Thank You, Mr. Lewis

Not for inventing Narnia (though our debt cannot, perhaps, be overstated) but for being one of us, a serious adult devotee of young adult literature, even before that genre got its name.  And I owe you one, my friend, for introducing me to one of your finest colleagues whom I somehow managed to miss as a child: E. Nesbit.

I came across Ms. Nesbit's name several times while reading the biography written about you by your friends Walter Hooper and Roger Lancelyn Green.  Quickly I became intrigued: A spinner of children's yarns who kept you reading and rereading her work nearly your entire life must be worth a look.  So I looked.  I visited my local library and picked up a copy of Five Children and It (Puffin Books 2004, first published by T. Fisher Unwin 1902).  And oh, what great fun it was!

When Cyril, Robert, Anthea, and Jane are left home alone for a few weeks one summer with only a couple of servants and their two-year-old brother, whom they call The Lamb, any reader who has been around the YA block once or twice can tell something wonderful is coming.  The best adventures result when parents leave for a bit, especially while school is out.  Better even than that scenario is one in which the novelty of a new home and neighborhood is added, which, in this case, we are overjoyed to find that it is.

And when the four children, playing one day in a sand-pit, uncover a particularly curmudgeonly yet powerful fairy--not, as one might expect, a glittery fluttery fairy but one with a furry body, snail's eyes, and whiskers--who grudgingly must grant them one wish a day, all sorts of delightful disasters come to pass.

I must admit that once or twice E. Nesbit's writing got to me.  As a matter of fact, it was exactly twice, in two separate chapters, when I felt that she was beating a riff in each chapter to death and beyond.  Other than that, Five Children and It was one of the best storytelling rides I've been on in a long time.  I loved the voice of the narrator, who was addressing child readers but clearly writing for adult ones, too, counting on them to catch the sly little jabs that snaked oh so quietly out of the corner of her mouth.  And I loved the tale itself.  Treasure, wings, jewel heists, giants, battles, and a grumpy fairy who declares to all of our beloved heroes by the end of the story, "I'm getting tired of you": What's not to love?

I wish I could sit down and have a chat with you, Mr. Lewis.  I wish you could tell me about more of the stories you loved.  But there are plenty listed in that biography,  I suppose: both the ones you admired and the ones you wrote yourself.  And life is short.  It's not likely I'll get through half of the books I already want to read.  But I look forward, someday, to sitting with you in a pair of heavenly armchairs by a celestial fire, books strewn all about, raising our cups of tea to the company that includes E. Nesbit, Kenneth Graham, Louisa May Alcott, L. M. Montgomery, and--I will insist upon it--you.

 

Woo Hoo!

That's the sound we used to make in high school when we were having a particular kind of fun: the wind-in-your-hair-on-a-roller-coaster kind of fun.  And it's the sound I had to hold in last night between eleven at night and one in the morning, when I finally got to watch the movie Twilight.  My husband rented it for me as a surprise on the day it came out, and my son slept peacefully (only waking up to nurse once and then falling promptly asleep again, God bless him) while I watched it in the dark with my headphones on.  I was so pumped when it was over that I washed the dishes and then lay awake until two.

I've heard criticisms of the movie from readers who were disappointed, and I respect those criticisms.  When you love a book, it's hard for any film version to measure up.  (I let loose on that topic in my last post.)  Personally, I think these filmmakers nailed it.  Bella is exactly what she should be: beautiful but not conspicuously so, unassuming and grave yet passionate.  And I liked Edward even better than the vision in my head, which almost never happens.  He is mysterious and sexy with just a little creepiness around the edges and the perfect mixture of protectiveness and vulnerability, which I preferred to the book's depiction because I found it more subtly rendered.  (For all of Stephenie Meyer's gifts as a storyteller, she tends to overwrite; one thing I enjoyed in watching the movie was not having to stumble over unnecessary phrases or descriptions that dragged out sufficiently crafted sentences.)

The atmosphere of the film struck me as edgy yet beautiful.  In fact, the settings and vistas were so close to what I imagined that I almost gasped at times, particularly when I first saw Charlie's house.  I suspected for a moment that the director must have telepathic abilities of her own.  (The resemblance between our visualizations is more likely due to Meyer's intensely specific writing, which, though occasionally overdone, is undeniably vivid; there are indeed two sides to every coin.)  The dialogue--natural and at times wonderfully awkward--and the soundtrack--eerie, exciting, and enchanting by turns--were perfect.

The only detail I didn't enjoy was the moment when Bella sees Edward in the sun. Meyer describes the setting as an open field, which would have provided a more distinct contrast to the close, shadowy woods where Bella and Edward start out.  I also didn't think the effect used in this scene makes Edward look "beautiful": just grainy, like he's been dusted with glittery sand that I wanted badly to brush off and make him clean and handsome again.  

I will eagerly anticipate seeing the rest of the series; I'm even tempted now to watch Breaking Dawn when it comes out.  The only danger of liking a movie so much is that I might never read the book again, but I doubt that will happen, especially when--God willing--I have teenaged daughters of my own.  This morning, I'm sleepy, but it was worth it.  I'm grateful for any story--whether in book or movie form--that can entice me to forget (almost) that I'm nearly 30 years old and a mom and keep me up until two a.m.  True, being grown-up and a mom brings its own kind of fun, but I'll always snag an opportunity to have that old (or should I say young?) kind of fun again.

 

Ruined or Not, It's a Book You Gotta Read

Maybe we should be used to it by now: A beautiful book is written; we all fall in love with it; Hollywood gets hold of it; we await the movie’s release date, buy our tickets, and a few hours later leave the theater agreeing that despite the film version’s various good points, “it's just not the same.” I guess we book lovers have, to some extent, come to accept this cycle of low-grade torment and despair as normal occupational hazards of the bibliophiliac lifestyles we have chosen.

Still, I admit I was shocked into bookworm’s rage—that pitifully impotent tantrum pitched by someone who sees herself as a champion of books but who makes no impression except to cause everyone around her to wonder what the big deal is—when I walked past the artsy little independent cinema in my town a few months ago and spotted a movie poster for The Boy in the Striped Pajamas (novel: Random House 2006, copyright John Boyne).

No one ever accused Hollywood of subtlety. I know that. And the movie industry, like every other industry, is driven by what sells. I get that. But why, why, oh why did they have to take that book—that wonderful, brilliant book, the kind that makes an actual case for the inclusion of YA literature on lofty universities’ English syllabi—and destroy, in one stroke, everything that makes it wonderful and brilliant?

Now, you may ask, as I am flipping out over this, have I even seen the movie? No, I have not. But I promise you: The existence of the movie ruins the book. The existence of the movie poster ruins the book. In fact, far be it from me to begrudge a successful author his movie deal, but I have to wonder just what John Boyne was thinking when he decided to go along with this.

Everything, and I mean everything, about the story must be a surprise in order for it to work the way it's meant to. Even the blurb on the original book jacket is very careful not to give away the premise or plot; merely knowing the setting before you start to read seriously undermines the effect. I used to recommend this novel eagerly to my seventh grade students by telling them, “I can’t tell you what this book is about or when or where it’s set, but you have to read it. Trust me. You won’t be sorry.”

And now Hollywood has gone and burst a truly rare and stunning literary bubble for millions of would-be readers. It’s sad, but I’m hoping (perhaps vainly, but you can imagine that if I still love children’s books at the age of 29, I can also hold on to hope like nobody’s business) there are still some of you YA-book lovers out there who have not seen or heard anything about the movie. If so, run to your local library or bookstore—carefully averting your gaze if you pass a Blockbuster—and ask the librarian or salesperson to bring you a copy of the book, but only if it features the original cover art (i.e., not a single human being or landscape in sight). If it doesn’t, have him or her wrap the outside of it in a newspaper or bag. Then go home and read it fast, before you can succumb to the temptation to sneak a peek at the cover or you forget to shield your eyes when passing that Blockbuster.

Even if these precautions fail, however, and you are unfortunate enough to have fallen victim to Hollywood’s book-spoiling marketing scheme, read The Boy in The Striped Pajamas anyway. No, it won’t be the same, but read it. Trust me. You won’t be sorry.

Remembering Chester, Harry, Tucker, and the Little Boy I Miss

When I was cleaning out my classroom last spring to prepare for my maternity leave, I came across an old copy of George Selden's The Cricket in Times Square (Dell Publishing, copyright 1960 by George Selden and Garth Williams).  I opened it--browsing old books being, of course, one of the wonderful distractions offered by massive clean-ups--and was immediately grateful that I had; on the inside front cover, a dull pencil had dug the letters of my brother's name, "James J. Tascio," in neat elementary-school handwriting under a stamped picture of Christopher Robin reading a story to Pooh Bear.  The book came home with me and was one of the tales I blissfully drank in while my son just as blissfully nursed in our quiet apartment north of New York City.

The story is about Chester the cricket, who finds himself in the Times Square subway station after accidentally becoming trapped among the leftover roast beef sandwiches of a New York family that had been picnicking in his native Connecticut.  Disoriented and alone, Chester is befriended by Tucker the mouse, Harry the cat, and a little boy named Mario whose family owns a failing newsstand in the subway station.

Mario adores Chester, and his mother grudgingly allows him to keep the cricket.  Soon, however, she brims with enthusiasm for Chester when her husband discovers his talent for chirping any melody he hears and the newsstand makes a fortune on cricket concerts.  Chester is thrilled to help his adopted family, but before long, he grows tired of city life and his exhausting schedule of performances.  His furry friends help him hop a train back to New England, but not before Chester has saved the newsstand and brought unexpected calm and delight to the underground commuters.

I'm not sure if I read this book as a child; I know I saw the cartoon, and I wonder if it could have been as good.  But whether it was for the first time or not, I loved reading this book.  George Selden's simple, whimsical story and Garth William's illustrations--which brought back memories of reading Charlotte's Web about a dozen times--spoke to me of everything that is great about children's stories.  

And my heart swelled when I thought of the little boy who had painstakingly written his name on the inside front cover: a little boy who is now a wanderer himself, in and out of New York unpredictably and never staying long, but bringing his own sort of music whenever he comes.  I was hit in the gut with missing him and admiring the tender touch of the author when I read the dialogue on the last page:

Tucker Mouse changed his position.  "Harry," he said.

"Yes?" said Harry Cat.

"Maybe next summer we could go to the country."

"Maybe we can."

"I mean--the country in Connecticut," said Tucker.

"I know what you meant," said Harry Cat.

Twilight Fizzles Out--But I Enjoyed the Build-Up.

I finally finished Breaking Dawn a few weeks after my son's birth. Isaiah was born on August 9, and my pre-ordered copy (I don't deny it) of Breaking Dawn had arrived six days before he did. To tell you the truth, I never would have guessed that I would still be reading it so long after it came out. I couldn't read the first three Twilight novels fast enough. I like to say that they temporarily ruined my life; during the two or three days I spent devouring them, I barely got anything else done.

For that, Ms. Meyer, I thank you. My great love for YA lit. comes partially from memories of my cramped little fingers gripping books from which even repeated calls for dinner or the telephone could not pry them. (That experience seems harder to come by with adult books. Why is that?) At the same time, with great respect and the reluctant disappointment of a true admirer, I must admit: Bella with super powers and immortality isn't Bella. And Renesmee? Come on. First of all, I laughed when I read that name. I thought Bella had to be kidding and would quickly unveil her real choice for a girl's name, but alas, that down-to-earth, unassuming-wallflower quality I had always loved about her seemed to have donned a hot pink feather boa and affected a phony French accent. Second of all, I never for one minute cared about that baby as a character. I'm not sure why, but I didn't. And so much of the novel depends on the desperate importance of protecting Renesmee that not caring what happens to her drains every ounce of suspense from the story. I finished the book because, heck, I had come this far, right?

That said, my experience with the first three-fourths of this series was a fabulous adventure, and I will probably revisit those three-fourths someday with delight. And I suppose Breaking Dawn unfolded as it needed to if things weren't going to turn tragic. In fairness to the novel, I must also admit that I was quite impressed with one plot twist. (I said, "Whoa!" out loud, prompting my husband to ask me what had happened. He probably thought Isaiah had suddenly sat up and engaged me in conversation.) Jacob's imprinting? Nicely done, Ms. Meyer. Nicely done.

Breaking Dawn and the Twilight series are published by Little, Brown and Company.  Copyright Stephenie Meyer.