Flying and forgetting: the magic of Peter Pan

We’ll be returning to Roald Dahl soon, and the autobiographies tacked on to our Dahl list, but for the last while we’ve been immersed in JM Barrie’s Peter Pan, a book that’s sat on N’s shelf for some time. We tried it last year, but the writing was difficult, and N didn’t seem engaged, so I tucked it away again, knowing in my gut it was a good one, and that the time should be right for it.

Then a couple of weeks ago, we watched Walt Disney’s 1953 animated version, and N enjoyed it so much it got three viewings in a couple of days. She was taken with the fairies and the mermaids, and also with Wendy (who is a bit sweet for my tastes, but I can see the draw for an 8-year-old girl).

Margaret Henley, immortalized by "fwendy"

Barrie’s choice of the name Wendy was apparently inspired by a little girl named Margaret, whose father was the poet and critic William Ernest Henley. She used to call Barrie “fwendy” for “friendy,” the story goes, because she couldn’t pronounce her r’s.

She died in 1894, just five years old, of cerebral meningitis, but she must have made an impression on Barrie, since another ten years passed before his play, Peter Pan or the Boy Who Wouldn’t Grow Up, first debuted in London in 1904.

It’s interesting to trace Barrie’s invention of Peter Pan, and his involvement with the Llewellyn Davies boys (George, Jack, and baby Peter) to whom he first told these stories. He used to see the children with their nanny in Kensington Gardens, and later befriended their mother, Sylvia. By the time Sylvia died, in 1910, Barrie was “Uncle Jim,” and would go on to become the children’s guardian.

The fictional Peter Pan first appears in Barrie’s 1902 adult novel, The Little White Bird, the story of a childless man who befriends a young working-class boy and embarks on a series of adventures with him. The chapters in the middle of this book show us the secret world of Kensington Gardens, which comes alive after “Lock-Out Time,” with magical creatures that conceal themselves during the day. One of these is Peter, who can fly without wings, and “escaped from being a human when he was seven days’ old.”

This was the part of the novel that resonated most with readers, and in 1906, it was repackaged as a picture book, Peter Pan in Kensington Gardens, with whimsical illustrations by Arthur Rackham, who depicted Peter as a chubby naked baby being lifted into the air by fairies.

“It is frightfully difficult to know much about the fairies, and almost the only thing known for certain is that there are fairies wherever there are children. Long ago children were forbidden the Gardens, and at that time there was not a fairy in the place; then the children were admitted, and the fairies came trooping in that very evening. They can’t resist following the children, but you seldom see them, partly because they live in the daytime behind the railings, where you are not allowed to go, and also partly because they are so cunning. They are not a bit cunning after Lock-out, but until Lock-out, my word!”

But Barrie was not finished with Peter. By the time of the stage play and the 1911 novel, Peter has grown into an older boy — mischievous, cocky, and wild — who lives on Neverland with a gang of Lost Boys who don’t remember having mothers but who crave a mother’s stories. Peter flies regularly to London and listens at the Darling family’s window, and takes the bedtime stories he hears back to his boys. Eventually he takes Wendy and her brothers there too, and learning to fly is only the beginning of their many adventures.

N and I are both loving this story. Peter and Tinker Bell are especially wonderful creations, a beautiful mix of light and dark. Because neither are fully part of the human world, they can’t ever connect to  their human friends in a lasting way. They are like bubbles or snowflakes, impossible to keep; but they have a special bond with each other.

Tinker Bell — who mends pots and kettles and is brighter than a thousand nightlights — has a ferocious temper. Madly jealous of Wendy, she tricks the Lost Boys into shooting her with arrows — the intention is certainly to kill her. But Tink also drinks Hook’s deadly poison to save Peter’s life. Barrie describes her character this way: “Tink was not all bad; or, rather, she was all bad just now, but, on the other hand, sometimes she was all good. Fairies have to be one thing or the other, because being so small, they unfortunately have room for only one feeling at a time.”

Tinker Bell’s love for Peter is constant, right from the beginning of the story, though he forgets her in a drawer in Wendy’s room. But Peter forgets everything — his mother; the lost boys who’ve left Neverland; the pirates he’s killed; the fairies who’ve died. When he first teaches Wendy and her brothers to fly, he keeps zooming off ahead “to have adventures in which they had no share. He would come down laughing over something fearfully funny he had been saying to a star, but he had already forgotten what it was.” Wendy worries that if he forgets the stars so quickly, he’ll forget his new friends as well, and indeed, “when he returned he did not remember them, at least not well. … ‘I say Wendy, always if you see me forgetting you, just keep on saying “I’m Wendy,” and then I’ll sure remember.’”

But will he? Forgetting is an essential part of Peter’s character, in that it keeps him from ever growing old.

12 Comments

Filed under Uncategorized

Odd in noticed ways: Nell meets Shel

"If you are a dreamer, a wisher, a liar, a hope-er, a pray-er, a magic bean buyer ... Come in!"

One of the rhymes we used to recite when I was growing up went like this: “Kristen bo bisten, tea arlickle fisten. Tea-legged toe-legged bow-legged Kristen.” (Carson McCullers uses her version of it in the novel The Member of the Wedding: “Frankie the lankie the alaga fankie, the tee-legged, toe-legged bow-legged Frankie.”) I taught this little ditty to N when she was a toddler, and she absolutely loved it when she realized she could apply it to anyone. Daddy bo baddy, mommy bo bummy, auntie bo bantie, gramma bo bamma, and so on.

For the last week or so we’ve been soaking up rhymes. We’re reading Shel Silverstein‘s Where the Sidewalk Ends, which a friend gave N for her birthday. I thought it would be a fun follow-up to Roald Dahl’s nutty rhymes, while we await the Dahl biographies we’ve ordered. At first N was so quiet listening to these poems that I assumed she wasn’t terribly engaged. I was wrong. Her wheels were really turning. The illustrations — spare, black and white, and occasionally grotesque — intrigued her too.

Note the ill-fated Mrs. Neighbour/Shabour, spotted neck and all

“A poem doesn’t have to rhyme, does it?” she asked.

“No.”

“But it can.”

“Oh yes, it certainly can.”

“And it can be both too — rhyming and not rhyming.”

“Sure.”

And next thing I knew she had jotted down her own, and dedicated it to her dad. When he arrived home, she tapped her toe as she recited it:

Mrs Neighbour.
One day I had a neighbour, her name was Mrs. Shabour.
She was odd in noticed ways, her eyes were shaded waves.
She walked on all fours, she always slept in snores.
She had a pack of 48 dogs who always dined on frogs.
But the oddest thing of all was her neck, oh yes her neck.
Her neck was a giraf!
Unfortunately the zoo keepers took Mrs. Neighbour to the zoo!!!!!!

Quickly thereafter, another was composed for me:

Mrs. Thumble
There once was a tree in little town, and a woman lived in that tree.
And her name was Mrs. Thumble.
One day Mrs. Thumble had a great tumble
And fell 50 feet in the air.
And of course she broke 3000 bones!
But she got them repared in 3000 years,
And never climbed a tree again.

I love these little scribblings, and a third poem attached to a bunch of pussy willows we gave to our neighbours. N’s Shel-inspired drawings are delightful too. I will have to dig up some more books that play with language (suggestions please!), since N seems obviously taken with this, and eager to expand the playing herself. I’ve read that publishers are less likely to want rhyming stories these days, because they’re harder to sell in translation, and that seems such a shame. But I’m sure they are also inundated with bad-rhyme submissions. The poet-who-doesn’t-know-it is easily seduced by words that rhyme and lets them get in the way of the story, rather than lifting the story up. That’s why rhymes are too often tedious, or even groan-worthy.

I’ll admit I don’t love all of the Sidewalk poems, but in all the book feels original and surprising. “Lester” moved me enough to dog-ear the page, but N quickly unfolded it (she always uses bookmarks). It’s about a boy who’s given a magic wish, and uses it to wish for two more. With each of these three, he wishes for three more , and so on and so on, until his wishes multiply into the billions and beyond.

And more … and more … they multiplied
While other people smiled and cried
And loved and reached and touched and felt.
Lester sat amid his wealth
Stacked mountain-high like stacks of gold,
Sat and counted — and grew old.
And then one Thursday night they found him
Dead — with his wishes piled around him.

What would Lester do?

Which of course led us to talk about wishing. A little aside: yesterday I was out walking, and passed one of my favourite book stores, Another Story. There was my book, And Me Among Them, in the window. Turns out the shop is having a Canada Reads type competition of their own, and my book is one of the chosen competitors. As I was relating the story to my husband and N last night, N gasped aloud.

“Oh Mom,” she said, her voice riddled with anxiety. “I don’t want you to be in a competition!”

“But why?”

A pause, an uncomfortable cringe.

“Well…” And then ever-so gently: “What if your book doesn’t win?”

“That’s okay. I’m flattered to have been chosen.”

“But Mom … do you wish you’ll win?”

“I do. But it’s better than wishing for more wishes.”

17 Comments

Filed under Uncategorized

Family memoir in the works

Doris Deverill, around 1912

I’m visiting Allyson Latta’s memoir site today, talking about a new book I’m working on with my sister, Tracy Kasaboski. Tracy and I wrote The Occupied Garden a few years back, about our dad’s family in WW2 Holland, and this time we’re focusing on WW1 London, and our grandmother Dory’s childhood. Please visit Allyson’s site!

5 Comments

Filed under Uncategorized

A love story, a hate story, and a grieving Roald Dahl

"He had loved her from his balcony for many years, but he was a very shy man and he had never been able to bring himself to give her even the smallest hint of his love."

I’ve been loving this little project of ours, reading through all the books we can find by Roald Dahl. When I bought Esio Trot from Book City, the woman smiled at me as she rang up the sale and said, “Oh, this is a great little love story.”

And it is.

Dumpy, balding, middle-aged Mr. Hoppy lives for two things: the potted plants on his balcony, and the splendid Mrs. Silver — “sweet and gentle and full of kindness” — who lives one floor below, fussing over her tiny pet tortoise Alfie. But Mr. Hoppy is too shy to profess his love for Mrs. Silver, and makes do with years of small talk and fleeting glimpses until one bright day in May, when Mrs. Silver confesses she’s worried Alfie isn’t growing fast enough. “Try to think how miserable it must make him feel to be so titchy! Everyone wants to grow up … I’d give anything to see it happen.”

Mr. Hoppy sees his chance, and gets scheming. He teaches Mrs. Silver a chant in “tortoise language,” a series of backwards words to be muttered to Alfie morning, noon and night. “Worg pu, ffup pu, toohs pu! … In a few months’ time, he’ll be twice as big as he is now.”

Then he visits every pet shop in the city, and buys up their supply of tortoises. Each week, he steals a “titchy” tortoise and replaces it with one just two ounces bigger. And just as a parent doesn’t notice her child growing steadily day by day until suddenly the clothes don’t fit, so Mrs. Silver doesn’t notice Alfie’s girth until he is too big to get through the door of his tortoise house. Of course, Mr. Hoppy has a chant to fix that too: teg a tib rellams, a tib rellams.

How could Mrs. Silver fail to fall for such a clever man? (She doesn’t realize just how clever he is — deceptively so, and cleverly deceptive — but that’s another matter.)

Carl van Vechten portrait of Neal and Dahl. Patricia Neal said in People Magazine, March 1997: "Over the years, I found that talking about Olivia helped immeasurably. Roald – who died in 1990 – couldn't say a word.... It was locked inside him."

In a way, Esio Trot is the flip side of The Twits, which was a kind of hate story rather than a love story, and saw Mr. Twit shaving away bits of Mrs. Twit’s cane so that eventually she came to believe she had “the shrinks.” It makes me wonder what kind of a practical joker (or worse?) Dahl himself was in his day. Certainly his love life got complicated. He was married for 30 years to the actress Patricia Neal, and they came through many tragedies as a family: in 1960, their son Theo’s carriage was struck by a cab, and the baby suffered a brain injury; two years later, with Theo still vulnerable, their 7-year-old daughter Olivia died of measles encephalitis; in 1965, a pregnant Patricia Neal suffered three burst cerebral aneurysms, and sank into a coma for weeks. She delivered the child safely, and Dahl became very involved in her rehabilitation, but their marriage, apparently always turbulent, was never the same.

These horrific events took place within a mere five years, while Dahl’s career as a children’s writer was just getting going. I wonder how he coped, and how writing played a role. A couple of years ago, when a family member was diagnosed with cancer, I put my pen down the day I got the news. I got up from my desk and left everything just where it was for weeks. I couldn’t return to it right away, not even to close things up or to tidy. It was as if everything was suspended. But there came a time I needed to return, and though it wasn’t me who was sick, writing was my medicine.

The Guardian calls Dahl "a tricky customer for a biographer.... Crashing through life like a big, bad child he managed to alienate pretty much everyone he ever met with his grandiosity, dishonesty and spite. Tempered by the desire to be very wealthy, he was able to finesse this native nastiness into a series of compelling books for children who loved to see their anarchic inner world caught on paper. Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, Fantastic Mr Fox and Matilda all do the work of contemporary folktales, allowing young readers to stray into some very dark places and still get home in time for tea."

Dahl was writing James and the Giant Peach when Theo was injured in 1960; and he was revising Charlie and the Chocolate Factory when Olivia contracted measles. Donald Sturrock’s biography of Dahl recounts this period in detail. It’s almost unbearable to read about the father wrapping his daughter in an eiderdown and carrying her to the ambulance. Harder still is a passage written by Dahl himself, meticulously documenting Olivia’s decline. “I sat in hall. Smoked. Felt frozen. A small single bar electric fire on wall. An old man in next room. Woman doctor went to phone. She was trying urgently to locate another doctor. He arrived. I went in. Olivia lying quietly. Still unconscious. She has an even chance, doctor said.” And later: “Got to hospital. Walked in. Two doctors advanced on me from waiting room. How is she? I’m afraid it’s too late. I went into her room. Sheet was over her. Doctor said to nurse go out. Leave him alone. I kissed her. She was warm. I went out. ‘She is warm.’ I said to doctors in hall, ‘Why is she so warm?’ ‘Of course,’ he said. I left.”

According to Sturrock, the account was written in a notebook labeled OLIVIA and tucked in a drawer. It was found 28 years later, when Dahl himself had died. One can only speculate as to why he wrote it, and why in that clinical style. I suspect that no words seem powerful enough to express such profound grief, so rather than document the impossible emotions, he documented the facts that stood out to him — both to get them out of himself, and to preserve the last moments of his daughter’s life.

We’re in a bit of a lull right now, as we need to go Dahl-shopping, but this is how our list looks so far:

The Gremlins
James and the Giant Peach
Charlie and the Chocolate Factory
The Magic Finger
Fantastic Mr Fox
Charlie and the Great Glass Elevator
Danny, the Champion of the World
The Enormous Crocodile
The Twits
George’s Marvellous Medicine
The BFG
The Witches
The Giraffe and the Pelly and Me
Matilda
Esio Trot
The Vicar of Nibbleswicke
The Minpins
Revolting Rhymes
Dirty Beasts
Rhyme Stew

I’m adding three more — Dahl’s autobiographies Boy: Tales of  Childhood, Going Solo and My Year– because I’m sure it will be interesting for both of us to read about the author’s life having read so much of his fiction. Autobiographies written for children don’t seem terribly common to me, so I’m curious to see what N will make of these. I like that she thinks about authors as well as the books themselves, and it sounds like plenty of kids do so when it comes to Roald Dahl. According to his widow Felicity (he and Patricia Neal divorced in the 1980s), children still turn up looking for Dahl at the home they shared.

“It’s just awful because they look over the gate and say, ‘Roald Dahl lives here doesn’t he?’ … And I say ‘Well he did.’ [They say], ‘Oh, has he moved?’ And I have to say, ‘No he died.’ And it shatters them.”

8 Comments

Filed under Uncategorized

Building a library: guest post by Shannon Anderson

Part 6 of a growing series on Blog of Green Gables, When Writers Read Kids’ Books. Writer, curator and editor, Shannon Anderson, tells us how she goes about building a library (and hopefully a love of books) for her daughter D. I’m curious to know how others choose what lines the bookshelves for young readers?

Shannon writes:

The Music Library, by Giuseppe Maria Crespi

There was a moment, when my daughter was about two-and-a-half, when I discovered that she was quite capable of listening to books that were much longer than the ones we had been reading together. We immediately set off to the library to borrow some books with more elaborate tales; with pages that unfolded in paragraphs, rather than sentences. It wasn’t long ago that she was eagerly fingering the next page of our book, pushing me to speed along. Now, the pace has slowed considerably as she takes in these longer stories, peppering them with all manner of questions and concerns.

I’m learning to approach D’s education in books as a constantly (and sometimes rapidly!) evolving process. I try to think a few steps ahead, consciously testing the waters sometimes, while keeping a few books ready-at-the-waiting for her next leap in interest. Like most people reading this blog, I’ve always been an avid reader and it’s something I’m eager to pass along to my daughter. But I suspect that all I can do is provide the best possible conditions and surroundings for encouraging her interest in reading and hope for the best. To that end, I’m currently pursuing two types of book collections: one geared toward discovery, and one that’s a little more selective.

There’s a picture of me and my dad, taken when I was about two months old. My dad has propped me up on the couch with him to read, and I’m utterly engrossed in Normal Thelwell’s The Effluent Society. By all appearances, it looks as though I’m engaged in some kind of environmental text (and that’s how we often joked about the photo in our household), but in actuality it’s a book of cartoons on the hazards of industrial progress. So, it was likely the pictures that grabbed my interest more than anything else. In any case, it’s a photograph I’ve always loved, and it has new meaning for me now as a reminder that it’s worth having all manner of books lying around the house for burgeoning readers to discover, whether or not they can be readily understood. I wonder if part of developing a love of books comes from simply being around them – having them lying around for casually flipping through their mysterious pages and strange illustrations and trying to figure out just what you’ve got in front of you.

So, I’ve been looking at our own bookshelves with different eyes lately. To be honest, our collection is not all that extensive – I’ve always been more of a library borrower than a buyer, at least when it comes to fiction. But the other day, I came across a perfect copy of Griffin & Sabine: An Extraordinary Correspondence by Nick Bantock in the small stack of books for sale at our local library, and decided to place a loony in the metal box and take it home to add to our bookshelves. While it was a book I had enjoyed reading a few years ago, my real reason for buying it was for its intricate illustrations and creative format, which incorporates envelopes and letters. I imagined D might enjoy discovering it during a future scouring of our bookshelves.

My daughter is only three years old, but it seems a love of books can happen pretty quickly, so I’m trying to think about the future. The second book collection I’m working on is a little more formal, and definitely still very small. Each year for D’s birthday, I’ve decided to acquire a new book to add to a small library, signed by the author and inscribed to her. The collection didn’t quite start this way – her first birthday consisted of a signed limited edition book I found in a design store – Hanna by Katherine Morley – but it got me thinking about creating a personalized collection that grew by a book a year.

And just before D’s second birthday, I found out that Salman Rushdie was going to be in town for a reading and signing of Luka and the Fire of Life. Not exactly an early-reader kind of book, but it is intended in part for younger audiences, so I was sold. I won’t pretend it was all about my daughter – as one of my all-time favourite authors, meeting Rushdie was on my bucket list and listening to him read in person was a remarkable experience. But I enjoyed having the added mission of getting the book inscribed for D. And last year, when her third birthday was coming up, it only took a few minutes of searching the internet to discover that Margaret Atwood was doing a book signing in a couple of weeks time. And so I got to meet another favourite author, while at the same time having her inscribe a copy of Bashful Bob and Doleful Dorinda. This time I was a little bolder – the inscription reads: “To D on her third birthday.”

I like the idea of creating some kind of connection between me, an author and my daughter. Maybe when she’s older, D and I can choose her birthday book and attend the signings together. Right now, the collection is only in its infancy, and it’s a bit of a hodge-podge, but I suppose that’s how most collections begin. If I raise a daughter who’s not so interested in books, so be it, but each year I’m looking forward to being reminded that fostering a love of reading for someone else is an ongoing endeavour.

Shannon Anderson is an independent writer, curator and editor who works mainly with contemporary art and culture. She has curated exhibitions and written essays for galleries across Canada, and has contributed to various art magazines including Art Papers, DesignLines, Canadian Art and C Magazine. She also assists artists with writing about their work, and has edited publications on everything from heritage quilts to performance art. She lives in Oakville, Ontario with her husband and daughter, and they are looking forward to welcoming a new baby this July. Plans for an additional book collection are underway! Visit her website: www.shannonjanderson.com.

6 Comments

Filed under Uncategorized

Dahl’s not-so-great glass elevator: articulating disappointment

I usually post on Mondays, but here it is Friday and I am just getting around to it now. I don’t know how the week slipped by me this way, but I have an inkling my sluggishness has something to do with my disenchantment around our current read, Charlie and the Great Glass Elevator. We’re not quite finished yet, but from the beginning I have disliked this book. So much so that I urge N’s dad J to be the reader, offering it up  like a treat. “Would you like to … ?” He isn’t fooled by my generosity. He finds the story tedious too. And while N thinks the book “seems pretty good,” she is intrigued by our reaction to it.

“You don’t like it, do you?” she asks, grinning.

“No.” How refreshing to be so certain.

“But why?”

To be honest, it’s hard to say, because it’s hard to pay attention to the story. I find my mind wandering as I read (or as J does), and I end up thinking things like, Isn’t it amazing that we can read without comprehending, the way we can hear without really listening, or look without seeing? 

But I do try to articulate my reasons to N, because I think it’s important to say more than “It isn’t my cup of tea.” I want her to be able to say why something doesn’t work for her, and perhaps even what would make it better. (Just as I love it when she can tell me why she likes her new friend “Snowy” at school: “We both believe in magic. We both like adventure. We’re both anxious to do things — like something’s buzzing inside us.”)

Charlie and the Great Glass Elevator picks up where Charlie and the Chocolate Factory left off, with Charlie, Grandpa Joe and chocolatier extraordinaire Willy Wonka arriving at the Bucket house in the Great Glass Elevator to give good news to Charlie’s family: he has inherited the chocolate factory from Willy Wonka, and they are all going to live there happily ever after and never be poor again. But from there the story spirals off in increasingly bizarre directions. The elevator whisks them into the sky as they begin to make their trip back to the factory, but Grandma Josephine panics, grabs the controls, and suddenly they are orbiting the earth at seventeen thousand miles an hour. The brand new Space Hotel USA is out there too, as is a shuttle containing hotel staff and astronauts communicating with the American president, Lancelot R. Gilligrass, and soon enough the government becomes convinced the elevator contains terrorists bent on blowing up the Space Hotel. The story turns strangely convoluted and political, and ridiculous too, with calls to “Premier Yugetoff” in Russia and “Premier How-Yu-Bin” in China. The president asks knock-knock jokes of the people on the other end of the line: “Knock-knock.” “Who-der?” “Ginger.” “Ginger who?” “Ginger yourself when you fell off the Great Wall of China?” It is truly, groaningly horrible.

I can’t help but feel that Dahl was telling a story for children with a lot of nudge-nudge wink-winks for grown-ups, too, a tactic I really dislike — when the President rhymes off the names of famous hotel owners Mr. Hilton, Mr. Ritz, Mr. Astoria and Mr. Waldorf, it means nothing to N. Nor does the knock-knock joke about “Warren Peace.” Sure, you can explain these things (and pausing to explain can be a lovely part of reading with children), but in this case the iota of humour would be lost by then anyway.

This doesn’t feel like a story written with care. It feels tossed off, and largely Charlie-less. It is picking up slightly, now that Wonka et al have arrived back at the factory, and the story is more solidly focused on its characters, but even here I sensed a wrong note. Willy Wonka convinces Charlie’s curmudgeonly, creakingly old grandparents that they should take Wonka-vite, a pill with the power to make them twenty years younger. With a bit of simple math, he’s warned them of the dire consequences of taking too many. Seduced by the desire to be young again, they grab for the pills and begin to fight over them, eventually swallowing four each and turning rapidly into babies. This tiny moment could have been vintage Dahl, but it’s spoiled by a curious switch in perspective. Suddenly we are in Wonka’s thoughts, of all places, though the power and magic of Wonka’s character lies in the fact that he is enigmatic, mysterious, impossible to understand. But here he is, musing for pages on end: “He hated squabbles. He hated it when people got grabby and selfish…. It was an unhappy truth, he told himself, that nearly all people in the world behave badly when there is something really big at stake.”

I keep thinking back to my earlier research about Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, and how I read that Dahl hated the Gene Wilder movie version so much he refused a film version of The Great Glass Elevator. “Maybe,” I suggested to J this morning, “he’d finally realized how bad the book was, and was doing damage control!”

But all this negativity is bringing me down. Scouring the internet for other opinions of Dahl’s not-so-great glass elevator, I found this simple, perfect quote by moonflygirl, who’s scanned a load of gorgeous old book covers on flickr. “As much as I love Roald Dahl, I think this book taught me that sequels can be disappointing.” Having gone on at length articulating my disappointment, this one spare sentence feels much more dignified. But I’m curious — how do others critique books with their children?

10 Comments

Filed under Uncategorized

Eye-smiles & deep dark secrets

For a couple of weeks now I’ve been squinting at my dad’s old stamp collection, working away on a strange book project that may go nowhere but is fascinating just the same. These are stamps he collected as a boy in Holland, and I can picture him matching up the images and placing them just so in the postzegelalbum that is now faded and worn soft. One of my favourites is an old 1920s lyre bird stamp from Australia. I don’t know how he got it. Most of the stamps are from the Netherlands, Germany, and France, but there are others from far-flung places like Japan and India, and it’s funny to think that nowadays he sails to such places on the boat that is his home. Those dreams of world travel began long ago, and eventually became reality.

So I was squinting at those stamps when an email came in from Niranjana Iyer, sending news of Royal Mail’s new series of stamps celebrating Roald Dahl’s work. The series features Quentin Blake’s wonderful illustrations: Charlie with his golden ticket, the BFG with Sophie on his palm, a Witch with her wig suspended above her scabby scalp. And I thought, how nice that this would come to me just now, like a special delivery.

We’re nearly done Roald Dahl’s 1975 novel Danny the Champion of the World, but we got off to a difficult start. Danny is four months old when his mother dies, so he’s raised by his father, who owns a filling station, and they live together in a gypsy caravan. Danny adores his father, a marvelous story-teller and an “eye-smiler” (like my own dad). “I’ve learned that a real mouth-smile always has an eye-smile to go with it,” Danny tells us. “So watch out, I say, when someone smiles at you with his mouth but his eyes stay the same. It’s sure to be phony.”

Danny’s father takes wonderful care of them both and teaches Danny to become an expert mechanic by the age of 7. But late one night, Danny wakes to discover his father is gone, and that “no father is perfect. Grown-ups are complicated creatures, full of quirks and secrets. Some have quirkier quirks and deeper secrets than others, but all of them, including one’s own parents, have two or three private habits hidden up their sleeves that would probably make you gasp if you knew about them.”

"Pheasants are beautiful birds, aren't they Mom?"

When Danny wakes up alone in the dark, he grows sick with worry. He waits and waits until finally his father returns. “I’m so sorry,” he says, and by way of apology, he lets Danny in on “the deepest, darkest secret of my whole life.” It turns out that Danny’s lovely, gentle, funny, kind father is a poacher. He hasn’t poached since his wife died, but that night, he was driven by an insatiable longing. At first, Danny is horrified by the idea that his father is a thief. And then he finds out that he comes from a long line of “magnificent and splendiferous” poachers. Every decent man in town loves to creep into the wealthy, villainous Mr. Hazell’s woods and steal his overfed pheasants. “Only the very rich can afford to rear pheasants just for the fun of shooting them down when they grow up,” Danny’s father tells him. Before the conversation is done, Danny himself has caught the poaching fever and hangs on his father’s every word about the most ingenious ways to catch pheasants, whose greatest weakness is that they are crazy about raisins:

The 1975 Jonathan Cape release of Danny was illustrated by Jill Bennett

The Horsehair Stopper is a “brilliant method” because it’s completely silent. You stab a plumped-up raisin with a single stiff horsehair so it sticks out on either end. The horsehair makes the raisin stick in the pheasant’s throat, and the feeling of it tickling there, like a crumb, renders the pheasant unable to move. “He becomes absolutely rooted to the spot, and there he stands pumping his silly neck up and down just like a piston, and all you’ve got to do is nip out quickly from the place where you’re hiding and pick him up.” The image of the bird’s neck vibrating gave me the shivers, and I glanced at N, but couldn’t gauge her response, so I continued reading.

Method number two, The Sticky Hat, involves a trail of plump raisins leading to a tiny cone of paper smeared with glue. The last delectable raisins sit inside the cone. “Now, the old pheasant comes pecking along the trail, and when he gets to the hole he pops his head inside to gobble up the raisins and the next thing he knows he’s got a paper hat stuck over his eyes, and he can’t see a thing…. No bird in the world is going to run away once you cover up his eyes.”

At which point N said, very quietly, “Pheasants are beautiful birds, aren’t they Mom?” And then she added, “At least they aren’t killing them with guns. That would be really mean.” But if you’re a good shot, it would also be quick and unexpected. In those early pages, both N and I couldn’t help hoping the girl from The Magic Finger would appear and “see red,” just as she did in that book, when she turned the hunting Gregg family into ducks and the ducks they hunted into hunters.

"'The Magic Finger' is something I have been able to do all my life. I can't tell you just how I do it, because I don't even know myself. But it always happens when I get cross, when I see red..."

“Please don’t shoot!” cried Mr. Gregg.

“Why not?” said one of the ducks. “You are always shooting at us.”

“Oh, but that’s not the same! We are allowed to shoot ducks!”

“Who allows you?” asked the duck.

“We allow each other,” said Mr. Gregg.

“Very nice,” said the duck. “And now we are going to allow each other to shoot you.”

Alas, we are very near the end of Danny and the girl with the magic finger hasn’t arrived. But what has undeniably come, in spite of the cruel tricks and  dead pheasants, is an incredibly touching story about a father and son. This novel isn’t as funny as most of Dahl’s other books — it sometimes has quite a melancholy tone — but it’s rich and moving and complex. The love and admiration Danny feels for his father is there on every page: “I loved the way he moved. He had that long, loping stride all countrymen have who are used to covering great distances on foot. He was wearing an old navy-blue sweater and an even older cap on his head. He turned and waved to me. I waved back. Then he disappeared around a bend in the road.” The chapter closes, and we know, we just know, something bad is about to happen to Danny’s beloved father.

This 1959 edition of The New Yorker carried the seed of Dahl's 1975 novel, Danny the Champion of the World

The more I read of Dahl’s books, the more intrigued I become about the man himself. I’ve mentioned his short stories before, written for adults, and his main focus before switching to children’s literature when his own kids were young. So it was fun to discover that Danny was originally one of these short stories, albeit Danny-less, and first published in The New Yorker in 1959 under the title “The Champion of the World.” How interesting to think that the father-son relationship was not part of the original story, yet forms the very core of the later novel. As a writer, I love it when one project grows into another, or when a story emerges fully formed, but a little bit of it stays inside me, one day becoming a whole new creation. I remember being floored when an agent once tried to dissuade me from writing a story that had come from an earlier story. To me it was fascinating to see how different the story could become by changing the focus. She said, rather bluntly, “People will think you have no imagination.” And I remember quietly deciding that anyone who’d think that mustn’t have much themselves.

I’m sure Dahl must have felt the same way. Bits of his stories pop up in new form again and again. N and I were thrilled to find our favourite Dahl character, the “nice and jumbly” Big Friendly Giant, peering out at us from the pages of Danny, catching dreams and blowing them into children’s bedroom windows. I can just see Dahl, scribbling away on his Danny manuscript, and tucking this magnificent giant into a corner of his mind reserved for stories yet to come.

By the way, since our last post, we’ve also read The Minpins and George’s Marvellous Medicine, so our list is now like this:

The Gremlins
James and the Giant Peach
Charlie and the Chocolate Factory
The Magic Finger
Fantastic Mr Fox
Charlie and the Great Glass Elevator
Danny, the Champion of the World
The Enormous Crocodile
The Twits
George’s Marvellous Medicine
The BFG
The Witches
The Giraffe and the Pelly and Me
Matilda
Esio Trot
The Vicar of Nibbleswicke
The Minpins
Revolting Rhymes
Dirty Beasts
Rhyme Stew

And now … back to my stamps.

10 Comments

Filed under Uncategorized