First of all, if you missed the boat'n'belly pics I put up yesterday, take a look
href="http://dichroic.diaryland.com/imagescome.html">here.
I've
been rereading Elizabeth Goudge's The Little White Horse, and before that,
Linnets and Valerians. I cannot believe I had never even heard of Goudge
before this, my thirty-fifth year. (Rather, my thirty-sixth year; the year of
being 35.) I understand why I had never read Noel Streatfeild until recently;
those dreadful Shoes titles would never have grabbed my attention on a library
shelf. They give no hint of the worthy stories therein. But the Goudge books must
have just eluded me. Possibly they weren't in my childhood library at all, but I'd
hope for better things from a Philadelphia Regional Library with an entire story
dedicated to children's books.
At least I've found both authors now,
thanks to the discussion list I moderate (this sort of thing is one of its chief
glories). Grown people who avoid children's books entirely have dead parts in
their souls. Great children's books (and even merely good ones) and great literary
classics (the categories are not exclusive) have far more in common than great
literary classics and mediocre adult books. I believe with C.S. Lewis that "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." I think it's because good and
great children's books are more likely to deal with important and universal
questions head-on. Literary classics do too, but are more likely to cloak them in
layers of metaphor and symbolism. Simple soul that I am, I like to take my
philosophy straight.
In the car last week and while embroidering
yesterday, I listened to the first book of Jan Karon's Mitford trilogy, as read by
the author. The Mitford series is often recommended as "if you liked Miss Read's
Thrush Green or Fairacre series, you'll love..." Nope. Nope, nope. And I don't
think it's just that my Anglophilia responds better to Cotswold stone than Georgia
clay. (Or wherever.) The similarities are there, superficially; both authors write
cozy books set in cozy towns where nothing much happens. But the Read books
delineate place and characters much better, and when one person likes another it's
easy to see why. I had no idea why Father Tim would prefer Cynthia to Olivia,
except that the author said so, or why Miss Sadie would hoard money her whole life
then suddenly turn generous. The Karon books ooze religion, while the Read books
have it as the foundation of a society, quiet, unassuming, and unostentatious as
it supports everything else. The Thrush Green Rector's prayers are part of him,
while Father Tim's are for faith in a God who provides everything his petitioners
ask for. (And why would faith even be needed, if that were true?) And no one in
Mitford is ever the least bit crotchety -- even the jewel thief who hides out in
the church is given as festive and loving send-off as the FBI carts him off. It's
possibly the recording was abridged from the book, but since Karon herself read
it, she must have approved any deletions.
Karon's book seems to have
been written in a reaction to all those nasty gritty slice-of-life books out
there, the ones that leave a bad taste in your soul. But sugar syrup is no real
nourishment. Miss Read's books talk about a place and people the author loves, and
because of that, the place and the people are far more real. That's a diet a
reader can grow on.