easy reader

by Astrid Lindgren
Translated by Florence Lamborn
published in Sweden in 1944
Viking Press edition 1950
160 pages


Pippi scared me when I was young. It had nothing to do with the books at all, and certainly nothing to do with some sort of threat to my prepubescent masculinity of this scrawny little Amazon, but it had everything to do with the 1960's movie based on the book.

Funny how memory is. I can see these images as part of my childhood vividly like they happened a few years ago, but I have to remind my kids that I first encountered Pippi back in the days before there were DVD's, before videos even, and in this case even before my family owned a color television. Even in that blue-green cathode haze Pippi held a strange power that made me watch with my face half turned away in fear. I knew girls like Pippi, girls that could womp a baseball better than I ever would and wouldn't think twice about jumping down an open manhole cover, but they didn't scare me like this.

Because Pippi was the first movie I ever saw dubbed into English.

How and why did they talk like that? Their mouths and the sounds they made didn't sync up and worse; The way they were dubbed, stilted and forced like bad community theatre thespians trying to read Shakespeare into whimsy, had me feeling there was an invisible presence in the room that had turned down the sound and was making up the dialog for all the characters as they went along. And because of all this I never read Pippi Longstocking until I was a full-grown adult and felt I could handle it subject without the fear of those early memories rushing to accost me.

How nice it was to finally get Pippi in her correct form, a spunky and precocious 10 year old with a pet monkey and a horse that lives on the front porch. She lives by her own rules and with total abandon and can foil crooks just as handily as Homer Price. That adults are dolts and can be outwitted by a wildchild like Pippi is cake for a young reader . That Pippi actually doesn't even care about any adult besides her father is the icing.

Lindgren -- in a fashion that must be a genre to itself by now -- originally wrote these tales for her own children. Writing to please children may seem obvious but many who try tend to fail because they impose their adult logic and adult world onto the proceedings. Logic alone is enough to kill a good story. Not that children don't long for and crave logic, because they do, but it's the logic they create that's important. When you think about what we do as developing humans, how we take raw data and information and learn to craft connecting ideas, thoughts into images into ideas into logic, the whole of it more impressive than anything we claim as adults. As adults we manipulate the hardware and the software of the brain to make sense of our world; As children we build the hardware and software from scratch and call it the world.

At the core of the Pippiverse are two innocents who serve as our grounding, Tommy and Anika. They provide the necessary balance that allows the Pippi books to endure because they counter the desire to "be good" with the twined desire to explore without rules. When challenged, even to the brink of hysterical danger, everything works out in the end because deep down Pippi has total unspoken faith that it will. I don't think it would take much to apply the lessons of Pippi into some warm-and-comfey self-help impulse item sitting on the counter at your local chain bookstore. Here's hoping no one thinks this is a good idea.

Many books for children feature troubled families and it's an odd comfort we find in seeing that others might have it worse than we readers do. I know I'm not the only person who felt like his family was severely disfunctional while viewing other equally disfunctional families as more "normal" than my own. That sense of "other" aside, what tripped me up while reading was that I didn't believe Pippi when she said her father, The Captain, would come home one day. I committed the adult sin of disbelieving a child. No matter how fictitious, I'm sure that as a child I would have taken Pippi at her word or at least given her the benefit of the doubt where my adult mind tried to force the story to conform to my own adult sense of what was "right". What a joy -- an honor, really -- to be bested by Pippi like all the other stubborn fools she's encountered.

The Old Man and the Sea
Ernest Hemingway
Scribner's 1952
140 pages



The Black Pearl
Scott O'Dell
Dell 1967
96 pages


In 7th grade I was asked to pick a title from among a list of Great American Literary Authors and write a report. I picked The Old Man and the Sea because it was the shortest.

These things matter when you're 13 years old and dubious about the merits of what adults call "good" and "classic" and "literature." The shorter the book the less time it will take to read it, which means the longer you can put it off, which means a shorter period of time to skim before the report, which means the less you have to write because, after all, it's the shortest book you could possibly read. "Sorry, my five page report came in at 3 and a half pages because it was a short book. Didn't you say it had been printed -- in its entirety -- in a single issue of Life magazine?"

What also mattered was that the book had been adapted into a movie starring Spencer Tracy, who my 7th grade English teacher truly adored, and I was hoping I could parlay that affection into some kind misty-eyed grade inflation. And when I announced my chosen title Ms. Beyers-Ott beamed and announced that she had planned to show that movie later in the term, and wouldn't it be interesting to see how my vision of the book compared to the film.

In the parlance of the time: Busted. Royal.

I tried, and I mean I really tried, to slog through those scant 140 pages, trying to find a reason to care about the old man and the sea, and the fish and the struggle, and the sharks and the old man's bloody hands. I remember propping my head up in the library as I struggled to maintain consciousness, even going so far as to risk what little cache of cool I had as a rebel by wearing my glasses in public to keep the words from blurring together. In the end I managed to retain the bare essence of the story but gain no insight, no thematic understanding, nothing but the most threadbare of summaries. When the time came for the film I put my head down on my desk, jacket over my head in embarrassment as I realized my complete failure as a young reader.

I say all of this in preface to The Black Pearl as I have come to believe that there is something lost in the teaching of classic literature, and much gained in letting young readers discover for themselves what is or should be a "classic" or even "literature." To be clear, I do believe in the need for a solid foundation in a shared literary tradition -- and one more inclusive than previously prescribed but nowhere near as rigid as the many Cultural Literacies out there -- but that the definition of that foundation should come from a collective space.

In the 4th grade my teacher, Mrs. White, took time every afternoon to read to us from the cannon of what has since become classic young literature -- Harriet the Spy, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory -- but at the time were merely good books for young audiences. One of those was Scott O'Dell's Island of the Blue Dolphins and it worked in well alongside our studies of California Mission history. What a strange world California once was, with sea hunting Native Americans and not a trace of Hollywood on the horizon! Though one could argue that in the time between 4th and 7th grade my sophistication should have been prepared for the Hemingways and Saroyans, the Hartes and Londons and Twains on the shelves I would have been better served with the substitution of The Black Pearl for that Crusty Old Man and his Ridiculous Sea.

Ramon Salazar is a boy on the cusp of manhood, the son of a wealthy Baja pearl fisherman whose fleet regularly brings in the biggest and the best. Impatient Ramon dreams of the days he can join the boats and dive for pearls, and ultimately win the approval of his father. In the meantime he learns the details of the business: the weighing and appraising of the pearls. Before he gets the chance he suffers personal and family insults from Sevillano, the fleet's braggart, and vows one day to get even by catching the Mother of all Pearls.

But first he must deal with The Manta Diablo, the largest Manta in the Vermillion Sea.

The themes of manhood and of proving oneself are played out against the local mythology of a two ton killer manta who guards the sea beds containing the largest black pearls around. Ramon must defy and outwit his father to obtain the Pearl of Heaven -- a 62 caret flawless black pearl -- despite the wise old Indian who warns him that the Manta Diablo will not rest until his pearl is returned. Ramon must also later steal the Pearl of Heaven away from the church (where it was deposited to bless the town's fleets) and return it to the sea but not before being forced into a confrontation with the Sevillano the Braggart who cannot stand his most precious lies being bested by a boy.

Every chapter in this slim book delivers a twist, a sort of reverse cliffhanger where you feel everything is resolved by the end of the chapter only to skitter sideways like a crab at the beginning of the next chapter. Near the end when O'Dell has to tie everything together it all starts to feel formula-fed, but really there's no other way to end the tale. Questions are left unanswered -- What will Ramon do now that the family business is destroyed? Will he admit to having stolen the Pearl of Heaven from the church? Will he even bother to tell the tale of what he's seen and done to his family? -- bit these are exactly the kind of questions young readers like to ask and answer for themselves. Perfect for five page book reports.

Meanwhile, over in Cuba, an unlucky old man goes out on his boat, farther than he's ever gone before, and catches the largest marlin in his life. He struggles to catch the fish, suffering all along, then lashes the boat and struggles to bring it to shore while sharks eat away at his prize the whole way. He returns to his hut and collapses, his unlucky streak ended, the last great haul of his 80+ years a skeletal testament to his skill and undying spirit. The end.

Okay, I've simplified unfairly. I was merely trying to recall my own interpretation from 7th grade. But honestly, what does a 13 year old boy know of an old man's struggles, of an old man's fall from grace with his community, what does a boy know of regaining a shimmer of former glory he has yet to taste? More, what does a young boy in and English class understand of the symbolism of an old novelist in a sea of hostile critics suffering to land one last chance at relevance? Only later -- beyond college even -- did I come to understand the disappointments of adults and the idea of a noble battle against hostile criticism. As a teen I would have been better served to work through the issues of becoming and developing my personal sense of self through books like The Black Pearl rather than wrestle with the demons of a classic novelist who shot himself rather than continue to live a life in futility. What kind of a message did they think they were sending us kids back then?!

Am I advocating the removal of classic literature from the classroom? Not anymore than I am suggesting that we replace these books with thy untested Harry Potter series. My own initiation into the adult world of literature happened when I discovered a collection of Vonnegut short stories hidden in the garage. My dad had hidden this and some other books he felt were just a bit too mature for me and my younger siblings to read. My teachers -- bless them -- raised an eye at my reading Vonnegut during free time but said nothing more. They certainly didn't call out the morality police to have my frog-marched out of school, and for that they deserve praise. That initial act of forbidding sent me running to the adult section of the public library more than any introduction to classic literature in a classroom. Given how teens tend to run contrary to adult desires perhaps the best course is to give them more relevant (to them) literature and suggest they avoid certain classics.

Then again, if Ms. Beyers-Ott had given me The Black Pearl to write a paper about, instead of letting me hang myself on Hemingway, perhaps I'd have performed just as poorly. Perhaps instead of championing Scott O'Dell's coming-of-age tale set in La Paz I'd bemoan having not been introduced to Hemingway's Old Man at a young age.

There's just no pleasing some kids.

Bath-time Boots
FSG 1997
16 pages
(board book)


Me and My Cat?
FSG 1999
26 pages




The Comic Adventures of Boots
FSG 2002
32 pages



If I had one wish for a new release in children's publishing it would be a thick graphic novel of the continuing adventures of Kitamura's cats. Nothing less than 150 pages will do. I am serious.

Utilizing a simple watercolor-fill drawing style, bordering on cartoon, Kitamura delves into the world of Boots and his friends that could only come from someone who has lived with and knows the ways cats. They aren't always cute, they aren't always smart or dignified, and quite often in their attempts to remain aloof and autonomous they manage to land themselves in bigger trouble than they had hoped to avoid.
Bath-time Boots is a board book that mirrors the childhood game of avoid-the-bath. Boots spends the entire time desperately looking for hiding spaces that cannot save him until, in a final act of desperation, he jumps straight into a tub full of water as a last-ditch effort. Nothing too sophisticated, just a simple observation of a cat's hatred for the bath and the propensity for trying to put themselves into places they obviously cannot fit. Cats in sinks? I rest my case.

With Me and My Cat? Kitamura expands on the idea of trading places when a witch enters and switches the brains of Boots' friend Leonardo and his boy owner. When the boy-in-the-cat watches himself eat out of a cat dish and get pushed off to school he decides to make the most of it by trying the life of a cat. He jumps on the furniture and knocks things over. He explores the neighborhood from atop a wall and discovers just how unfriendly the neighborhood cats are toward one another. Then, back at home, he watches as the cat-in-boy sits with that crazy cat expression on his face licking himself clean. The doctor is called and the prescription is rest. That night the witch comes back to correct her mistake and Leonardo and the boy are back to normal.

What isn't as apparent in the first two books becomes clear in The Comic Adventures of Boots when Kitamura opens the door wide into the fully developed world of Boots and his friends. While boots is the star, Leonardo is also along, as are the bully cats from before who now have names like Vincent and Pablo and Hokusai. And where the earlier books would simply illustrate their stores, here they are practically animated as they stroll along with upwards of a dozen panels per page. In three separate tales (plus three single-page silent catering and endpapers that are practically flip books) Boots manages to outsmart the other cats (almost) to get his special warm place on a wall, befriends a duck who saves his life and teaches him to swim, and enlists the other cats in an elaborate game of charades which is far more clever than any dozens of comics I've seen aimed at kids.

Sight gags worthy of silent films of Buster Keaton, colorfully rendered are that is deceptive in it's simplicity, and a revealing look into the secret world we always knew cats inhabited. More like this, please.

written and illustrated by
William Pene du Bois
1938, new illustrations 1960
The Viking Press, 100 pages

Having been enchanted with The Twenty-One Balloons, and having accidentally discovered The Magic Finger, I searched out other books by du Bois in my local library. While the story of The 3 Policemen stuck me as rather dull even in those pre-adolescent days I was still able to appreciate du Bois' idea of inventing an island, with a perfect economy, no crime and people with little else to do but enjoy life.

Farbe Island (according to du Bois) was founded by fisherfolk who stumbled upon an uncharted paradise. Perfect fishing and abundant flora and fauna, it appeared to have been built and abandoned as a small Caribbean resort just waiting for new tenants. The people fish and live in such harmony that the three policemen who protect and defend the island have little else to do besides pay dominoes all day and design new uniforms. That they look identical is mere coincidence: after several generations all the islands inhabitants have probably come to resemble their common ancestors.

The policemen are aided by young Bottsford, a child of circus aerialists who left him behind after landing on the island by accident themselves. Why and how they left -- and more importantly, why they left young Bottsford behind -- is not discussed. Bottsford polishes the buttons and shoes of the policemen, tends to their bicycles, and manages to dispense the logic and strategy the policemen can't seem to find on their own.

When the island is menaced by a sea monster that takes the fisherfolk's nets the inept policemen -- who have never previously been called on to do anything before -- set out to solve the mystery. Bottsford does all the heavy lifting in the planning department and the policemen get the credit when they discover that the island's mayor has brought the mechanical sea serpent home from abroad as a gift to help his people relax. No it doesn't really make much sense. Such is the nature of whimsy.

The hook for me -- when I was a boy and even now -- was the cross section drawing of the sea serpent. A giant mattress-slide down it's back leads to a pool. Observation decks appear to be place not just above the water but beneath the waterline as well. An indoor gym and a well-stocked meat locker hint at the luxury of a hotel, the kind of a place where your every whim is catered to. But then, the whole idea of a perfect island paradise was enough to make me pull out paper and a pencil and begin sketching. I'm sure my version of a sea serpent ship was much better as it contained things I felt missing from du Bois' plan. A go-cart race track would have made a nice improvement, as would a library full of beanbag chairs and free soda machines.

While unremarkable in story an execution -- actually, a bit tedious at spots -- it does feed into the fantasy that exists even in adults to invent a perfect hideaway. I have no less than three of these in my adult head at any given point, and the added bonus of their being on an island would just be icing on the cake. More remarkable to me is that this book still manages to keep its place on the library shelves. Clearly there must be something in this nearly 70 year old book that keeps kids pulling it off the shelves, it can't all be about "the guy who wrote The Twenty-One Balloons..."

Or maybe it's just oldsters like me who keep trolling for a glimpse into our pasts.