Featured Book: Where the Wild Things Are

Where the Wild Things Are by Maurice Sendak

Harper & Row, 1963

I probably read Maurice Sendak's Where the Wild Things Are about a thousand times as a little guy. Love it.  Sendak creates some of the most memorable images in children’s literature.  And it’s the images that drive the story. In fact, the “wild rumpus” sequence is told entirely without words in 3 full-page spreads (six total pages).  Also, early in the tale, we see a picture on the wall of Max’s room that he drew (which both illustrates his fantastic imagination and foreshadows the adventure to come).  The story is very simple, told with basic vocabulary in fewer than ten sentences. Max is sent to his room without dinner because he’s being wild.  He then has an elaborate daydream in which he sails to where the wild things are and envisions himself as the wildest wild thing of all.  He is then brought home by the smell of his dinner, which is waiting for him at his door. And it’s still warm.

Spike Jonze film adaptation of Where the Wild Things Are found mixed reviews upon its release.  I, however, enjoyed it immensely.  I’ve often heard it described as an adult meditation on childhood. And I think that’s an accurate description. Especially because one of the most wild parts of childhood is pain. It’s been over a year since I’ve seen the film, but I still remember the expression of concern and confusion on Max’s face when his teacher talks about the finite nature of the universe.  And  then there’s the heartbreaking scene in which Max is playing under his mom’s desk (maybe telling her stories?) as she works. She enjoys time with her son, but she wears the pained expression of adulthood. There’s longing and sadness in her eyes, and it makes Max hurt, too. And feel sad. And the hardest thing about all of it is that he doesn’t understand.  I got a little choked up watching that scene. And it altered my expectations of the film.  And the way I watched the rest of it. Max spends his time in the land of the wild things trying to make a child’s wild nature and understanding of the world fit into what he believes are the adult rules. But those rules just don’t make sense.  I come away from the film feeling that life, generally, makes so much more sense as a child. And maybe that’s why I still love this story (both the book and the film) so much.  Hell, maybe that’s why I love children’s literature so much.  Thank you, Mr. Sendak.

Featured Book: Harry the Dirty Dog

Harry the Dirty Dog by Gene Zion 

HarperCollins, 1956

Illustrations by Margaret Bloy Graham

The title of Gene Zion's 1956 Harry the Dirty Dog says it all. Harry dislikes cleanliness. He hides the scrub brush whenever it's time to take a bath. To Harry, filthiness is next to dogliness.  So he runs away and indulges in joyous, untidy rebellion. His dirty doings are depicted in a series of short, simple sentences and corresponding drawings: playing in a street, at the railroad, with other dogs. Even in a coal chute! In a humorous twist, all of the grime transforms Harry from a white dog with black spots to a black dog with white spots. He looks so different that his family doesn’t recognize him when he returns home (one of several indications that Harry is brighter than his family--another being that he always outsmarts them with concealing the bath brush). Harry finally does the very last thing he ever expected to do in his entire life: beg his family for a bath.  But as the story comes to close, we’re not left feeling like Harry “gives in.”  No, Harry might be clean and safe at home, but the bath brush is still tucked safely beneath his pillow.  Only now, it seems, that instead of always refusing to be clean, he will be the judge of when he needs a bath (i.e. when his silly family doesn't recognize him through the filth!).

Featured Book: Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

 Narrated by our protagonist, Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day by Judith Viorst (illustrated by Ray Cruz), demonstrates the many perils of childhood, like tripping, getting gum in your hair, and not getting the prize out of the cereal box.  Fortunately, Alexander has a plan--a remedy--that pops up as an amusing refrain throughout the story: he's going to move to Australia. Before the story—and the day—comes to a close, Alexander’s best friend demotes him, he fails to impress his teacher with a drawing of an invisible castle, he sings too loudly, he forgets the number 16, he doesn’t get dessert, he has a cavity, he is pushed in the mud and called a crybaby, he gets lima beans at dinner, and he sees kissing on TV.  Ew! That’s the worst! The loveliest thing about this story is that it doesn’t feel the need to end on a positive note. Instead, Alexander admits that sometimes days are just...terrible, even. But they can be bad in Australia, too. We close the book satisfied that Alexander survives the ordeal, and we hope the poor fellow has a better day tomorrow.

Bonus Review:

Two decades after Alexander has a terrible day, the poor kid still can’t catch a break.  In Alexander, Who’s Not (Do You Hear Me? I Mean It!) Going to Move, a late entry in Judith Viorst’s Alexander series (illustrated by Robin Preiss Glasser), our plagued protagonist returns, facing yet another childhood woe: moving (no--not to Australia). Told again in Alexander’s charming voice, he lets the reader know—absolutely, positively, unequivocally—that he will not move. “Never. Not ever. No way. Uh uh. N. O.”  In fact, we never hear other characters' exact words from their own lips, with their own voices. Alexander paraphrases all of it for us, including the repetition of his brothers’ opinions of him: “Nick says I’m_____ (fill in the blank with a variety of nasty things brothers might say),” and “Anthony says I’m being immature.”  Repetition is also used to underscore the sadness that sort of oozes through the humor of the story. It's really a melancholy little tale.  Alexander notes the distance between his current and new homes: a thousand miles.  He considers his not-moving options, plotting to live with the Baldwins or the Rooneys.  Or moving into his tree house.  He packs and says his goodbyes, but all the while he plots, thinking of how not to move. Finally, his parents offer incentives to Alexander, like calling his best friend long distance and maybe getting a dog. Finally, he decides that maybe he can handle moving after all. And the “incentives” are a nice touch, because when thinking about all of the things that he likes about his current home early in the story, we encounter the neighbor’s dog and the friend he’ll be leaving behind.  While not as charming as Very Bad Day, it's a worthy entry in the Alexander canon, a sweet story about loving what you have while also being willing and able to change (and hopefully love the change, too).

Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day, by Judith Viorst, Atheneum, 1972. Illustrations by Ray Cruz.

Alexander, Who's Not (Do You Hear Me? I Mean It!) Going to Move by Judith Viorst, Atheneum, 1995. Illustrations by Robin Preiss Glasser (in the style of Ray Cruz).

Featured Book: Mike Mulligan and his Steam Shovel

Mike Mulligan and His Steam Shovel by Virginia Lee Burton
Houghton Mifflin, 1939

In Virginia Burton's Mike Mulligan and his Steam Shovel, the reader learns, in a series of beautiful and detailed pictures, what a steam shovel can do: dig canals, cut through mountains, lower hills, straighten curves, smooth ground, fill in holes, create landing fields for planes, and dig holes for the cellars of skyscrapers. Mike Mulligan is proud of his steam shovel Mary Anne (apparently a reference to Marion Steam Shovels), and boasts that she could dig in one day what 100 men could do in one week, and the two always work faster and better when others are watching.   

But gas, electric, and diesel shovels are rapidly replacing steam shovels. Out with the old and in with the new. Mike knows that Mary Anne still has worth; so he goes to the small town of Popperville, which needs a basement dug for its new town hall. Mike is so confident that the work can be done in a day (remember his boast about the 100 men?) that he promises that the labor will be free if not completed by nightfall. 

At dawn the next day, they set out to work. The reader gets the sounds of the digging: BING! BANG! CRASH! SLAM! The people of Popperville (and neighboring Bangerville, Bopperville, Kipperville, and Kopperville) all come to watch, which makes Mike and Mary Anne work faster and better! The ending is exciting and unexpected: Mary Anne gets stuck in the basement! 

This dilemma encourages interaction with the reader, asking of him what should be done in this situation.  Ultimately, upon the suggestion of the little boy in the story (based on the suggestion given to Burton by a real-life 12-year-old), it is decided that Mary Anne will be used to heat the new town hall, and Mike is given a job there so that he may always be with her.  The technology in the book is deliberately outdated (and infinitely more outdated now). But the story still feels fresh. Ahead of it's time, even. At least for me.  I'm still young, but I can feel more and more each day just how quickly the world moves, and how easy it is to feel suddenly irrelevant. Especially as a writer. Mike Mulligan encourages salvage and reuse of valuable resources and finding value in things (and people!) that might otherwise be written off. Not preservation for preservation's sake, but creative and essential new uses for what we already have.

Picture Books

I devote much of my time to reading, writing, and reviewing books for middle grade and young adult readers. But my love of words began when I was very young. With picture books. And now that I have a young son of my own, picture books have become a significant part of my life again.  So for the next week or so, I'll talk about a few of my favorites. Books my son enjoys. Books I enjoyed. Books my parents enjoyed. And books their parents enjoyed.

I hope you enjoy them, too.

Featured Book: Goving Bovine

Going Bovine by Libba Bray won the 2009 Michael L. Printz Award. And since I believe the Printz (and similar awards for children/YA lit.) should always be about getting into the hands of young readers books those readers will love to read (and will make them want to read more), Bovine is a worthy selecion for the prize.

I admit, I was wary of Bovine at first, because I didn’t know how much a novel by Bray, best known for her Gemma Doyle Trilogy, would appeal to male readers, especially adolescent male readers.  But those familiar with Bray’s larger body of work, which includes stories about the band Cheap Trick and the musical The Rocky Horror Picture Show, won’t be surprised that Bovine is a quirky, random, twisted adventure with a cast of misfits, complete with its very own mad scientist. In short, it’s exactly the kind of story many adolescent boys might be interested in.

Going Bovine by Libba Bray
Delacorte Press, 2009
Cover art by Yuan Lee

Bovine opens on a moody, apathetic, and angst-ridden burnout named Cameron, who recounts a traumatic near-death childhood experience on the It’s a Small World After All attraction at Disney World. And whether it’s because Cameron is so young when it happens or simply because he’s listless by nature, the brush with death does nothing to spark a zest for life in him. Now sixteen, he goes through the motions at school, taking no initiative, and putting in as little effort as possible in everything he does, other than smoking weed and listening to Great Tremolo records (mostly so he can make fun of the artist). Cameron also fails to demonstrate much love or respect for his family. He suspects his dad cheats on his mom. He feels betrayed by his twin sister, who now runs with the popular crowd at school--the crowd by which Cameron feels tortured. He hates his job at Buddha Burger. He lazes about the house. And he smokes pot.

In short, the opening is not atypical of a YA novel. Other than the Disney World incident, of course.

But then things start getting weird. Cameron loses control of his faculties, even punching popular Chet (who happens to be his sister’s boyfriend) in the stomach. Inadvertently.

This, understandably, earns Cameron counseling and drug therapy.

Then come the fire giants. That’s right. FIRE GIANTS, raining fire from the sky. And a dark-armored knight coming after him with a sword.

What?

Then, to the horror of his mom and sister, Cameron writhes on the floor in terror as the toaster starts on fire and the giants come after him again.

And this, understandably, lands Cameron in the hospital. Poking, prodding, and MRI-ing ensue.

Finally, we learn that Cameron has Creutzfeldt-Jakob Disease (CJD)—better known as MAD COW DISEASE. That’s right. MAD COW disease. Hence the title—Going Bovine.  CJD is a degenerative neurological disorder—incurable and fatal.  Common symptoms—memory loss, personality changes. Hallucinations.

While in the hospital, awaiting his fate, a punk-rock angel named Dulcie (who he’s seen previously at Buddha Burger) explains that a scientist name Dr. X, who has traveled through time, unwittingly unleashed the evil that that is actually killing Cameron (not CJD).  She gives him a bracelet (a Disney World park pass) that will temporarily overpower the crippling effects of his disease (while the bands of the bracelet disappear over time) so that he can travel the country in search of Dr. X, saving himself (and the planet in the process). And, oh yeah—he’s supposed to take his diminutive and hypochondriac roommate along with him. 

What follows can best be described as Life on Mars (the original British version) meets Catcher in the Rye meets The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy meets Scott Pilgrim meets Don Quixote.  The story is filled with mythological and classical literature references (appropriate since Cameron’s mom taught classics and mythology before she had children), as well as fictional pop-culture references (like a bizarro-universe of our own pop culture from the last thirty or forty years), including an MTV-type network, a Carson Daily-like character, a Grateful Dead-esque band, and a Star Wars-mimicking movie franchise called Star Fighter). 

But the story also uses familiar settings like New Orleans and Disney World (where the story both begins and ends), but distorts them in a way (especially for readers who are familiar with the real settings) so as to make them dreamlike—or nightmare like. 

What emerges from this odd premise is a surprising, often hilarious, and sometimes touching story that tiptoes along the narrow, fragile line between reality and fantasy. We wonder, throughout the journey, what is real? What is an hallucination? But we realize that it almost doesn’t matter. Because Cameron slowly, reluctantly, but completely comes to appreciate life and living for the first time ever—an appreciation he didn’t gain from his first near-death experience as a child.

Recommended for boys ages 15-18.

Featured Book: Antsy Does Time

Antsy Does Time by Neal Shusterman is a sequel (or companion) to The Schwa Was Here. Like Schwa, this tale is set in Brooklyn and narrated by Antsy—Anthony Bonano—and, at least at first, seems to center on someone else’s crisis. When his stoic, Scandinavian classmate Gunnar reveals he’s dying of Pulmonary Monoxic Systemia (in which your body turns oxygen into carbon monoxide instead of carbon dioxide and you’re essentially poisoned by the very air you breath—p.s. it doesn’t exist IRL), Antsy offers Gunnar a month of his own life, trying to shake his new friend from his morbid, death-fascinated funk. This simple act takes on a life of its own, and before he knows it, Antsy becomes the center of a life-donation frenzy in which he draws up and distributes legal-ish looking contracts, collecting additional life for the fast-fading Gunnar.  In no time it becomes a school-wide obsession, culminating in a rally for Gunnar at which Antsy is the keynote speaker.

Antsy Does Time by Neal Shusterman
Penguin Group, 2008
Cover art by Steven Guarnaccia

But there’s something a bit off about Gunnar’s disease, and his obsession with it. There’s something off about the Ümlaut family, in general. There’s even something off about Kjersten, Gunnar’s older sister, who starts dating Antsy in the middle of all of this.  But Antsy can’t put his finger on it. When he has dinner at the Ümlaut house early in the story, there’s a palpable tension when Mr. Ümlaut joins them at the table.  Antsy assumes that it’s due to Gunnar’s fast-approaching death, but he’s confused as to why no one in the family (other than Gunnar) seems willing to talk about it. 

Antsy learns, as the story moves forward, that the family’s problems extend far beyond a son who says he’s dying. And just as the Ümlaut’s collective problems begin to boil, Antsy’s own life-and-death family crisis emerges.

All of this is told in Antsy’s familiar, energetic, and flat-out hilarious voice. Schwa is one of my favorite books, and I generally, unless it’s part of a trilogy or series, dislike sequels.  I put off reading this novel for some time for that reason, but I’m glad I finally did. This sequel works for me for several reasons.  First, the Bonano family is great—especially Antsy—and is definitely worth spending more time with.  Second, this story stands on its own.  It’s not following a formula from the first book, simply inserting Gunnar and his problems where the Schwa was in the last novel.  And finally—and most importantly—Shusterman, I think, successfully expands on a theme—a current—that runs through both of these novels.  Language. And meaning that comes from it.

I mentioned, a moment ago, Antsy’s great voice, which—of course—is all about language.  And there are several language-related jokes that pop up throughout both of these books.  I mean, in this one, we have the Ümlaut family.  An umlaut, of course, is that little two-dot symbol above vowels that represents vowel fronting or raising. The U in the family’s name has an umlaut, giving it the oo sound. The same symbol, incidentally, appears in the author’s last name on the cover of this book (but is not in the author’s name IRL). Similarly, a schwa, from the first novel, is an unstressed neutral vowel (or the symbol—ə—that represents it). And a schwa appears in Shusterman’s last name on the cover of The Schwa was Here. Clever. It doesn’t end there, though. Throughout the novel, Gunnar  spews 100% made up quotations, supposedly by famous people, making us question the importance of which words are said by whom.  And in chapter six, Gunnar asks Hakeem Habibi-Jones, “Doesn’t your culture ululate for the dead?” When Hakeem indicates he has no idea what that means, Antsy quips that cultural traditions are lost in hyphenation. Later, in the same chapter, when Ansty asks Gunnar if his sister likes him, they quibble over whether it’s Like with a capital L or like in italics, because the meaning apparently hinges on that distinction.

Shusterman plays with language and punctuation throughout, toying with the meanings of words, punctuation, and structure, and challenging us to understand how we come to those meanings and what our understanding of language says about us. I’ve heard it said that language is like a culture’s DNA, and I think that idea comes through in these novels.  Moreover, the understanding of language in this novel is through the POV of an adolescent. Presumably Antsy’s learning about language in school in a concrete, academic way. He learns that in real life, language is nuanced. And meaningful.

There’s larger, more obvious symbolic references throughout the story, like the Steinbeck project that Gunnar and Antsy create, using herbicide to make a dustbowl of the Ümlaut’s backyard (and half of the yards on their street). Or the name of Kjersten’s favorite band—NeuroToxin. Or the very disease Gunnar claims to have—a disease in which he’s poisoned by the air he breaths (or, figuratively, poisoned by the house he lives in, the family that surrounds him). All of these things are important, but, I believe, secondary to the focus on language. 

The importance of language is most obvious when Ansty’s family faces its major crisis of the novel—his dad’s heart-attack. When the doctor approaches the family in the waiting room, his first words to Antsy’s mom are “your husband has an acute blockage of the—” Antsy doesn’t hear or care about the rest. He focuses on the word has. Not had. His dad is. Not was. Present tense. Not past. His dad is alive.  Such a simple distinction, but in that moment, it’s all that matters to Antsy, to his family.

Shusterman has done good work here.  It’s a fun novel with some darker undertones, and a playful and healthy dose of language that challenges readers to think about the words they read and speak and the meanings behind them.

Recommended for boys ages 12-15.