so infrequently in this increasingly polarized society.
My husband struggles to comfort me as I mourn my hero's passing. He wants to be sympathetic, but he's clearly bewildered by my grieving for a woman I didn't even know. True, I never met Madeleine L'Engle, but I did know her, or at least she knew me. She was my friend and teacher all of my life, and I would not be the person I am without her loving and thoughtful influence.
"She was eighty-eight years old," my husband reminds me. "That's a long life by any standard." He's right, of course, but this is not the way the heart reasons. How can Madeleine L'Engle be old? How can Madeleine L'Engle die? This simply isn't possible.
The authors we read as children become our parents, ideal mothers and fathers frozen in time. It never occurs to us that these beloved perfect parents might be only human after all.
Friday, July 6, 2007
Children's Media: Books vs. Movies
On July 4, I wrote about parents' attempts to limit their children's reading as "loving censorship," but in my first post, I mentioned the importance of finding age-appropriate books for young readers. I want to clarify this seeming contradiction. Sometimes parental direction is both beneficial and necessary, particularly when a popular children's book is adapted to a film that "everyone" is going to see. Not only will the movie be marketed to a much broader age group than the original book was intended for, but there's an essential difference between text and images.
As communications theorist Neil Postman explains in his book Amusing Ourselves to Death, written language is a complex system that requires skillful interpretation; thus it functions as a kind of self-authorizing code. If the child is old enough to understand complex sentences, sophisticated vocabulary, and abstract thought, she is probably mature enough to handle the content of the text. Thus it's relatively easy to protect children from "adult" information encoded in books.
Film, on the other hand, presents information in images, which do not require (much) decoding and are fairly easy to understand. Therefore, movies and television have no built-in safeguards to protect children from receiving information they're not intellectually or emotionally ready to receive. I will never forget my shock at seeing six- and seven-year-olds racing up and down the theater aisles at a showing of Jurassic Park. Parents who thought dinosaurs + Spielberg + McDonald's tie-in = children's movie were outraged by the violent images in the film, but they would never have handed Michael Crichton's book to their children (nor would the kids have gotten through more than a paragraph or two).
Adults as well as children enjoy Harry Potter precisely because the series contains so many intellectual challenges: e.g., sophisticated vocabulary (including British slang), complex characterization, subtle foreshadowing, and detailed plotting, not to mention the daunting length (the fifth book, Order of the Phoenix, is 870 pages long). Understanding the movies does not require the same skill and intellectual maturity, however, and there's nothing but a parent's "no" to protect young viewers from frightening images. I would recommend telling kids that they can see the movie only if they read the book first. Readers who are too young for Harry Potter's dark tone and occasionally violent episodes are likely to give up on the book as "too hard" long before they become upset, unless an adult is reading and interpreting the book for them. And this leads me to my final point.
Allowing children the freedom to make their own reading choices means letting them decide when to put a book down. Young readers are capable of figuring out on their own that a book is too hard or scary or "weird" (i.e., out of sync with their beliefs and worldview) for them, and they will put it down without having to be rescued.
As communications theorist Neil Postman explains in his book Amusing Ourselves to Death, written language is a complex system that requires skillful interpretation; thus it functions as a kind of self-authorizing code. If the child is old enough to understand complex sentences, sophisticated vocabulary, and abstract thought, she is probably mature enough to handle the content of the text. Thus it's relatively easy to protect children from "adult" information encoded in books.
Film, on the other hand, presents information in images, which do not require (much) decoding and are fairly easy to understand. Therefore, movies and television have no built-in safeguards to protect children from receiving information they're not intellectually or emotionally ready to receive. I will never forget my shock at seeing six- and seven-year-olds racing up and down the theater aisles at a showing of Jurassic Park. Parents who thought dinosaurs + Spielberg + McDonald's tie-in = children's movie were outraged by the violent images in the film, but they would never have handed Michael Crichton's book to their children (nor would the kids have gotten through more than a paragraph or two).
Adults as well as children enjoy Harry Potter precisely because the series contains so many intellectual challenges: e.g., sophisticated vocabulary (including British slang), complex characterization, subtle foreshadowing, and detailed plotting, not to mention the daunting length (the fifth book, Order of the Phoenix, is 870 pages long). Understanding the movies does not require the same skill and intellectual maturity, however, and there's nothing but a parent's "no" to protect young viewers from frightening images. I would recommend telling kids that they can see the movie only if they read the book first. Readers who are too young for Harry Potter's dark tone and occasionally violent episodes are likely to give up on the book as "too hard" long before they become upset, unless an adult is reading and interpreting the book for them. And this leads me to my final point.
Allowing children the freedom to make their own reading choices means letting them decide when to put a book down. Young readers are capable of figuring out on their own that a book is too hard or scary or "weird" (i.e., out of sync with their beliefs and worldview) for them, and they will put it down without having to be rescued.
Friday, June 29, 2007
My Romance with Harry Potter, Part 1
Until the spring of 2001, I was only dimly aware of Harry Potter as a popular children's series that some people were trying to ban (I had no idea why). That all changed on the first day of class in the sophomore survey I was teaching--British Literature, 18th century - Present. As I was going over the syllabus for the semester, a young man in the back raised his hand.
"Is this the section of this course that's doing the Harry Potter books?" he wanted to know.
I was taken aback by the way he phrased the question--he seemed certain that somebody would be teaching Harry Potter. When I told him that, as far as I knew, J. K. Rowling wasn't on anybody's syllabus, he was absolutely crushed. "You mean nobody's teaching Harry Potter?" It was as if his world no longer had meaning.
When the class was over, the young man stopped on his way out the door to ask despairingly, "Haven't you ever read the Harry Potter books?" Behind him, another student paused to hear my confession that no, I hadn't. "Oh, you should read them," the young woman announced confidently. "They're hot-diggity."
Maybe I'm reading too much into this episode, but the fact remains: both students dropped my course.
After that, I had no choice. I had to read the books. I hit my local library and slunk my way through the children's section, feeling strangely guilty and conspicuous, like a child molester hanging around a school playground. I expected to be challenged at any minute--"What do you think you're doing, lady?"--so I made up an elaborate story about a sick kid at home who had begged me to bring him a book, any book, to while away his lonely hours. (I don't have any children.) When I reached the Rs, I grabbed the only Harry Potter book on the shelf (The Goblet of Fire) without even looking at it and fled to the adult section of the library, where I loaded up on Margaret Atwood and other "literary" writers to shore up my credentials as an intellectual.
I was feeling pretty good until I saw the librarian at the circulation desk. Studly-looking guy, earring, purple silk shirt. I just knew he was going to give me grief about Harry, and I handed over my books with dread in my heart. Studly Guy checked out my books without comment, but when he came to Harry Potter, he paused and looked up, just as I'd known he would. I readied my cover story, heartlessly giving my fictional son chicken pox and a broken leg.
"Now, have you read the first three?" Studly Guy asked, his voice concerned. "Because you're going to ruin it for yourself if you read these out of order."
Safe!
"Is this the section of this course that's doing the Harry Potter books?" he wanted to know.
I was taken aback by the way he phrased the question--he seemed certain that somebody would be teaching Harry Potter. When I told him that, as far as I knew, J. K. Rowling wasn't on anybody's syllabus, he was absolutely crushed. "You mean nobody's teaching Harry Potter?" It was as if his world no longer had meaning.
When the class was over, the young man stopped on his way out the door to ask despairingly, "Haven't you ever read the Harry Potter books?" Behind him, another student paused to hear my confession that no, I hadn't. "Oh, you should read them," the young woman announced confidently. "They're hot-diggity."
Maybe I'm reading too much into this episode, but the fact remains: both students dropped my course.
After that, I had no choice. I had to read the books. I hit my local library and slunk my way through the children's section, feeling strangely guilty and conspicuous, like a child molester hanging around a school playground. I expected to be challenged at any minute--"What do you think you're doing, lady?"--so I made up an elaborate story about a sick kid at home who had begged me to bring him a book, any book, to while away his lonely hours. (I don't have any children.) When I reached the Rs, I grabbed the only Harry Potter book on the shelf (The Goblet of Fire) without even looking at it and fled to the adult section of the library, where I loaded up on Margaret Atwood and other "literary" writers to shore up my credentials as an intellectual.
I was feeling pretty good until I saw the librarian at the circulation desk. Studly-looking guy, earring, purple silk shirt. I just knew he was going to give me grief about Harry, and I handed over my books with dread in my heart. Studly Guy checked out my books without comment, but when he came to Harry Potter, he paused and looked up, just as I'd known he would. I readied my cover story, heartlessly giving my fictional son chicken pox and a broken leg.
"Now, have you read the first three?" Studly Guy asked, his voice concerned. "Because you're going to ruin it for yourself if you read these out of order."
Safe!
Thursday, June 28, 2007
Why We Should Take Children's Lit Seriously
As a graduate student, I never took a course in children's literature. In fact, I don't remember even being offered the opportunity. I do remember hearing one professor speak disparagingly of "kiddie lit," which I now realize is a controversial but widely-used term, but I had no idea that this was a field of legitimate study (and indeed, some scholars argue that it isn't). Children's/YA lit has gained grudging acceptance in the academy and I've read some truly outstanding scholarship on the subject, but I've learned most of what I know about this field from much younger experts.
Birth of a Book Group
Two years ago, I was asked to put together a fantasy/science fiction book group for readers between the ages of 10 and 15. I figured I could draw on some of my old favorites--A Wrinkle in Time, The Chronicles of Narnia, Alice in Wonderland--but I wasn't up on any current fiction except Harry Potter, so I went to my public library to do some research. I casually asked a librarian if she could recommend a few books and was overwhelmed by her response--Pat led me all over the junior and teen sections, showered me with lists of award-winning books, and fired authors and titles at me until I begged for mercy. We sat down at a table as I feverishly took notes, stumbling over the spelling of unfamiliar names like Sabriel and Abarat. I wish I could remember which title Pat was talking about when a young woman playing a computer game nearby suddenly turned around and said fervently, "That is SUCH a great book!" That's how I met Julia.
Julia joined us at the table and started rattling off all the books I absolutely had to read. After a while, her sister, Katherine, wandered over to see what we were doing, and soon both girls were darting into the stacks and bringing back armfuls of their favorite books, breathlessly providing plot summaries and arguing over which were the best. I've spent my life among books and people who love them, but it had been a long time since I had heard anyone talk about reading with such passion and urgency. I knew I had to get this book group up and running. Julia and Katherine became the first two members.
Next month the Gryffindors will celebrate our two-year anniversary (yes, I live in fear of being sued for copyright infringement, but we love the name). In addition to facilitating the meetings, I publish two newsletters, The Denton Runes and Dragonbites, to recommend books and advertise special events at the Denton Public Library and at the Barnes & Noble store where the group meets.
Here are some of the things I've learned over the past two years:
1. We are living in a second Golden Age of children's/YA literature, fueled by but certainly not limited to the Harry Potter phenomenon. (The first Golden Age was in the 19th century--more about that later.) There's just a lot of good stuff out there right now, including a number of books with very strong female heroes. I plan to talk about many of these books in more detail in future posts, but let me just list, in no particular order, some of the most impressive authors I've read: Shannon Hale, Scott Westerfeld, Jonathan Stroud, Philip Pullman, Patricia Wrede, Maiya Williams, Louis Sachar, Carl Hiaasen, Justine Larbalestier, Terry Pratchett, J. K. Rowling, Orson Scott Card, Gail Carson Levine, Rick Riordan, Vivian Vande Velde, and Gabrielle Zevin.
2. "Children's literature" covers a lot of territory, everything from soft-cover picture books for infants to racy teen reads like the Gossip Girl series (think Sex and the City for the Clearasil crowd and you've got the idea). This tendency to lump everything together under one umbrella term leads to confusion about what is age-appropriate. Harry Potter and Eragon may be extremely popular, but they're NOT for six-year-olds.
Birth of a Book Group
Two years ago, I was asked to put together a fantasy/science fiction book group for readers between the ages of 10 and 15. I figured I could draw on some of my old favorites--A Wrinkle in Time, The Chronicles of Narnia, Alice in Wonderland--but I wasn't up on any current fiction except Harry Potter, so I went to my public library to do some research. I casually asked a librarian if she could recommend a few books and was overwhelmed by her response--Pat led me all over the junior and teen sections, showered me with lists of award-winning books, and fired authors and titles at me until I begged for mercy. We sat down at a table as I feverishly took notes, stumbling over the spelling of unfamiliar names like Sabriel and Abarat. I wish I could remember which title Pat was talking about when a young woman playing a computer game nearby suddenly turned around and said fervently, "That is SUCH a great book!" That's how I met Julia.
Julia joined us at the table and started rattling off all the books I absolutely had to read. After a while, her sister, Katherine, wandered over to see what we were doing, and soon both girls were darting into the stacks and bringing back armfuls of their favorite books, breathlessly providing plot summaries and arguing over which were the best. I've spent my life among books and people who love them, but it had been a long time since I had heard anyone talk about reading with such passion and urgency. I knew I had to get this book group up and running. Julia and Katherine became the first two members.
Next month the Gryffindors will celebrate our two-year anniversary (yes, I live in fear of being sued for copyright infringement, but we love the name). In addition to facilitating the meetings, I publish two newsletters, The Denton Runes and Dragonbites, to recommend books and advertise special events at the Denton Public Library and at the Barnes & Noble store where the group meets.
Here are some of the things I've learned over the past two years:
1. We are living in a second Golden Age of children's/YA literature, fueled by but certainly not limited to the Harry Potter phenomenon. (The first Golden Age was in the 19th century--more about that later.) There's just a lot of good stuff out there right now, including a number of books with very strong female heroes. I plan to talk about many of these books in more detail in future posts, but let me just list, in no particular order, some of the most impressive authors I've read: Shannon Hale, Scott Westerfeld, Jonathan Stroud, Philip Pullman, Patricia Wrede, Maiya Williams, Louis Sachar, Carl Hiaasen, Justine Larbalestier, Terry Pratchett, J. K. Rowling, Orson Scott Card, Gail Carson Levine, Rick Riordan, Vivian Vande Velde, and Gabrielle Zevin.
2. "Children's literature" covers a lot of territory, everything from soft-cover picture books for infants to racy teen reads like the Gossip Girl series (think Sex and the City for the Clearasil crowd and you've got the idea). This tendency to lump everything together under one umbrella term leads to confusion about what is age-appropriate. Harry Potter and Eragon may be extremely popular, but they're NOT for six-year-olds.
3. Children's/YA lit has a much larger audience than you might think. The Gryffindors was intended for tweens and young teens, but we had so many adults attend the first few meetings that I changed the description to "readers of all ages." Some are parents who come with their children; some are aspiring children's authors or fans of a particular book; others are college-age readers who find that YA books are more thought-provoking and original than adult fiction.
4. They may be writing for young readers, but these authors aren't kidding around (sorry, I couldn't resist that one). They're taking on serious issues and creating real art.
- Cornelia Funke's Inkheart raises the issue of an author's moral responsibility for his or her creation.
- Orson Scott Card's Ender's Game and Terry Pratchett's Only You Can Save Mankind confront the moral complexities of war.
- Philip Pullman's His Dark Materials trilogy is a rewriting of Milton's Paradise Lost by way of William Blake's Songs of Innocence and Experience and "The Marriage of Heaven and Hell."
In her study Kiddie Lit: The Cultural Construction of Children's Literature in America, Beverly Lyon Clark asserts that the study of children's lit raises some fascinating questions about canonicity, commodification, and censorship, but she gives us an even more important reason to take children's lit seriously: "The term kiddie lit captures our culture's ambivalence toward children and children's literature: dismissive? self-mocking? pejorative? ironical?" (2).
Our regard for children's lit has a lot to do with our regard for children, period.
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