So here we are. The first Thursday of every month, 9-10pm – let’s talk about children’s literature on Twitter with the hashtag #kidbkgrp. Do come along – I’d love to see you there :) Continue reading
My rating: 4 of 5 stars
It’s a strange book ‘No and Me’ as it’s one which didn’t really get me until the end. Written originally in French and translated into English, it is full of eloquent and heartbeat like moments that sort of somehow just are, until you reach the end and have a great, glorious, painful moment of revelation that this is what the book was saying and it was what it was saying all along.
So it is not the most easy of reads I have ever had, and frankly I would have put it aside several times. But something kept me going and I think a lot of that is to do with de Vigan’s languid, lovely prose. She writes beautifully and, acknowledging that this is a translated edition, it’s worthwhile acknowledging the skill that George Miller has brought to this text. I haven’t read the original in French but I’m certain, somehow, that it remains this same momentous thing. Even in English, it is very French. The nuances of the language. The precise impreciseness. Those little Gallic moments. They’re all there.
Story wise it is relatively simple. Relatively, I say, when in fact is deep and full of story that is not remotely simple, not at all. Perhaps I should call the story nominally simple for on first glance, that is exactly what it is. Lou Bertignac, gifted, smart, befriends a girl who is homeless. Lou herself is homeless in a way for her house is not a home. Her family are still suffering from the impact of something that happened to them. Lou brings her friend, No, home and things happen. Big things. Life changing things. For all concerned. Paralleled with this, is the relationship between Lou and Lucas, friends, more than friends, and Lou’s relationship with the world.
It is a very quiet book with a very immense heart. I wish in a way that I’d been able to find that heart earlier than I had, but once I did find it, I was a little bit smitten with No And Me.
When I started this blog, I started it out of a sort of desperate urge to do something with children’s literature. I wanted to talk about it, to someone. To anyone. I wanted to share this great love of books and find others that loved the same sort of thing. I wanted to connect, I think, really, and continue the journey that I was on as part of my MA.
It took me a while to find my groove. What to talk about? What to say? How to say it? My early reviews and posts are less than brilliant, but I’ve kept them there for a reason – I want to track the growth of my thinking. I want to track the growth of my reading, too. I think how you read changes, so much, throughout your life and it’s fascinating to look back at something that I wrote and look at the person I was then.
So what’s happened in five years? Well, a lot, and a lot I think comes from doing this blog.
- I’m writing this in the University of York library where I just started a PhD in children’s literature and literary tourism.
- I finished my MA in children’s literature and passed.
- I’ve written a zillion (or near enough) reviews
- I’ve met some amazing, utterly amazing people, as a direct result of this blog
- I run a monthly children’s literature discussion group
- And I have the great joy to be represented by Bryony Woods of DKW Literary Agency.
All of that, all of that, comes either directly or indirectly from blogging. Let’s just say I’m a bit of an advocate of what a blog can do. I think it’s great. And I think you’re all amazing too. Seriously. Books and reading and readers and literacy wouldn’t exist without people like you. You change the world each and every day and that’s a privilege to even be tangentially part of. Here’s to the next five years! :)
My rating: 5 of 5 stars
“Torak woke with a jolt from a sleep he’d never meant to have”
This, the opener to Paver’s stone age saga, sets the scene instantly and does so with a great and vivid grace. This sentence. This book. This story, this richness of story, this richness of tone, of voice, this book, oh my god, this book.
It’s rare, I think, to find a story which is written so sparsely, so subtly, and yet have every word tinged with such a great and terrible grace that you can feel it. All of it. The words spill from this book until it is not book-bound and simply is.
It is a great and terrible thing, Paver’s writing, for she writes so quietly and perfectly. So simply. So tightly: “An ember spat. The dark trees leaned closer to listen”.
This is such story.
It is the story of Torak’s quest; his father has been slaughtered by a giant demon who came to them as an immense bear, and now Torak has to survive against a world that is full of terror and foretold horrors. The only thing he has on his side is Wolf; his ally, his brother, a young wolf cub.
Paver shifts viewpoints between the two characters occasionally, writing both young boy and young wolf with such grace. There’s a great orality to her text as well, a spell in her words.
When I reached the end of this, I started to get a bit nervous. Have you ever had that? That sort of book sadness; that feel that nothing can ever be as quite as good as this moment that you have, right now, this connection between you and a story, and you are so deeply aware that you may never experience that again? I had that. I have that now. I don’t want to let this book go and yet, I have the feverish urge to want to do so. I need this story to go on. I need more of Paver’s beautiful writing. I need it.
One final thing to note is that I was lucky enough to read the 10th anniversary edition of Wolf Brother, courtesy of Orion (ISBN: 9781444015416). It is a ridiculously beautiful book as so many of theirs are and a genuine joy to read. The cover is embossed and the edge of the papers are inked with signs and symbols from the book. It is so beautiful. So, so beautiful.
My rating: 3 of 5 stars
Thanks to my local charity shop, I recently picked up a batch of the Pamela Cox fill-in titles for both St Clare’s and Malory Towers and was a bit fascinated to see what I thought of them. I’d registered that they existed but had never, quite, wanted to read them. It’s hard to quantify why I didn’t but I think it had something to do with the whole fact that, well, Enid Blyton is so resolutely Enid Blyton that thought of somebody else trying to be Enid Blyton blew my mind a little bit.
And these books do feel like they are undercover Enid Blyton titles. There’s something interesting in how Cox’s name doesn’t appear on the front and instead we see that familiar signature of Blyton’s on the cover. It feels a little like these are packaged as Blyton books rather than, say, a book written in the St Clare’s series but by another author. And that’s interesting to me. Do we buy these books as St Clare’s books, or Blyton, or Cox? What sort of pre-reading do we come to these books with; these books that both fit and don’t fit into the Blyton school story canon?
The Sixth Form at St Clare’s is one of the books that I felt a greater affinity with and that was primarily because I was already acquainted with the characters. I already loved them, really. My reading of the Malory Towers fill-ins (they’re the story of Felicity Rivers and her journey through the school) have been substantially different in that I have had to let go of the fact that I want them to be about Darrell and Sally and Alicia. I want that story. And there’s a necessary reading process of grieving for that.
So here we are with Pat and Isobel, the don’t care O’Sullivan twins, and it’s all rather lovely. There were a few plot twists which felt far too modern and a little off-canon (I found the ‘coming to the sixth form with your problems’ plot, very problematic), and certain of the new girls didn’t quite gel with the context of the series as a whole.
But I did enjoy it. I enjoyed it because I’ve always wanted this story. I’ve always wanted to know what happened – and Cox is very good at delivering that. She knows her series and she knows the motifs of it so well, Mam’zelle Dupot and Mam’zelle Rougier, Miss Potts, midnight feasts, Miss Theobald being awesome (Carlotta being awesome…). It’s a lovely book. And I think the key for my enjoyment of it was to acknowledge what it wasn’t, and understanding why it wasn’t that, and then appreciating what it was.
This morning, I accepted an offer from the University of York for their full time PhD programme. I will be researching children’s literature and literary tourism. (Aren’t you all impressed at how calmly I said that? Let’s just say the reality involves lots of WOARGH and buying of new pencil cases).
I’m ridiculously excited about it and the opportunity to wallow, in depth, in some of my most beloved texts. I’m hoping to look at things like Robin Jarvis and his ridiculously wonderful Whitby books, Enid Blyton and Bourne End and perhaps, just maybe, get chance to squeeze in some Chalet School books. There’s a chance for me to look at Noel Streatfeild and Madame Fidolia’s Children’s Academy of Dancing and Stage Training, or to read about the Jinny books by Patricia Leitch.
Basically, it’s a glorious, huge, topic and one that I’m very interested in (which is handy, as I’ve just signed up to study it for three years!). An opportunity to study this in depth is a great and exciting gift.
(And on a final note, if you’re a publishing / literary / heritage / museum type, who wants to be in on this research from day one, it may be worth us having a chat? One key driver of this research for me is for it to have practical, applicable and commercial interest. If you think I might be of use to you, please do get in touch. I’d love to hear from you
My rating: 4 of 5 stars
I’ve heard a lot about Worrals over the years. It’s a title I’ve sort of brushed into contact with, having read a lot of Girlsown, and so, when I received an email telling me that it was being reprinted by IndieBooks Limited and would I like to review a copy, my answer was a very positive yes.
The titular Worrals, Joan Worralson, is a pilot in the WAAF. Worrals and her best friend ‘Frecks’ are rather lovely creations. Vivid, hearty and hugely patriotic, they’re a defiant joy. I don’t think I’ve read much that teenage / children’s fiction which acknowledges the role of fighting women during the second world war (Code Name Verity etc aside) so Worrals is a much welcome addition to the canon.
Worrals of the WAAF is the debut in the series and it features Worrals and Frecks solving Mysterious Goings On Involving The Enemy. I was really surprised at just how much is packed into this book – there’s so much plot. Everything happens and then, just to make sure that you’re paying attention, Johns throws a little more in to make sure that you won’t even think about stopping reading. It is very good adventure writing and it’s undoubtedly hooky.
However, there a few parts in Johns’ work which don’t translate superbly well to modern audiences. His sentences are quite complicated in parts and require some parsing: “Drop she dare not, for fear she should slip from the roof of the car and injure herself on the concrete floor”. I’d recommend this for confident readers for that reason or for readers who won’t be intimidated by such stylistic tics. One thing that is worthwhile noting is that this new edition is unabridged and that’s something I hugely welcome. Johns’ text is sporadically dense (as is this entire paragraph, ha!), but it’s a stylistic that whilst it occasionally irritates, does not detract (and, to be honest, cannot detract) from this lovely, pacy, adventurous story.
Last night, #kidbkgrp met on Twitter and talked about historical children’s literature. It’s a big old topic so I was interested to see what was said! We covered periods of history we wanted more books about (publishers / authors – if you’ve got anything about the Russian Revolution, do stick your hand up now?) and periods of history we were sick of reading about. And a lot of love was expressed for Charlotte Sometimes.
The next chat is on October 2nd, 9-10pm and will cover award winners in children’s literature. Should be good! See you there? :)