My little sister is currently reading Romeo and Juliet for school, and when I think of this issue of which award is more prestigious, I can't help but envision the Caldecotts vs. the Newberys, as though the awards are rival factions. But in truth, neither award is better than the other. They honor different types of books, and to say one is better than the other is to declare picture books and longer fiction to be in competition. They are, to use the cliche, apples and oranges. They both are wonderful things in which to indulge, but they have different flavors and benefits.
The Caldecott honors exemplary illustrations for books, whereas the Newbery honors writing in longer works. I do not limit either to fiction in this differentiation, because books of poetry and nonfiction have been winners. For those people who think length determines the worth of a book, and therefore give the Newbery preference, I would point to those shorter works of poetry and to the recent Caldecott winner, the giant of a book The Invention of Hugo Cabret, as exceptions to that rule. The differences between the Caldecott and the Newbery are not important -- both honor works of art that belong on our library shelves and in our collective memories.
Sunday, November 30, 2008
The Lorax by Dr. Seuss
3rd grade and up
I’ve always felt that Dr. Seuss books are among the most allegorical of all children’s books – Yertle the Turtle was among my first experiences with the evils of dictatorships – so I was not surprised to find The Lorax to be an environmental allegory. The Once-ler’s story of causing the near extinction of the truffula trees and the destruction of an entire ecological system is not for the little boy’s benefit because he paid his fee. It is a warning to children and adults of the dangers of destroying the environment through the deforestation and pollution of irresponsible industry, and just as the Once-ler puts the last truffula seed into the boy's hands, Seuss puts the responsibility of renewing the environment on his readers.
But Dr. Seuss is not alone is writing books that aim to teach children lessons. These types of books have existed as long as books for children have been written, and they will continue to be written. In our library, the Sommer-time books by Carl Sommer are quite popular, as are the series books such as Thomas the Tank Engine, Franklin, and Arthur, all of which lead children through moral or social issues by encouraging them to identify with their protagonists.
I’ve always felt that Dr. Seuss books are among the most allegorical of all children’s books – Yertle the Turtle was among my first experiences with the evils of dictatorships – so I was not surprised to find The Lorax to be an environmental allegory. The Once-ler’s story of causing the near extinction of the truffula trees and the destruction of an entire ecological system is not for the little boy’s benefit because he paid his fee. It is a warning to children and adults of the dangers of destroying the environment through the deforestation and pollution of irresponsible industry, and just as the Once-ler puts the last truffula seed into the boy's hands, Seuss puts the responsibility of renewing the environment on his readers.
But Dr. Seuss is not alone is writing books that aim to teach children lessons. These types of books have existed as long as books for children have been written, and they will continue to be written. In our library, the Sommer-time books by Carl Sommer are quite popular, as are the series books such as Thomas the Tank Engine, Franklin, and Arthur, all of which lead children through moral or social issues by encouraging them to identify with their protagonists.
The Cat in the Hat by Dr. Seuss
Kindergarten and up
I cannot foresee The Cat in the Hat ever going out of favor with children – they will always be bored by having nothing to do and will always be fascinated by the idea of Thing 1 and Thing 2. Children like to make messes, and the Cat plays on the almost innate tendency to touch that which is forbidden and to do whatever mischief is possible without getting caught.
No contemporary book quite reaches the balance that Dr. Seuss achieved in The Cat in the Hat between “right” (doing as the fish says) and “wrong” (doing as the Cat says), nor quite has the fun wordplay of a classic Seuss book. Sendak’s Where the Wild Things Are celebrates the little beast inside children while it stresses the caring of their adults. Van Allsburg’s Jumanji and Zathura allow children a romp through some terribly destructive situations in the name of beating a game to get back to their homes in the normal world. Dav Pilkey’s Captain Underpants shows how two delinquent children can save the world and their necks by hypnotizing their principal into thinking he is a diaper-wearing superhero. But no author allows his characters to cause quite the havoc, or to clean up with such finesse, as Seuss did with his Cat.
I cannot foresee The Cat in the Hat ever going out of favor with children – they will always be bored by having nothing to do and will always be fascinated by the idea of Thing 1 and Thing 2. Children like to make messes, and the Cat plays on the almost innate tendency to touch that which is forbidden and to do whatever mischief is possible without getting caught.
No contemporary book quite reaches the balance that Dr. Seuss achieved in The Cat in the Hat between “right” (doing as the fish says) and “wrong” (doing as the Cat says), nor quite has the fun wordplay of a classic Seuss book. Sendak’s Where the Wild Things Are celebrates the little beast inside children while it stresses the caring of their adults. Van Allsburg’s Jumanji and Zathura allow children a romp through some terribly destructive situations in the name of beating a game to get back to their homes in the normal world. Dav Pilkey’s Captain Underpants shows how two delinquent children can save the world and their necks by hypnotizing their principal into thinking he is a diaper-wearing superhero. But no author allows his characters to cause quite the havoc, or to clean up with such finesse, as Seuss did with his Cat.
The Hired Hand by Robert D. San Souci, Illustrated by Jerry Pinkney
3rd grade and up
This picture book with text by the great folklorist Robert D. San Souci draws on an old African-American tale of a stranger who could restore people’s youth by cutting them into pieces, washing them, and then putting them back together under magic words. The story itself is worded in such a way that the tale could take place anywhere, anytime before the mechanization of the world. Jerry Pinkney’s illustrations lend to this atmosphere; watercolor paintings allow for colors to bleed into each other to blur the lines between magic and reality.
Pinkney used a similar technique to illustrate Julius Lester’s Tales of Uncle Remus: The Adventures of Brer Rabbit (reviewed elsewhere in this blog). The watercolor effect in the color pictures of that book give a naturalness to these tales of the animal world, while the pencil and graphite drawings help portray the old age of the tales. The dress of the animals indicates that they are really representations of human frailties and strengths; Pinkney also ties them through their apparel to the slaves whose oral traditions kept the characters alive. In both of these African-American tales, Pinkney’s style at once grounds the stories in their natural feel and lets the imagination soar in their rich, nicely saturated colors.
This picture book with text by the great folklorist Robert D. San Souci draws on an old African-American tale of a stranger who could restore people’s youth by cutting them into pieces, washing them, and then putting them back together under magic words. The story itself is worded in such a way that the tale could take place anywhere, anytime before the mechanization of the world. Jerry Pinkney’s illustrations lend to this atmosphere; watercolor paintings allow for colors to bleed into each other to blur the lines between magic and reality.
Pinkney used a similar technique to illustrate Julius Lester’s Tales of Uncle Remus: The Adventures of Brer Rabbit (reviewed elsewhere in this blog). The watercolor effect in the color pictures of that book give a naturalness to these tales of the animal world, while the pencil and graphite drawings help portray the old age of the tales. The dress of the animals indicates that they are really representations of human frailties and strengths; Pinkney also ties them through their apparel to the slaves whose oral traditions kept the characters alive. In both of these African-American tales, Pinkney’s style at once grounds the stories in their natural feel and lets the imagination soar in their rich, nicely saturated colors.
The Tiger’s Apprentice by Laurence Yep
4th grade and up
When I read this book, I had no profound revelations about the state of humanity as I might in reading some of the other books I examined for this blog. Instead, I found a neat little adventure fantasy that was pure escapism – a much needed diversion during an extraordinarily busy semester.
The book centers around Tom, whose grandmother’s life was devoted to, and has just been sacrificed for, the protection of a phoenix egg, the possession of which would give the evil Vatten ultimate power. Her guardianship of the egg, and of Tom, passes to her greatest former pupil, a fastidiously tidy tiger named Mr. Hu. Together with a down-on-her-luck dragon named Mistral and Monkey from Chinese legend, Tom and Mr. Hu fight to keep the egg away from Vatten’s forces.
On more than one occasion, I felt a kinship between this book and the world of Harry Potter. The magical world and the normal world coexist in such a way that most humans have no idea that magic exists; a trip to Chinatown for supplies becomes much like a trip to Diagon Alley with a secret entrance to a marketplace that exists on a plane parallel to the human world. The difference between the two series lies in the mythological underpinnings of the tales. While Rowling’s world draws on Western myth and legend, Yep’s magic comes from Eastern mythology. Chinese creation myths are vital parts of the plot, as are characters from Chinese legend. Dragons, for example, are not bloodthirsty beasts, but rather noble firstborns of the world – they seem to have more in common with the dragons of LeGuin’s Earthsea cycle or Middle-Earth’s elves in their ancient wisdom.
I found Yep’s treatment of dragons interesting in his The Dragon Prince as well. There, the dragon is wise, gentle, and fearsome all at the same time. As a Chinese Beauty and the Beast story, The Dragon Prince draws once again on the Eastern view of dragons as creatures of great magic and power whose benevolence far outweighs the terror their appearance inspires. Like in The Tiger’s Apprentice, the realm of the dragon is under the sea, which makes for a beautiful, poetic setting for a romance.
When I read this book, I had no profound revelations about the state of humanity as I might in reading some of the other books I examined for this blog. Instead, I found a neat little adventure fantasy that was pure escapism – a much needed diversion during an extraordinarily busy semester.
The book centers around Tom, whose grandmother’s life was devoted to, and has just been sacrificed for, the protection of a phoenix egg, the possession of which would give the evil Vatten ultimate power. Her guardianship of the egg, and of Tom, passes to her greatest former pupil, a fastidiously tidy tiger named Mr. Hu. Together with a down-on-her-luck dragon named Mistral and Monkey from Chinese legend, Tom and Mr. Hu fight to keep the egg away from Vatten’s forces.
On more than one occasion, I felt a kinship between this book and the world of Harry Potter. The magical world and the normal world coexist in such a way that most humans have no idea that magic exists; a trip to Chinatown for supplies becomes much like a trip to Diagon Alley with a secret entrance to a marketplace that exists on a plane parallel to the human world. The difference between the two series lies in the mythological underpinnings of the tales. While Rowling’s world draws on Western myth and legend, Yep’s magic comes from Eastern mythology. Chinese creation myths are vital parts of the plot, as are characters from Chinese legend. Dragons, for example, are not bloodthirsty beasts, but rather noble firstborns of the world – they seem to have more in common with the dragons of LeGuin’s Earthsea cycle or Middle-Earth’s elves in their ancient wisdom.
I found Yep’s treatment of dragons interesting in his The Dragon Prince as well. There, the dragon is wise, gentle, and fearsome all at the same time. As a Chinese Beauty and the Beast story, The Dragon Prince draws once again on the Eastern view of dragons as creatures of great magic and power whose benevolence far outweighs the terror their appearance inspires. Like in The Tiger’s Apprentice, the realm of the dragon is under the sea, which makes for a beautiful, poetic setting for a romance.
The Happiest Ending by Yoshiko Uchida
4th grade and up
I couldn’t help but wonder what would happen to the characters in this coming-of-age story set in 1936 as the war years came upon them, for every character was Japanese-American, foreigners in their own homes because of their heritage. Rinko’s frustrations about the arranged marriage between 19-year-old Teru and 40-year-old Mr. Kinjo and her confusion about the difference between romantic love and romanticized love seem to pale in comparison to the lives I envisioned for them in the future. I could see Rinko’s brother Cal entering an all Japanese-American regiment to prove his loyalty. I could see Rinko herself, grown out of her 12-year-old awkwardness and into 18-year-old determination to become a school teacher, being yanked out of her freshman year of college to be sent along with her family and friends to an internment camp. I could see her father carefully packing the American flag he displayed so proudly on holidays into the meager collection of possessions he could carry with him as they left their homes and businesses amid their neighbors’ looks of fear and hate.
I could see all these things because I know the history of the time period, and so could feel anger at the indignities I knew would be coming for these characters whose lives depend on their honor and determination to help each other survive and succeed in their adopted country. I doubt this anger was what Uchida was aiming for when she wrote what is otherwise a run-of-the-mill contemporary realistic novel about the awkward pre-teen years. After all, the intended audience is those very tweeners who, in all likelihood, do not know the real-life history of Japanese-Americans. But in some way, I hope that reading Uchida’s books about the Japanese-American experience in America gives children some clues about the injustices of racial hatred. The constant worry that the children will not be able to achieve their dreams because no one will hire them and their occasional bitterness that they are not allowed to be citizens in the country they would live and die for are never overstated – the book is, after all, about Rinko’s growing sense of the fineries of relationships – but they do come up often enough to tempt readers to find out more about the conditions of 1936 Berkeley. Perhaps in learning about past injustices they may grow to avoid future ones.
I couldn’t help but wonder what would happen to the characters in this coming-of-age story set in 1936 as the war years came upon them, for every character was Japanese-American, foreigners in their own homes because of their heritage. Rinko’s frustrations about the arranged marriage between 19-year-old Teru and 40-year-old Mr. Kinjo and her confusion about the difference between romantic love and romanticized love seem to pale in comparison to the lives I envisioned for them in the future. I could see Rinko’s brother Cal entering an all Japanese-American regiment to prove his loyalty. I could see Rinko herself, grown out of her 12-year-old awkwardness and into 18-year-old determination to become a school teacher, being yanked out of her freshman year of college to be sent along with her family and friends to an internment camp. I could see her father carefully packing the American flag he displayed so proudly on holidays into the meager collection of possessions he could carry with him as they left their homes and businesses amid their neighbors’ looks of fear and hate.
I could see all these things because I know the history of the time period, and so could feel anger at the indignities I knew would be coming for these characters whose lives depend on their honor and determination to help each other survive and succeed in their adopted country. I doubt this anger was what Uchida was aiming for when she wrote what is otherwise a run-of-the-mill contemporary realistic novel about the awkward pre-teen years. After all, the intended audience is those very tweeners who, in all likelihood, do not know the real-life history of Japanese-Americans. But in some way, I hope that reading Uchida’s books about the Japanese-American experience in America gives children some clues about the injustices of racial hatred. The constant worry that the children will not be able to achieve their dreams because no one will hire them and their occasional bitterness that they are not allowed to be citizens in the country they would live and die for are never overstated – the book is, after all, about Rinko’s growing sense of the fineries of relationships – but they do come up often enough to tempt readers to find out more about the conditions of 1936 Berkeley. Perhaps in learning about past injustices they may grow to avoid future ones.
Holes by Louis Sachar
4th grade and up
Everyone I talked to about my book selections for this blog told me how hilarious this Newbery winner would be. I assumed they were talking about the kind of slapstick nonsensical hilarity that I associated with Shia LaBeouf from his Even Stevens days since I knew he played the main character, Stanley Yelnats, in the movie version of the book. I had never seen the movie, and so felt that my reading would not be unduly influenced, aside from the fact that I saw a young Disneyesque Shia LaBeouf in my head.
I cannot say that the book was laugh-out-loud funny as everyone said. But because I didn’t experience the side-splitting laughter they described does not mean Holes was not a worthwhile experience. Indeed, I was terribly impressed with the plot turns that tied the various stories together, not to mention particularly sickened by the idea that Stanley and Zero would actually drink hundred-year-old sploosh. I found myself smiling and "ahhing" at the ways the characters’ histories intertwined, with the deeds of long dead ancestors playing a direct role in their descendants’ lives. I can’t think of another children’s book that is so tightly plotted – the last time I was this impressed with the cohesion of a plot was when I read Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, but even that story does not come close to the way that every detail of Holes depends on every other detail. This level of intricacy seems appropriate to the primary focus of the book; it mirrors Stanley and Zero’s growing realization that they must depend on each other and work together to achieve their goals. The cleverness of the plot, while a worthy accomplishment, would have been nothing without the heart that the boys’ friendship brings, and so I applaud Sachar for realizing that a story can have all the plot in the world, but making the reader care about the characters is what really makes a book a winner.
Everyone I talked to about my book selections for this blog told me how hilarious this Newbery winner would be. I assumed they were talking about the kind of slapstick nonsensical hilarity that I associated with Shia LaBeouf from his Even Stevens days since I knew he played the main character, Stanley Yelnats, in the movie version of the book. I had never seen the movie, and so felt that my reading would not be unduly influenced, aside from the fact that I saw a young Disneyesque Shia LaBeouf in my head.
I cannot say that the book was laugh-out-loud funny as everyone said. But because I didn’t experience the side-splitting laughter they described does not mean Holes was not a worthwhile experience. Indeed, I was terribly impressed with the plot turns that tied the various stories together, not to mention particularly sickened by the idea that Stanley and Zero would actually drink hundred-year-old sploosh. I found myself smiling and "ahhing" at the ways the characters’ histories intertwined, with the deeds of long dead ancestors playing a direct role in their descendants’ lives. I can’t think of another children’s book that is so tightly plotted – the last time I was this impressed with the cohesion of a plot was when I read Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, but even that story does not come close to the way that every detail of Holes depends on every other detail. This level of intricacy seems appropriate to the primary focus of the book; it mirrors Stanley and Zero’s growing realization that they must depend on each other and work together to achieve their goals. The cleverness of the plot, while a worthy accomplishment, would have been nothing without the heart that the boys’ friendship brings, and so I applaud Sachar for realizing that a story can have all the plot in the world, but making the reader care about the characters is what really makes a book a winner.
The Tales of Uncle Remus: The Adventures of Brer Rabbit as told by Julius Lester
Middle School and up
I remember reading “The Tar Baby” from a collection of classic children’s stories my grandmother had when I was just a little girl. I think what stayed with me was not the story itself, but the strange illustration of a rabbit with all four paws stuck to this sticky, shiny effigy wearing a straw hat. Of course, I’ve heard that story often since that first time, but I had never experienced any of the other Brer Rabbit tales – now I know why. I would never expose a child to the story of Brer Rabbit beheading Brer Fox and tricking Miz Fox into boiling the head for her children’s supper. I would never tell an elementary class how Brer Rabbit poured boiling water over Brer Wolf, or burned Brer Wolf alive, or tricked him into boiling one of his own children. When all is said and done, Brer Rabbit is, in the vernacular, just plain rotten.
This horror at Brer Rabbit is not to say I don’t get a good laugh out of his descendant, Bugs Bunny, who can pull some fast ones on Yosemite Sam or Wiley Coyote that would make Brer Rabbit proud. I’m not one of those people who think children cannot handle anything stronger than Barney the Dinosaur. But the difference between their brands of mischief comes from their motives – Bugs almost invariably acts in self-defense, or at least out of righteous indignation, whereas Brer Rabbit inflicts misery because he is greedy, unfeeling, or worse, bored.
Of course, I realize that the Brer Rabbit tales come not from Lester’s imagination, but rather from the trickster tales that came to America with African slaves and became part of their oral heritage. For his part, Lester effectively translates the tales out of the heavy dialect of Joel Chandler Harris’s version and honors the tales’ oral tradition by writing in a way modern readers can understand. The prose reads much like a monologue – I could almost hear a storyteller’s inflections on the words and how he or she might dramatize a scene with a whisper and a shout. This aspect of the book made the biggest impression on me, despite my shock at the heartless violence of the tales themselves. As I read the tales in Lester’s words, I feel in my very bones the need to speak them, if only to myself, for with the exception of the tamer tales where the only part bruised is one’s pride, I won’t be speaking them to young children.
I remember reading “The Tar Baby” from a collection of classic children’s stories my grandmother had when I was just a little girl. I think what stayed with me was not the story itself, but the strange illustration of a rabbit with all four paws stuck to this sticky, shiny effigy wearing a straw hat. Of course, I’ve heard that story often since that first time, but I had never experienced any of the other Brer Rabbit tales – now I know why. I would never expose a child to the story of Brer Rabbit beheading Brer Fox and tricking Miz Fox into boiling the head for her children’s supper. I would never tell an elementary class how Brer Rabbit poured boiling water over Brer Wolf, or burned Brer Wolf alive, or tricked him into boiling one of his own children. When all is said and done, Brer Rabbit is, in the vernacular, just plain rotten.
This horror at Brer Rabbit is not to say I don’t get a good laugh out of his descendant, Bugs Bunny, who can pull some fast ones on Yosemite Sam or Wiley Coyote that would make Brer Rabbit proud. I’m not one of those people who think children cannot handle anything stronger than Barney the Dinosaur. But the difference between their brands of mischief comes from their motives – Bugs almost invariably acts in self-defense, or at least out of righteous indignation, whereas Brer Rabbit inflicts misery because he is greedy, unfeeling, or worse, bored.
Of course, I realize that the Brer Rabbit tales come not from Lester’s imagination, but rather from the trickster tales that came to America with African slaves and became part of their oral heritage. For his part, Lester effectively translates the tales out of the heavy dialect of Joel Chandler Harris’s version and honors the tales’ oral tradition by writing in a way modern readers can understand. The prose reads much like a monologue – I could almost hear a storyteller’s inflections on the words and how he or she might dramatize a scene with a whisper and a shout. This aspect of the book made the biggest impression on me, despite my shock at the heartless violence of the tales themselves. As I read the tales in Lester’s words, I feel in my very bones the need to speak them, if only to myself, for with the exception of the tamer tales where the only part bruised is one’s pride, I won’t be speaking them to young children.
Crispin: The Cross of Lead by Avi
5th grade and up
Historical novels have been among my favorites since I started reading the Little House series in the third grade, but stories set in the Middle Ages are generally not appealing to me unless they have dragons or wizards to shake up the monotony of plowing fields for the lord of the manor or fighting the king’s war to fill his coffers. Maybe reading Chaucer in the Middle English ruined my view, or perhaps it was A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court, with all its ridicule of the feudal system. However, I picked up Crispin anyway because I knew I could rely on Avi to tell a good story, and I trusted the Newbery Medal sticker on its cover. The political and historical aspects were, as I expected, my least favorite parts of the book, but I did enjoy it as a whole because of its reliance on a number of archetypal images, which I love to pick out and explore. Crispin is the classic put-upon orphan with an important and mysterious past, and Bear is the mentor and huge protector. He is almost like an academic Little John, or a mixture of John and Friar Tuck, though Crispin is no Robin Hood. The boy spends too much time worrying about himself to qualify as a do-gooder, but his worry is for survival’s sake, not selfish reasons; as Bear says, Crispin is one of the most innocent souls ever created. And the steward is very much like a Sheriff of Nottingham in his one-dimensional evil plots to keep Crispin from taking his rightful place.
What keeps the book from being a generic adventure tale, however, are the moral questions Crispin must confront, as well as the inundation of religious thought in everything Crispin does. He’s a good boy, and Bear is a good man, but their theologies are vastly different, with Crispin hanging on to the traditional views of the Catholic church of his time, and Bear espousing more modern, and thus more radical, ideals presaging Luther and Calvin – Bear’s theology goes farther to the left than even these reformers. These are heady issues for a children’s book, but because Avi stays so truly inside this child’s head, he pulls them off while telling a stirring adventure.
Historical novels have been among my favorites since I started reading the Little House series in the third grade, but stories set in the Middle Ages are generally not appealing to me unless they have dragons or wizards to shake up the monotony of plowing fields for the lord of the manor or fighting the king’s war to fill his coffers. Maybe reading Chaucer in the Middle English ruined my view, or perhaps it was A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court, with all its ridicule of the feudal system. However, I picked up Crispin anyway because I knew I could rely on Avi to tell a good story, and I trusted the Newbery Medal sticker on its cover. The political and historical aspects were, as I expected, my least favorite parts of the book, but I did enjoy it as a whole because of its reliance on a number of archetypal images, which I love to pick out and explore. Crispin is the classic put-upon orphan with an important and mysterious past, and Bear is the mentor and huge protector. He is almost like an academic Little John, or a mixture of John and Friar Tuck, though Crispin is no Robin Hood. The boy spends too much time worrying about himself to qualify as a do-gooder, but his worry is for survival’s sake, not selfish reasons; as Bear says, Crispin is one of the most innocent souls ever created. And the steward is very much like a Sheriff of Nottingham in his one-dimensional evil plots to keep Crispin from taking his rightful place.
What keeps the book from being a generic adventure tale, however, are the moral questions Crispin must confront, as well as the inundation of religious thought in everything Crispin does. He’s a good boy, and Bear is a good man, but their theologies are vastly different, with Crispin hanging on to the traditional views of the Catholic church of his time, and Bear espousing more modern, and thus more radical, ideals presaging Luther and Calvin – Bear’s theology goes farther to the left than even these reformers. These are heady issues for a children’s book, but because Avi stays so truly inside this child’s head, he pulls them off while telling a stirring adventure.
Howl’s Moving Castle by Diana Wynne-Jones
5th grade and up
Usually, I don’t like to watch a movie after reading the book, as film so rarely lives up to the visions I’ve conjured on my own. I’ve learned, however, that if I view the two versions of a story as separate creatures, I can enjoy both, even if they turn out to be as far apart in content as they can be. Such is the case with Howl’s Moving Castle.
What I found so fun about Diana Wynne-Jones’s novel was the way it seems to fly in the face of conventional fairy tales while it simultaneously immerses itself in those conventions. Nineteen-year-old Sophie lives in a world where seven league boots are manufactured for armies, wizards are conscripted, and magic is spoken into sewing thread. As the eldest of three sisters, Sophie believes the accepted path of her life is one of mediocrity simply because no eldest sister has ever had a happy ending in a fairy tale. When Sophie unknowingly bewitches the hats she makes, thus creating a series of lucky coincidences for her customers, she incurs the jealousy and wrath of the Witch of the Waste, whose spell turns her into an old woman. Unwilling to burden her family, she sets out on her own, where she meets the mysterious wizard Howl and his fire demon Calcifer. Vain to a fault, but generous and kind, Howl is a man who follows no accepted path, but seems determined to outrun destiny despite his own curse from the Witch of the Waste. Their adventures and subsequent romance are like no other fairy tale; theirs is as much a coming-of-age story as it is a fairy tale, with the 27-year-old Howl growing far more than even Sophie, whose transformation from a mousy wallflower to an outspoken and strong woman comes of fulfilling the role of a cantankerous old woman. They must see past each other’s facades – Howl’s “heartlessness” and Sophie’s wrinkles – to see the real person beneath in a sort of twist on the Beauty and the Beast story.
Because the movie retains this relationship despite changes in the plot that can sometimes make it unrecognizable, I truly was able to enjoy it thoroughly. An anime feature by the famed director Hayao Miyazaki, this version of the story takes quite a few liberties so that the tale becomes as much Miyazaki’s as the original author’s. Anti-war sentiments shadow what was in the book a fun romp to maturity and self-knowledge; nevertheless, the original themes are not lost, and the beautiful, rich animation even serves to highlight aspects of Howl’s character that in the book are only allusions. The scene in his bedroom is particularly telling: amid the talismans and charms are children’s stuffed animals and toys. Howl is still a scared child, unable to move past the egocentrism of youth so long as the pact between him and Calcifer remains unbroken. Jean Simmons and Emily Mortimer lend weight to Sophie’s simultaneous innocence and wisdom as both old and young Sophie, and Christian Bale’s portrayal of Howl gives him material I’ve seldom seen him tackle. His voice is smooth and endearing when Howl is serious or melancholy, moods Bale has practically patented, but his voice becomes unrecognizable and shrilly over-the-top when vain Howl panics at having his hair dyed the wrong color, a vocal choice that makes the scene hilarious in its ridiculousness. Yet it’s easy to fall in love with this Howl, despite his childish tantrums and cowardice, because underneath it all, he is finally becoming a man.
Usually, I don’t like to watch a movie after reading the book, as film so rarely lives up to the visions I’ve conjured on my own. I’ve learned, however, that if I view the two versions of a story as separate creatures, I can enjoy both, even if they turn out to be as far apart in content as they can be. Such is the case with Howl’s Moving Castle.
What I found so fun about Diana Wynne-Jones’s novel was the way it seems to fly in the face of conventional fairy tales while it simultaneously immerses itself in those conventions. Nineteen-year-old Sophie lives in a world where seven league boots are manufactured for armies, wizards are conscripted, and magic is spoken into sewing thread. As the eldest of three sisters, Sophie believes the accepted path of her life is one of mediocrity simply because no eldest sister has ever had a happy ending in a fairy tale. When Sophie unknowingly bewitches the hats she makes, thus creating a series of lucky coincidences for her customers, she incurs the jealousy and wrath of the Witch of the Waste, whose spell turns her into an old woman. Unwilling to burden her family, she sets out on her own, where she meets the mysterious wizard Howl and his fire demon Calcifer. Vain to a fault, but generous and kind, Howl is a man who follows no accepted path, but seems determined to outrun destiny despite his own curse from the Witch of the Waste. Their adventures and subsequent romance are like no other fairy tale; theirs is as much a coming-of-age story as it is a fairy tale, with the 27-year-old Howl growing far more than even Sophie, whose transformation from a mousy wallflower to an outspoken and strong woman comes of fulfilling the role of a cantankerous old woman. They must see past each other’s facades – Howl’s “heartlessness” and Sophie’s wrinkles – to see the real person beneath in a sort of twist on the Beauty and the Beast story.
Because the movie retains this relationship despite changes in the plot that can sometimes make it unrecognizable, I truly was able to enjoy it thoroughly. An anime feature by the famed director Hayao Miyazaki, this version of the story takes quite a few liberties so that the tale becomes as much Miyazaki’s as the original author’s. Anti-war sentiments shadow what was in the book a fun romp to maturity and self-knowledge; nevertheless, the original themes are not lost, and the beautiful, rich animation even serves to highlight aspects of Howl’s character that in the book are only allusions. The scene in his bedroom is particularly telling: amid the talismans and charms are children’s stuffed animals and toys. Howl is still a scared child, unable to move past the egocentrism of youth so long as the pact between him and Calcifer remains unbroken. Jean Simmons and Emily Mortimer lend weight to Sophie’s simultaneous innocence and wisdom as both old and young Sophie, and Christian Bale’s portrayal of Howl gives him material I’ve seldom seen him tackle. His voice is smooth and endearing when Howl is serious or melancholy, moods Bale has practically patented, but his voice becomes unrecognizable and shrilly over-the-top when vain Howl panics at having his hair dyed the wrong color, a vocal choice that makes the scene hilarious in its ridiculousness. Yet it’s easy to fall in love with this Howl, despite his childish tantrums and cowardice, because underneath it all, he is finally becoming a man.
Eragon by Christopher Paolini
5th grade and up
I devour science fiction and fantasy; give me Luke and Obi-Wan, Frodo and Gandalf, Harry and Dumbledore, Ged and Ogion, Aerin and Luthe, Arthur and Merlin, and I am satisfied. But with Eragon and Brom, as much as I wanted to love them in their roles as hero and mentor, I was left hungry. The Inheritance Saga is quite the hot commodity at the library where I work, but I fail to see the continued appeal of what to me was a work of stunning mediocrity. Granted, Paolini was only 15 when he wrote the story, and my literary palate has probably been spoiled by the greats in the genre, but so much of the plot and characterization was derivative, and the dialogue was so stilted, that I could never immerse myself in the world of Alagaesia as I might in Middle-Earth, where at least the speech patterns fit the characters – ethereal elves speak formally and elegantly, and grounded hobbits speak forthrightly and simply. In the great works, I can care about the characters because they are fleshed out and distinct. I just couldn’t muster the caring for Eragon’s characters that I wished I could. The idea for the story had such potential, what with a farm boy hero who seems destined to save his people from a tyrannical ruler. But it’s been done before, and much better.
So I was not surprised that the movie was disappointing as well, despite having Jeremy Irons, an actor whose work I typically enjoy. His death scene astride Saphira – the old dragon rider soaring one last time – was the single affecting scene in the entire movie. The movie suffered not only from the limitations of the book, but also from poor acting, poor pacing, and a poor sense of what plot points were essential to the story. Rachel Weisz’s voicing of Saphira was not bad, I must say – at least, it was far better than a rendition I heard on an audiobook of the story where the narrator sounded like he had swallowed a pound of gravel and was trying to regurgitate it. But two actors can not carry a movie that, to my mind, was doomed from the beginning.
I devour science fiction and fantasy; give me Luke and Obi-Wan, Frodo and Gandalf, Harry and Dumbledore, Ged and Ogion, Aerin and Luthe, Arthur and Merlin, and I am satisfied. But with Eragon and Brom, as much as I wanted to love them in their roles as hero and mentor, I was left hungry. The Inheritance Saga is quite the hot commodity at the library where I work, but I fail to see the continued appeal of what to me was a work of stunning mediocrity. Granted, Paolini was only 15 when he wrote the story, and my literary palate has probably been spoiled by the greats in the genre, but so much of the plot and characterization was derivative, and the dialogue was so stilted, that I could never immerse myself in the world of Alagaesia as I might in Middle-Earth, where at least the speech patterns fit the characters – ethereal elves speak formally and elegantly, and grounded hobbits speak forthrightly and simply. In the great works, I can care about the characters because they are fleshed out and distinct. I just couldn’t muster the caring for Eragon’s characters that I wished I could. The idea for the story had such potential, what with a farm boy hero who seems destined to save his people from a tyrannical ruler. But it’s been done before, and much better.
So I was not surprised that the movie was disappointing as well, despite having Jeremy Irons, an actor whose work I typically enjoy. His death scene astride Saphira – the old dragon rider soaring one last time – was the single affecting scene in the entire movie. The movie suffered not only from the limitations of the book, but also from poor acting, poor pacing, and a poor sense of what plot points were essential to the story. Rachel Weisz’s voicing of Saphira was not bad, I must say – at least, it was far better than a rendition I heard on an audiobook of the story where the narrator sounded like he had swallowed a pound of gravel and was trying to regurgitate it. But two actors can not carry a movie that, to my mind, was doomed from the beginning.
Because of Winn-Dixie by Kate DiCamillo
3rd grade and up
After experiencing this book, I have decided to own everything Kate DiCamillo ever publishes. Truly one of the best children’s books I have ever read, Because of Winn-Dixie does what I can only hope to do as a writer; it communicates the deep, abiding need people have for connection through prose that speaks genuinely through a child’s voice. These characters simultaneously inhabit the eccentric mythos of the small-town South and transcend that milieu through the very act of connecting with each other. Spinsters, witches, drifters and preachers seem always to have their places in Southern myth, but here they become real people whose pain brings them together as surely as Winn-Dixie does.
Like Flannery O’Connor for grade schoolers, DiCamillo relies on the common people of the South to tell a larger moral truth – the vast majority of the loneliness in the world comes from people’s inability to share either their sorrow or their joy. This truth is particularly important for the Preacher to learn, for despite being the closest to Opal, he is the most closed off of her friends and family. In the movie version of the book, Jeff Daniels gives a fine portrayal of his inner turmoil. His body language perfectly captures the description of Opal’s father as an old turtle hiding in his shell; the audience rarely sees him when he is not slouching at his computer with his head in his hands, or leaning over a sink with his head leaning down below his shoulders, or lounging deep in his chair, cowed by the weight of his sorrow. His transformation at the end, after Opal has done more to ease the suffering of the townsfolk than he has been able to do from his pulpit, is certainly a spiritual transformation, but it is one that manifests itself physically as he raises his hands in a song of praise and lets his voice ring out over that of even Dave Matthews's Otis. His story and the stories of all the townspeople Winn-Dixie and Opal touch are vivid examples that life is like the taste of a Littmus Lozenge: sweet laced with sorrow.
After experiencing this book, I have decided to own everything Kate DiCamillo ever publishes. Truly one of the best children’s books I have ever read, Because of Winn-Dixie does what I can only hope to do as a writer; it communicates the deep, abiding need people have for connection through prose that speaks genuinely through a child’s voice. These characters simultaneously inhabit the eccentric mythos of the small-town South and transcend that milieu through the very act of connecting with each other. Spinsters, witches, drifters and preachers seem always to have their places in Southern myth, but here they become real people whose pain brings them together as surely as Winn-Dixie does.
Like Flannery O’Connor for grade schoolers, DiCamillo relies on the common people of the South to tell a larger moral truth – the vast majority of the loneliness in the world comes from people’s inability to share either their sorrow or their joy. This truth is particularly important for the Preacher to learn, for despite being the closest to Opal, he is the most closed off of her friends and family. In the movie version of the book, Jeff Daniels gives a fine portrayal of his inner turmoil. His body language perfectly captures the description of Opal’s father as an old turtle hiding in his shell; the audience rarely sees him when he is not slouching at his computer with his head in his hands, or leaning over a sink with his head leaning down below his shoulders, or lounging deep in his chair, cowed by the weight of his sorrow. His transformation at the end, after Opal has done more to ease the suffering of the townsfolk than he has been able to do from his pulpit, is certainly a spiritual transformation, but it is one that manifests itself physically as he raises his hands in a song of praise and lets his voice ring out over that of even Dave Matthews's Otis. His story and the stories of all the townspeople Winn-Dixie and Opal touch are vivid examples that life is like the taste of a Littmus Lozenge: sweet laced with sorrow.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Ellington Was Not a Street by Ntozake Shange
3rd grade and up
The beauty of big words, big men, and big dreams is tangible in the poetry and images of this book. Aside from its educational value in familiarizing students with the great names of the civil rights movements that took place through the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, this Coretta Scott King Award winner has a quiet grandeur about it, a kind of strength that the reader can feel as the child absorbs some degree of the greatness of the people who surrounded her as she was growing up. The words of the poem are at once proud and innocent, indicative of the personal honor of these people who fought to be able to do simple, everyday things that modern society takes for granted. The book evokes the tightness of the activist community, but at the same time, it reflects on how very small the author was in this world of big ideas. The illustrations help suggest this impression: the girl is tiny in her little blue dress, always looking up at these men who filled her father’s house.
The illustrations of her as an adult are a striking contrast as she seems to be looking back to her memories of strength and community amid the hustle and bustle of Ellington Street – the people who surround her now never stop to think about why the street has its name. These illustrations are a reminder of the importance of remembering the struggles of the past and the people who fought those battles. By seeing an illustration of Duke Ellington at the end of the book, we get the marvelous sense of the dignity and grace the man exuded – and by association, we sense the dignity and grace that bound all the other great men in the poem to their cause.
The beauty of big words, big men, and big dreams is tangible in the poetry and images of this book. Aside from its educational value in familiarizing students with the great names of the civil rights movements that took place through the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, this Coretta Scott King Award winner has a quiet grandeur about it, a kind of strength that the reader can feel as the child absorbs some degree of the greatness of the people who surrounded her as she was growing up. The words of the poem are at once proud and innocent, indicative of the personal honor of these people who fought to be able to do simple, everyday things that modern society takes for granted. The book evokes the tightness of the activist community, but at the same time, it reflects on how very small the author was in this world of big ideas. The illustrations help suggest this impression: the girl is tiny in her little blue dress, always looking up at these men who filled her father’s house.
The illustrations of her as an adult are a striking contrast as she seems to be looking back to her memories of strength and community amid the hustle and bustle of Ellington Street – the people who surround her now never stop to think about why the street has its name. These illustrations are a reminder of the importance of remembering the struggles of the past and the people who fought those battles. By seeing an illustration of Duke Ellington at the end of the book, we get the marvelous sense of the dignity and grace the man exuded – and by association, we sense the dignity and grace that bound all the other great men in the poem to their cause.
Hot Air by Marjorie Priceman
2nd grade and up
At first, I wasn’t quite sure what to make of the illustrations in this Caldecott Honor book – it seemed like it was going to be one of those artsy, high-brow books that pretend to be children’s books but are actually no fun at all. The first few pages are full of kings and ambassadors and important people standing around looking important as they attend the social event surrounding the first hot-air balloon ride. But at the first sight of the passengers – a duck, a sheep, and a rooster – all my fears were calmed. The looks on these poor, hapless creatures’ faces when they realize they’ve been duped into leaving solid earth immediately indicate that the book is going in an altogether different and hilarious direction.
One of my first thoughts on entering the “meat” of the story was how interesting that the illustrations on several of the pages are very like the frames in a graphic novel. I imagine this subdivision of the action helped give me the impression a superhero team facing impossible odds – except this team is far from super-powered. They are more like the Three Stooges or characters out of Looney Tunes than any DC heroes, with one turn of bad luck after another. They get tangled in clothes lines, drift toward sharp spires, encounter a directionally challenged flock of birds, and all the while, must unite to keep each other safe. There’s something appealing to me about that concept as I sit through boring classes or help difficult patrons at the library. We are all in the basket together, as they say, so maybe if we work together, we can get through it all.
At first, I wasn’t quite sure what to make of the illustrations in this Caldecott Honor book – it seemed like it was going to be one of those artsy, high-brow books that pretend to be children’s books but are actually no fun at all. The first few pages are full of kings and ambassadors and important people standing around looking important as they attend the social event surrounding the first hot-air balloon ride. But at the first sight of the passengers – a duck, a sheep, and a rooster – all my fears were calmed. The looks on these poor, hapless creatures’ faces when they realize they’ve been duped into leaving solid earth immediately indicate that the book is going in an altogether different and hilarious direction.
One of my first thoughts on entering the “meat” of the story was how interesting that the illustrations on several of the pages are very like the frames in a graphic novel. I imagine this subdivision of the action helped give me the impression a superhero team facing impossible odds – except this team is far from super-powered. They are more like the Three Stooges or characters out of Looney Tunes than any DC heroes, with one turn of bad luck after another. They get tangled in clothes lines, drift toward sharp spires, encounter a directionally challenged flock of birds, and all the while, must unite to keep each other safe. There’s something appealing to me about that concept as I sit through boring classes or help difficult patrons at the library. We are all in the basket together, as they say, so maybe if we work together, we can get through it all.
Sunday, November 9, 2008
Flotsam by David Wiesner
Elementary age and up
David Wiesner is rapidly becoming one of my all-time favorite illustrators. I loved the simultaneous nostalgia and irreverence for a classic tale in his The Three Pigs, which won the Caldecott Medal, and a similar sense of pure imagination comes through in Flotsam, yet another medalist for this amazing storyteller. This book calls for a connection to the past, as well as a connection to the future, as it chronicles the wonders recorded by a camera that has come through the decades to a boy combing the beach for childhood treasures. The illustrations make us wonder what goes on in the places we can’t see – whole cities of seashells thrive on the backs of sea turtles, mermaid metropolises exist alongside alien hideaways, and gargantuan starfish move mountains. As wonderful as these images are, my favorite illustrations come when the boy looks closer at the self-portraits of the children who have found the camera before him – his microscope lets him see back to the first child to send the camera into the ocean at the turn of the twentieth century. Something akin to an “aha” moment occurs as we realize that each of the children who have seen the contents of the camera have seen yet another set of amazing pictures and wanted to share this opportunity with posterity – a profound indication that the wonder of the world goes on and on and on.
The magic realism in Wiesner’s books reminds me of Rob Gonsalves’s work in Imagine a Night and Imagine a Day, which in turn reminds me of M.C. Escher’s impossible constructions. I’m not sure what draws me to the seamless blending of dream and reality that these artists conceive, but I know that I intend not only to have all of Wiesner’s work in my school library – at whatever level I teach – but I’ve also put him on my short list of authors and illustrators whose work I will buy for my home collection. His work is a celebration of imagination, a concept I will always embrace.
David Wiesner is rapidly becoming one of my all-time favorite illustrators. I loved the simultaneous nostalgia and irreverence for a classic tale in his The Three Pigs, which won the Caldecott Medal, and a similar sense of pure imagination comes through in Flotsam, yet another medalist for this amazing storyteller. This book calls for a connection to the past, as well as a connection to the future, as it chronicles the wonders recorded by a camera that has come through the decades to a boy combing the beach for childhood treasures. The illustrations make us wonder what goes on in the places we can’t see – whole cities of seashells thrive on the backs of sea turtles, mermaid metropolises exist alongside alien hideaways, and gargantuan starfish move mountains. As wonderful as these images are, my favorite illustrations come when the boy looks closer at the self-portraits of the children who have found the camera before him – his microscope lets him see back to the first child to send the camera into the ocean at the turn of the twentieth century. Something akin to an “aha” moment occurs as we realize that each of the children who have seen the contents of the camera have seen yet another set of amazing pictures and wanted to share this opportunity with posterity – a profound indication that the wonder of the world goes on and on and on.
The magic realism in Wiesner’s books reminds me of Rob Gonsalves’s work in Imagine a Night and Imagine a Day, which in turn reminds me of M.C. Escher’s impossible constructions. I’m not sure what draws me to the seamless blending of dream and reality that these artists conceive, but I know that I intend not only to have all of Wiesner’s work in my school library – at whatever level I teach – but I’ve also put him on my short list of authors and illustrators whose work I will buy for my home collection. His work is a celebration of imagination, a concept I will always embrace.
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