Reflections on the "Problem Novel"
Very interesting article about childhood, stories, and the shape of children's literature.
AFT - American Educator - Winter 2004-2005 - Reflections on the "Problem Novel":
It can’t be that bad, I always thought; reading, after all, is good. His teacher was a fine captain; I trusted her sense of direction. (But the choice of books?) I had never offered too much sympathy. Once or twice I’d picked up a book and studied the cover, where a photograph of a teen stared back at me, challengingly, such that I always lowered my eyes. Once in a while I had put my hand on Alex’s shoulder and, wondering what to say, found only these words: “Just do it.”
What had I meant? I meant it in the same way someone might have once said, “Just drink your milk,” or “Just take your cod liver oil,” or, I realized suddenly, the way someone might believe that a child ought to endure a beating, because even though it hurt, it was a “good beating,” would make him better, build character.
Was this kind of reading akin to a “good beating”?
Would the monotony of the voice on the tape break? I was listening for a shift in tone, a ravine of mystery, but no shift came. I realized no change would come. I had been listening for a certain music of sadness; instead, these were the brittle and fatty sounds of heavy depression. The voice was aggressive too, the way depression can make someone hostile.
“You know nothing about how bad life really is,” it seemed to be droning. “You need this big dose of reality I am giving you. It’s killing me, this talking, but I’m doing it for you.”
AFT - American Educator - Winter 2004-2005 - Reflections on the "Problem Novel":
It can’t be that bad, I always thought; reading, after all, is good. His teacher was a fine captain; I trusted her sense of direction. (But the choice of books?) I had never offered too much sympathy. Once or twice I’d picked up a book and studied the cover, where a photograph of a teen stared back at me, challengingly, such that I always lowered my eyes. Once in a while I had put my hand on Alex’s shoulder and, wondering what to say, found only these words: “Just do it.”
What had I meant? I meant it in the same way someone might have once said, “Just drink your milk,” or “Just take your cod liver oil,” or, I realized suddenly, the way someone might believe that a child ought to endure a beating, because even though it hurt, it was a “good beating,” would make him better, build character.
Was this kind of reading akin to a “good beating”?
Would the monotony of the voice on the tape break? I was listening for a shift in tone, a ravine of mystery, but no shift came. I realized no change would come. I had been listening for a certain music of sadness; instead, these were the brittle and fatty sounds of heavy depression. The voice was aggressive too, the way depression can make someone hostile.
“You know nothing about how bad life really is,” it seemed to be droning. “You need this big dose of reality I am giving you. It’s killing me, this talking, but I’m doing it for you.”