I’ve just finished reading “The Owl Service” by Alan Garner owing to a recommendation. I cannot say I found the writing charming and yet it has a haunting surreal quality that made for a memorable read. It’s supposed to be a child’s book but I really can’t think of a reason why apart from the old adage in the publishing world that if the main character is a child then it is a book for children. Publishers seem to think that if the lead is a child it will hold no interest for adults. I think the recent worldwide phenomenon of a certain wizard has turned this concept on the head. Whether you love or loathe the particular boy lead in question, I think this is a good thing. There are currently many books out there that cross the barrier between child and adult readers and I for one am not too proud to admit I read the occasional children’s book. In fact, I cannot imagine the inability to enjoy a pleasant afternoon revisiting some of my old favourite characters in their adventures. I have a quote on my website by C.S.Lewis: No book is really worth reading at the age of ten which is not equally (and often far more) worth reading at the age of fifty and beyond.
When I very small, my reading material was “Pooh” and then Enid Blyton’s “Mr Meddles Muddles”, “Mr Pinkwhistle” or “Mr Twiddle”. I was also very fond of her “Wishing Chair” series and to this day I own a copy of “Mr Galliano’s Circus” (although I used to call him Mr Galeeno as I couldn’t get my tongue around the pronounciation). I wanted to be young Jimmy Brown and run away to the circus. In a more enlightened time and as an adult I couldn’t imagine anything worse (I am not a supporter of animal circuses) but I understand it was the running away on an “adventure” part that I loved so well. From there I went on to Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, although I always preferred “The Great Glass Elevator”. Yes, there was a second book! I adored the Vermicious Knids far greater than the Oompa-Loompas.
There was no stopping me. I loved “The Water Babies” namely because it touched my sense of fair play. Every child should hear of Mrs Doasyouwouldbedoneby or Mrs Bedonebyasyoudid. One Hundred and One Dalmatians a disney film? I read the book by Dodie Smith and went on to read the sequel. Yes, once again there is a follow-up people seldom hear of called “The Starlight Barking.” Likewise, read “Bambi” the book by Felix Salten and you’ll never see that story the same way again. As a child I lent it to an aunt and insisted she read it. After much nagging she begrudingly sat down one day and only stopped when she realised it had grown too dark to see. She was that lost in the story.
Then it was “Ballet Shoes” and “What Katy Did”. My most unusual children’s book has got to be “Snowflake” by Paul Gallico. Mine is tatty, gone orange and lost its cover, though I can remember the cover to this day: pale blue and white with a white snowflake with a child’s face in the centre. Snowflake is ‘born’, falls in love with ‘Raindrop’, goes on a journey and finally returns to her creator. It’s the first book that made my heart ache.
Later came Oscar Wilde. His “Happy Prince” story made me sob. Once I was old enough we started on the classics. It’s amazing to me in this day that classic literature is termed as stuffy. Maybe it’s the classic moniker that has done the harm. They weren’t classics when I was young; they were just books. I started with Heidi but was soon on to Gulliver’s Travels, Treasure Island, Robinson Crusoe, Oliver Twist, Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn. These were my world. They were my friends. They never failed me. They always took me adverturing with them and I feel it’s a sad world where children don’t read these books today.
Last night I picked up Mary Shelley’s “Frankenstein”. It’s disheartening that so many still believe the creature is called Frankenstein when that is the name of the monster’s creator. Or is the creature the monster? Isn’t it more realistic to say the monster is the man who created him, or the society who hounds him? That’s the point of the book. This so-called horror story isn’t only that. It’s a morality lesson. I have read it before but not for some time. At once I fell into the richness of the language, some of which may seem superfluous in this modern age but even in Mary Shelley’s introduction doesn’t “Night waned upon this talk, and even the witching hour had gone by, before we retired to rest” much more engrossing than “We talked well into the night before we went to bed”?
One of my favourite works is the Gormenghast Trilogy by Mervyn Peake, mainly owing to its rich language. I’ve managed to entice people to watch the BBC series but even though they tend to love the story, they are disinclined toward the book. I feel it’s a pity that children aren’t raised on such rich prose. Not only are they missing out on such imaginative stories, one can’t help speculating whether it would do wonders for their verbal skills and their ability to communicate.
