First Page Excerpts for SIGNAL APPROACHES TO CHILDREN'S BOOKS Issue 96, Sept. 2001 [please, note that italics and other formats are not reproduced in this excerpt] ---------------------------------------------------------- Hunt for a Discipline: Charting the Children's Literature Scene Susan R. Gannon 155 The Collecting Urge Judy Taylor 174 At the Cutting Edge: Picturebooks by Sara Fanelli and Bruce Ingman Jane Doonan 181 Brethren's Child (Part Three) Ethel Talbot 199 Endpapers 209 Victor Watson on hype Lissa Paul on a children's literature symposium Annual Index 2001: issues 94, 95, 96 215 Contributors 219 ****************************************** Hunt for a Discipline: Charting the Children's Literature Scene SUSAN R. GANNON On the cover of Peter Hunt's new book, Children's Literature in the Blackwell's Guides to Literature series, the Mad Hatter rises to make a territorial demand, the Dormouse slumbers, the March Hare ponders his next non sequitur, and Alice, in her armchair, braces herself grimly against what is to come. It is a familiar enough scene, and one Harvard's Marjorie Garber calls 'an uncannily prescient snapshot of contemporary academic life, taken from the works of one of the great disciplinary trespassers of the last century' (58). 'Everyone,' says Garber, 'wants a seat at the table. But whose table is it?' (59). Here in Signal, not long ago, I suggested that the scholarly profession of children's literature that once had seemed a 'territory' susceptible of easy mapping is evolving into a kind of informational ecosystem in which scholars linked in ever-shifting relationships pursue their studies in or across disciplines, and that such informal structures could be the beginnings of the more inclusive networks for the study of childhood that Richard Flynn called for several years ago (145). Teachers, critics, scholars of various persuasions, writers, librarians, 'child people' and 'book people', internationalists and those passionately interested in more local traditions have so much to learn from—and with—each other. And any adequate description of the present state of the profession must recognize this. So I was glad to see Peter Hunt address the diversity of the children's literature community directly in his new introduction to the field and its study. Hunt's guidebook aims to provide 'a comprehensive and inviting introduction to English-language children's literature from the eighteenth century to 2000'. He includes critical surveys of the work of forty major authors, twenty key texts, and intends to cover 'important issues, themes and genres, including censorship, postcolonialism, fantasy, gender, illustration and literacy' (cover copy), and all this in 334 pages. Possible? Well, guidebooks demand shorthand judgements, and children's literature is a critical minefield, so the answer is probably 'no'. But Hunt is a practised professional, clearly aware of the difficulties of the project before him. In his instructions on how to use his book, Hunt cites Perry ... *************************************************** The Collecting Urge JUDY TAYLOR The world seems to be divided into those who are collectors and those for whom collecting is a bewildering waste of time. I must confess it from the start. I am a collector. And among my acquaintances are collectors of snuffboxes, of paperweights, postage stamps, driftwood, spoons from seaside towns, Beatrix Potter figurines, even a few elderly people who still have their precious birds' egg collections. It is, however, the individual (as opposed to the institutional) collectors of books who are my soul mates. I cannot remember when I started collecting books—or was it just accumulating books then? I was probably seven or eight, with the gift of a new Arthur Ransome or an M.E. Atkinson for each birthday and a new annual for each Christmas. I did not shelve my books in anything as organized as alphabetical order; I put them in order of my favourites, changing them round every so often as a new choice was made. The Beatrix Potters stood proudly beside the A.A. Milnes, Babar rubbed spines with Little Tim and with my Rainbow annuals. My very special favourite for a long time was The Story of Delicia by Gertrude Newman, a sugary and sentimental story, published in America in 1937, about 'a cloth doll' rescued from the shelf of a toy shop by 'a lovely lady who wanted to give me to her little girl with curls'. It was illustrated with photographs by Russel [sic] Benson and had been given to me for Christmas when I was five. This rather battered picture book took pride of place beside Little Sidsel Longskirt by Hans Aanrud, a tale with Heidi overtones of a young girl who, when her mother dies, is sent to live far away on a farm high in the Norwegian mountains. This small red book, with text translated by Anna Barwell, was first published in 1923 in Dent's uniform series 'Kings Treasuries of Literature', of which I see the general editor was Sir A.T. Quiller-Couch. It was many years later, on returning from being a mother's help in Canada, that I made a dreadful discovery. Every one of my books but these two had been given away: 'I didn't think you would want them any more, now that you are grown up.' I still have those two favourites, though I have to confess that I wonder today what it was I found so attractive in them. The Story of Delicia could possibly be explained by my own ragdoll, Susie, of whom I was extremely fond, although ... *************************************************** At the Cutting Edge: Picturebooks by Sara Fanelli and Bruce Ingman JANE DOONAN Jane Doonan delivered this keynote paper at Reading Pictures: Art, Narrative & Childhood: An International Symposium, Homerton College, Cambridge, 1-4 September 2000. (For the first time in Signal the usage 'picturebook' appears in the main text. Ordinarily we use picture book for the noun, picture-book for the adjective.) In the spirit of the beginning of the millennium I am taking the op-portunity to consider the works of two relatively new picturebook makers, Sara Fanelli and Bruce Ingman. Their picturebooks are innovative in concept, displaying what David Lewis calls 'a refusal to take for granted how stories should be told'. Nevertheless, the values promoted—diligence, tolerance, the pleasures and responsibilities of friendship—are those traditionally associated with literature for the young. Their pictorial styles are strikingly different. Fanelli's illustrations have often been achieved from complex techniques difficult to determine, whereas Ingman uses the simplest of material means, and the picture plane is a record of the painting process, laid bare for all to see. The style of their written texts differ, as well. Fanelli's narrational voices address the child audience directly, while Ingman's often carry a knowingness, an awareness of a dual audience. Both artists share a wry sense of humour, a delight in the absurd. Their books are good for creating the opportunity for what Clare Bradford calls 'a social event, inviting and even demanding talk of many kinds'. My conversationalists were between six and nine years old, and for them the primary appeal of Fanelli's and Ingman's picturebooks was that they hadn't seen others that looked quite like these. The children were intrigued and curious. The talk of many kinds included the matters of fact about technique and medium, and speculations involving genre, imaginative leaps as to what particular signs exemplified and expressed, and how these picturebooks were to be voiced and read. Sara Fanelli has published six picturebooks and has illustrated three poetry collections: George Barker's Dibby Dubby Dhu (Faber), Christopher Reid's All Sorts (Ondt & Gracehoper) and The New Faber Book of Children's Verse, edited by Matthew Sweeney. Her other .... *************************************************** Brethren's Child (Part Three) ETHEL TALBOT In the second set of extracts from Brethren's Child (Signal 95, May 2001), Ethel Talbot's fictionalized memoir, we last saw Helen (Ethel), aged eleven, having a friendly relationship with Jack, son of one of the Brethren. Helen has other excitements at school, and other interests in a special link with her younger sister, Kitty, and a supportive role to her older sister, Becky, who quarrels with her father (the quotations are taken from Chapters Fifteen and Sixteen): 'Becky wanted to leave home, and Papa would not let her, He said that the idea of one of them earning their own living was not to be thought of.' However, he relents to some extent. '"Papa says that I can be a probationer, because they don't wear uniform, and nobody will ever know that I am a Nurse. He says that he won't have me coming home in a uniform."' Margaret, the eldest sister, goes 'to the Training College at Cambridge to learn to teach, and she was safe from the World Papa said because, by this time, she had joined the Meeting.' As Helen comes to the end of her schooling at Mrs Terry's 'she began to wonder if she, too, would ever go to College and earn her own dress-money and be like Becky and Margaret.'. David Grugeon Chapter Seventeen When Helen said good-bye to Mrs Terry at the end of that term she did not know that she was not coming back. But when she got home Papa told her. "You can't work at school with the younger ones," said Papa. "Edie can go on. There are some of the younger ones still left there. But the teaching is not far enough advanced for you. How old are you?" Papa often forgot the children's ages; there were so many of them; ten, and all girls except Cecil; Papa had hardly ever written to them at School, unless there was a new baby; and he never remembered their birthdays. Helen told him her age. "I'm sixteen. And I've passed the Senior." Suddenly she felt all in a whirl. She was sorry to leave school, very sorry; but not so unhappy about it as she would have been if she had been told by Mrs Terry, and if Mrs Terry had knelt down and prayed with her about her future. Mrs Terry always did that with leaving girls, who came up to their bedrooms on their last day, after Mrs Terry's talk, sobbing and wishing they had not to leave. But Helen had not had a proper farewell like that; hearing the news from Papa sounded more ordinary. She felt excited, and wondered what would happen to her next. "Wait till Margaret comes home for her holidays. Perhaps you shall ... *************************************************** ENDPAPERS Victor Watson writes: Artemis Fowl by Eoin Colfer (Viking 2001) was internationally launched with a $250,000 marketing campaign and was for several weeks in the national top-ten hardback sales. On the book's jacket the novel is described as 'one of the most original creations in contemporary writing' and 'quite simply out of this world'. Susan Harrison, writing on the American Review website and employing the kind of language which often passes for literary criticism of current children's books, describes Artemis Fowl as 'well-written, sophisticated, rough 'n' tumble storytelling with enough high octane attitude to make it a seriously cool read for anyone over the age of 10'. An article in Carousel makes no critical comments at all, concentrating instead on surface description of plot and character and the life style of the author. An impression is given of a writer who is a regular nice chap who writes his novels between dropping his children off at school and attending booksigning engagements. Criticism is thus disarmed. The Carousel article concludes: 'Way before [Colfer] read his final extract . . . the listening faces—avid, mouths agape—said it all.' But did they? Much lazy critical comment is also to be found on various websites. There are, however, dissenters. Paul Grey, writing on the Time Magazine site, suggests that Artemis is 'repellent in almost every regard', the writing is 'abysmal' and the work as a whole is 'an awkward, calculated, humorless and mean-spirited book'. And Heather Lee Schroeder, on The Capital Times website, arguing that Colfer 'glamorizes and glorifies his hero's many misdeeds', concludes that 'there's enough violence and death in this slim volume to populate an entire R-rated Hollywood movie'—which, incidentally, will almost certainly happen as Artemis Fowl is allegedly to be made into a major motion picture by Miramax Films. Other internet writers have suggested that, since there was to be no new Harry Potter in the summer of 2001, the book industry needed something to fill the gap. A number of questions arise. Has the critical reviewing of children's books any useful role to play? What are the connections between reviewing and marketing? And should matters of judgement be left entirely to market forces, literary awards and the inflated claims of publicity hype? Although this is not the occasion on which to discuss such larger issues, I think it is worth bearing in mind that in recent months a considerable number of serious and substantial works have been published. They include Philip Pullman's The Amber Spyglass, of course, but also Adèle Geras's Troy, the final part of Catherine Fisher's fantasy quartet The Book of the Crow, David Almond's Secret Heart and The Seeing Stone by Kevin Crossley-Holland. I believe there must be something seriously wrong when a book like Artemis Fowl receives so much media attention that it is elevated to the level of works such as those. In an ideal world, bad books would not be reviewed at all. Reviewers would celebrate the works they admire and the rest would be quietly forgotten through lack of critical attention. But the powerful international publicity machines that can now be brought into action in support of a single work are capable of seriously distorting our perspectives. Critical reviewing is necessary to promote intelligent discussion and correct to some extent the misleading claims of publishers. Eoin Colfer's basic idea for Artemis Fowl is undoubtedly both original and clever: traditional notions of fairies and lepre ... Lissa Paul writes: When nearly one hundred children's literature specialists from around the world gather for a weekend symposium on the future of their subject, you can count on a lot of enthusiastic conversation. The pleasure of being with people as deeply involved as you are is palpable. But is the energy generated by such a group concentrated enough to predict or affect the future of the subject, let alone articulate its nature? Dr Kimberley Reynolds and her colleagues at the National Centre for Research in Children's Literature (NCRCL) at the University of Surrey Roehampton organized their two-day symposium ('The Future of the Subject,' 11-12 August 2001) in the dinner-party spirit of the Greek original: congenial guests engaged in long semi-formal conversations designed to provide answers to serious questions. The menu was structured like this: First day: Status of the field Nature of the subject Gaps Electronic resources Second day: Where the subject is going Creating physical resources and organizations Don't forget the children People need time to warm up, to get acquainted, to overcome the initial awkwardnesses that inevitably mark the beginnings of social as well as academic occasions, so the symposium began with a discussion of the 'problems, anxieties, frustrations and obstacles' of scholars in children's literature studies, presented by two personable, internationally well-known academics, Rod McGillis from the University of Calgary, Alberta, Canada, and John Stephens from Macquarrie University, Sydney. It was impossible not to notice that for all their celebrity both Rod and John are from the colonies—as am I. Their easy banter opened the way for a quick shakedown of some of the old chestnuts about the problems with children's literature studies. From the break-out groups—led by Kim Reynolds, Debbie Thacker from the Department of English at Cheltenham and Gloucester College of Higher Education, and David Rudd from Bolton College—came some familiar refrains: that children's literature scholars are marginalized in their own academic units and often excluded from serious competition for coveted national and international scholarly grants and awards; that the supposedly 'literary' study of children's literature is somehow superior to the 'applied' study as found in education faculties and library schools (a notion quickly demolished by some of the eloquent teachers in the group); that children's literature is a hybrid (does that make it sterile?); that children's literature studies, like women's studies, should be free-standing academic units rather than part of existing faculties (traditionally English, education or li-... *************************************************** CONTRIBUTORS Susan R. Gannon is a professor of English and communications in the Dyson College of Pace University, New York, and is currently coediting a collection of critical essays on St. Nicholas Magazine to be published by McFarland in 2002. Two books by Judy Taylor, Beatrix Potter: Artist, Storyteller and Countrywoman (Warne) and Edward Ardizzone: Sketches for Friends (John Murray), have recently been translated into Japanese. Jane Doonan's essay, 'A Pictured World Through Eastern Eyes', appears in the exhibition catalogue, Through Eastern Eyes: The Art of the Japanese Picture Book (see page 214); she is preparing a paper for the Chicago Humanities Festival, November 2001, on the illustration of folk and fairy tales. David Grugeon, Ethel Talbot's great-nephew, will write about her books and family for the January 2002 Signal. Victor Watson is Editor of The Cambridge Guide to Children's Books in English (Cambridge University Press, 2001) and Chairman of the Trustees of the Centre for the Children's Book, Newcastle-upon-Tyne; his Reading Series Fiction: From Arthur Ransome to Gene Kemp is published by Routledge Falmer (2000). Lissa Paul teaches children's literature at the University of New Brunswick, Fredericton; she is currently chair of the Children's Literature Division of the Modern Language Association. COPYING SIGNAL The material published in Signal is protected by copyright law. This means that multiple copies may only be made with permission and on payment of an appropriate fee. 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