Um, Did You See My Computer Anywhere?

The Borrowers by Mary Norton. 1952.

An adventure-filled story that ends up being a bit of a mystery. Are the borrowers real?

I can see the appeal—what child doesn’t wonder who got off with their pencil stub or favorite toy car? The characters are richly drawn, the details making the little people believable and the whole story credible.

I don’t see the necessity of the first person narrator switching to talk about herself in the third person (except perhaps for credibility), especially since the first person narrator never returns after the opening page(s). Funny how Dahl employs a whole different use of human “bean” in his wild fantasy. There are odd similarities (giants in their own world alongside humans, vs. little people). I also felt a little cheated at the lack of emotional weight. Arrietty’s desire for adventure is a powerful one, her feeling caged, wanting to expand her world a bit. And she does initiate change for her family but ... I suppose switching back to Mrs. May and leaving so much speculation about the ending was unsettling to me and left the story feeling unfinished.

Of special note: the world-building is fabulous. The details used to create the world make it seem logical, if not expected, that a whole society of little people exists in every backyard or beneath every floorboard.

One Bizarre Book: The BFG by Roald Dahl

The BFG by Roald Dahl. FS&G, 1982.

My first thought: wow! Dahl is on LSD! Which makes sense for an early 80s book (child of the 60s/70s). But no, not psychotropic drugs, just a little Freud and Jung with a dash of Platonic forms. Ok, on to at least one real thought: BFG’s fabulous voice of made-up words, rhythm and bizarre syntax that never muddles meaning. It is so vivid and real, and so surprisingly easy to read. But logic seems a non-essential factor in fantasy for this age. The BFG can’t understand the natterbox spiders (doesn’t know the language), but he can understand the chatbag cattypiddlers? Why?

• Yet I can’t get away from a Freudian reading of this book. The giants have frankfurter lips (and we all know what hot dogs represent), with slimy drool, and little Sophie ends up in a giant cucumber-like (oh-so-phallic) vegetable and is then taken into the giant’s mouth ... yes, yes, I know. It’s just creepy to me, like it’s some latent memory the author hasn’t yet come to terms with. 
• I love how the BFG is so childlike while the giants are rather obviously bullies. Though the “message” was a little heavy-handed. There is a line about human beans being the only ones that kill their own kind, which isn’t true at all. I had enough hamsters as a child to know they often kill one another, and they eat their young (or in the case of Peaches, half of one of her young. The other half she left for me to find). On that note, I was a little annoyed by the social commentary. It seems the book was half parody (jack and the beanstalk references), half fantasy, and half cultural critique (yes, I know my halves don’t add up). Yet even with all the talk of how human beans kill one another, the giants (only doing what comes naturally to themselves, unlike the awful humans) get a pretty severe punishment. 
• Stephen King wrote somewhere that horror is having people react in expected ways to unexpected events—here a giant meets real England and a table is made for him of grandfather clocks and a ping pong table. Dahl gives great authenticating details of the butler needing a ladder to set the table, it taking four footmen to carry the clocks, and so on. Such great humor here, and the fart jokes, and by the bellypoppers and portedos I’m laughing aloud. 
• I loved the bit on p.196 about blank pages at the back of an atlas—to draw the places no one has ever been. Isn’t that a metaphor for writing? And life itself? 
• On the downside, it took to page 118 (Sophie trying to save the school kids, which she didn’t actually do!) for there to be strong forward motion. The plot was a little muddled and not tied up too neatly at the end. Maybe because the whole thing is just some Jungian shared dream? It was all Dahl’s dream, obviously, since he is the BFG who, we discover at the end, is writing the story. So although I found the book creepily Freudian/Jungian, and although I did enjoy the wild creativity and fun use of language, I do hope Dahl got himself some good psychotherapy. 

Terrible, Horrible, No good, Very bad Day

Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day by Judith Viorst. Atheneum Books for Young Readers, 1972.

Viorst respects the child’s world; her protagonist wakes up grumpy, gum in his hair, and as the day continues everything else seems to go so wrong the boy wants to move to Australia. Rather than trivialize the child’s struggles with a happy ending, Viorst simply closes with, “Some days are like that. Even in Australia.”

The examples of upsetting events are realistic and varied and the line drawings compliment the text. Their black and white simplicity at first struck me as boring, but as I read I realized how the lack of color draws attention to the details in each piece of artwork—facial expressions, textures. This was a childhood favorite, and it still draws me in, after all these years.

Bread and Jam, Peanut Butter and Pepperoni, Whatever

Bread and Jam for Frances by Russell Hoban. HarperCollins, 1964.

Engaging the child within everyday family life. The lyrical text is sweet and gentle, reminding me of Rosemary Wells, and with it, Russell uncovers everyday details to engage the world of a child. The sorts of details that may drive a parent batty, but get at how closely children observe aspects of the world that appeal to or interest them. There is a deep understanding of a child’s inner workings: making foods come out even, “How do you know what I’ll like if you won’t even try me?” Through some smart reverse psychology, mother ends the bread and jam fixation, proving that suddenly removing options make those options all the more appealing. Smart, sweet, funny all at once.

I remember seeing an interview (on PBS perhaps?) with Russell Hoban when I was a girl. He talked about how many times he rewrote a book before he was "done" with it - something like one hundred? It shocked and horrified me. Though now that I'm working on picture books in this MFA, I'd say he's about right. Goodness, how many times will I have to rewrite my Appalachian dialect book? Until it's right.

Oh, and right now Mud Pie is on a peanut butter and pepperoni kick. I think I could stomach bread and jam a little better.

Purple Plastic Purses and Other Uses of Alliteration

Lily’s Purple Plastic Purse by Kevin Henkes, Greenwillow, 1996.

Super-fast summary: Little mouse Lily has a crush on her teacher. She so wants to impress him with her new purse, but ends up disrupting class and being scolded. Her crush quickly turns to anger and she draws a cruel picture, but later repents and all is well.

The bigness of Lily's angst, like Ramona’s in the Ramona Quimby books, shows that the author takes the child’s world seriously. Children do have adult-sized emotions, all bound up in those little bodies. Fish had hernia surgery not long ago, I think because his emotions were just too big for him. The doctor said it was genetic, but really, what do doctors know? (ha!) Back to the book, Henkes makes the mundane, a new purse, magical. He also uses repetition in the narrative, and the illustrations elaborate on the text with funny little additions—types of cheese, peace sign on a shirt, etc.

I find alliteration is one of the most common techniques used in picture books. I can see why - who wouldn't enjoy reading "purple plastic purse" or "woodcock pocket" (which tosses in some assonance and interior rhyme for kicks)? A few books, however, seem to think starting every word with the same letter can make bland text sublime. I'm thinking of a few random library picks - if I'm in a snarky mood one of these days, I'll share the titles.

Never Trust a Police Dog

Officer Buckle and Gloria by Peggy Rathmann. 1995.

One of my children’s favorite books, though a little long for a bedtime read-aloud. It’s the story of Officer Buckle and his police dog, Gloria, who is (unbeknownst to Buckle) full of hysterical antics. Rathmann uses repetition of words and phrases, develops a strong plot, and gives childlike qualities to an adult character. The illustrations provide dramatic irony moving well beyond the text. Deserving of the Caldecott!

Am I the only one who thinks this could make a great kid's movie? Am I?