Utilitarian View of Children's Literature:
Pros and Cons

10 May 96
Waller Hastings

I just completed grading the final exams for my fairy tale class, in which I asked my students to give their judgments of the most worthwhile or valuable work we read, and the least, along with their reasons. We read contemporary versions of fairy tales, not just the traditional tales.

I was struck by the enormous popularity of "Beauty and the Beast." Almost half of the class (15 of 37 who took part) voted for Robin McKinley's *Beauty* as the work they found most valuable during the semester, and another three chose the "original" version of "Beauty and the Beast" as presented in Joanna Cole's *Best Loved Folktales. . .* Only two students selected *Beauty* as their least favorite work.

The students also disliked intensely relatively modern revisions that depart too widely from traditional models. THe least popular work was selections from Sandburg's *Rootabaga Stories* (15 negatives, no positives); close behind came Scieszka's *The Stinky Cheese Man and Other Fairly Stupid Tales* (12 negatives, but four positives). (Some of the negative voters said they liked the book, but rated it low for utilitarian reasons; on the other hand, many were adamant that they would not read this to children or use it in their [future] classrooms because it was "stupid.")

When reading their justifications for rating the works as they did, I observed that most of the students' judgments were informed by utilitarian or moralistic reasoning - either "this work would be useful in working with X group of students" or "this work promotes good values" for positive responses, and the corresponding negatives for works the students disliked. They seem to prefer their retellings to be pretty straightforward.

I don't know what all this means, but thought I'd throw it out for possible discussion. For what it's worth, nine (of 39) students in the class were English majors, 10 were elementary education majors, and the rest had a variety of academic interests; due to the way I handle the exams, I cannot, however, correlate types of responses with majors.

Wally, I am sorry to hear that, and should like to write a book entitled How to make money, happiness and food from sand, so that, when this generation of readers is asked what book it would please them best to have if shipwrecked on a desert island, everyone would chose mine.

A reason for holding apart from utilitarian criteria for forming judgments about literature is this narrowing of sensitivity to the qualities of art and literature. I think ultimately this leads to finding only what one looks for and wants to find in a work, and losing a sense of the work's complexity and robustness, the "tensity" (Suzanne Langer's term) that makes art art. Perhaps even losing the facility for being aware of it.

This utilitarianism reminds me of Joseph Pennell's story of a person approaching Whistler and asking him to be her teacher. She only wanted an hour a week of his time. Whistler replied that he'd spent every hour of every week studying, and still recognized he had a lot to learn about how to make art.The would-be student replied she didn't need to spend *that much time, because she only wanted to know enough about art to teach.

Wally's experience matches my own in at least one respect:
" When reading their justifications for rating the works as they did, I observed that most of the students' judgments were informed by utilitarian or moralistic reasoning - either "this work would be useful in working with X group of students" or "this work promotes good values" for positive responses, and the corresponding negatives for works the students disliked."

I find that sort of utilitarianist/moralist nexus, too, and have a great deal of difficulty persuading people that (for instance) nonsense is worth bothering with. Unless they can read a moral into it they don't want anything to do with it. This makes _Alice_ and _Pooh_ sound pretty authoritarian, not to mention things like _The Thirteen Clocks_. Edward Lear it leaves right out: there's nothing redeeming to be said about him at _all_. Thank God.

I haven't run across the "enormous popularity" of _Beauty and the Beast_, yet, because it's been a few years since I taught the children's literature course. I'm on again this fall, and I fully expect to find the same thing. I'm certain it's related to its pervasiveness in pop culture, primarily the Disneyfication. So McKinley's a spinoff benefit, I suspect.

"Close behind came Scieszka's *The Stinky Cheese Man and Other Fairly Stupid Tales* (12 negatives, but four positives). (Some of the negative voters said they liked the book, but rated it low for utilitarian reasons; on the other hand, many were adamant that they would not read this to children or use it in their [future] classrooms because it was "stupid.")"

My wife, who's taught the course in recent years, introduced the idea of an assignment whereby students found a kid to read to consistently through the term. It's the only way to approach this sort of thing: a little dose of reality works wonders with the demand that kid's books teach a lesson. I thought _SCM_ was a little stupid, too, but my granddaughter loved it, and not for stupid reasons.

Wally, I'm interested in your students' reasons for the negative response to Rootabaga Stories.

It strikes me that people whose reading experience is generally limited to realism and perhaps traditional fairy tales may have a great deal of trouble with what Tolkien called "the willing suspension of disbelief." The Rootabaga Tales and The Stinky Cheese Man both require the reader to look at the world in a slightly skewed way, to accept what is being offered as a valid representation of a place, even if it is imaginary. Those readers who expect stories to be didactic have a really difficult time in accepting alternative worlds because it isn't clear what the lessons of those worlds might be. Many of us have immersed ourselves so thoroughly in children's literature or fantasy literature that we make that transition effortlessly, not even aware of the shift from the world in which we live to the world we are reading about, even if that world is entirely improbable. We suspend our disbelief at the drop of a hat, while others conclude that the story isn't making sense because they have no experience in shifting their mindset to accept what is out of the ordinary. With the exposure you gave them in your course, I'm sure some of your students began to appreciate the more imaginative creations, but there are always some who aren't interested in anything they can't find in South Dakota (or wherever).

Judith -
Most of the students who disliked these stories said they thought they were pointless (although in class we had talked about how selected stories reflected the American experience, immigration, etc.). Similar objections were made to *The Stinky Cheese Man*, which also had a high negative. This is related to their utilitarian view of the stories - in saying the stories were "pointless," they often seemed to mean that they did not have a clear and obvious moral. Here in South Dakota, evidently we cannot read something just for enjoyment.

Several students also made comments that suggested the more poetic nature of Sandburg's prose (the sound play, repetitions, etc.) were a factor in their dislike. One student said (s)he disliked Sandburg because "they are about a far-off, unreal place." I truly don't know what to make of such opinions - in the first place, I would (and did, in lecture) argue that Sandburg's setting is the American Midwest (i.e., our own home) seen through a fairy-tale prism, and in the second, the class was on fairy tales - if you are looking for realism, why would you take fairy tales?

Barbara Scotto suggests that Wally's students may have disliked _The Stinky Cheese Man_ and _Rootabaga Tales_ because they wanted realism. I don't think this is the problem. At least it's not been with my students, who would (I'm only slightly exaggerating) accept _anything_, however unrealistic, inconsistent, or poorly written, if it had a moral they could point to and would be "useful" in enculturating children.

I suspect this is partly because of the context: in a children's literature course, our attention is dragged away from fun and toward edification. Both education courses and English courses (mine is cross-listed) make "fun" vaguely disreputable. "Only the best that has been thought and said," said Matthew Arnold, a schools inspector; we need "high seriousness," he argued. So we either make "The Owl and the Pussycat" an allegory of family values or we don't read it at all.

I haven't found these students to have any difficulty believing in Narnia, because, I think, they have so little difficulty making C. S. Lewis didactic (I have a hard time helping them see anything else in his fantasy). Indeed, they want to reconstruct all nursery rhymes and fairy tales to have lessons for children.

I've suggested Hillaire Belloc's wonderful cautionary tales ("the chief defect of Henry King / was chewing little bits of string; / at last he swallowed some, which tied / itself in ugly knots inside"), and James Thurber's fables ("The moral of this story is that little girls are not nearly as easy to fool as they used to be"), but normally they're dismissed as unsuitable for children.)

The impulse towards teaching children morals or trying to teach facts with a frosting of story is rampant among those who try to write children's books also. As an editor, I read thousands of submissions with cover letters that insisted that the story was right for children because it would teach them ________ (fill in the virtue of the month). These stories were invariably dreadful and blissfully easy to reject.

One curious thing I did note, based purely on my own limited observation is that people seem to come to writing children's books later in life. Not in retirement, but usually in their 30s and 40s or later. Artists are different, there are many artists in their 20s doing good work. But writers don't seem to turn to writing for children until they have some of their own or their own childhood is some distance behind them. While some writers in their 20s write about adolesence, the great American coming -of-age story, not many are writing picture books or middle grade novels. This is not backed up by research, just something I noticed about children's book writers in general.

I do wonder if Wally's, Barbara's and Russ's students are too recently emerged from their own childhoods to be able to go back to that type of response. At 20, people are still very much involved with the process of "putting away childish things," and caught up in the idealism and absolutism of late adolescence. Children are no longer their peers, and they haven't yet evolved a new way to relate to kids.

I'd like to echo what I think Russ Hunt is saying about students' reception of fairy tales, nonsense, poetry and even fables: students will be moralists of one sort or another because they seem to feel that literature has to _mean_something. They've learned this somewhere, right? On the other hand, we needn't feel superior to the students and their need to make meaning. Post after post on this list either says or implies that whatever we read we have to read to get the message ("What kind of message is this sending?" we ask.) I recall very few posts in which the principal focus is on the art as art. And that's too bad because my experience is that kids (those under 10?) rarely worry about messages unless they're prompted by some moralistic adult. They read Silverstein because he's fun and funny. Who cares about the sometimes 'naughty material' or the slack or lame rhymes? Only the adults.

B.Deahl~J.Ogburn wrote:

"As an editor, I read thousands of submissions with cover letters that insisted that the story was right for children because it would teach them ________

One curious thing I did note, is that people seem to come to writing children's books later in life, usually in their 30s and 40s or later. Writers don't seem to turn to writing for children until they have some of their own or their own childhood is some distance behind them. While some writers in their 20s write about adolesence, the great American coming -of-age story, not many are writing picture books or middle grade novels."

Interesting. I've been writing children's stories since I was nineteen. Some are poems, some could be picture books, and some could be illustrated stories. While it must be true, that many writers, as you describe, think a story should teach a moral. There are also hundreds of publishers who seem to feverishly pursue the moral agenda-of-the-day. This can be anything from single parenting to multi-culturalism. Which is fine, though I know plenty of writers whose works, for example, have been rejected because the publishers were "only looking for multicultural themes." I appreciated Dick MacGillivray's comments: "On the other hand, we needn't feel superior to the students and their need to make meaning....I recall very few posts in which the principal focus is on the art as art." Publishers think they need to publish the theme of the day and writers think they need to write the moral of the day. It's no wonder students think that's what books are for.

I look forward to finding the editor who will publish for art's sake.

Dick MacGillivray writes: "kids (those under 10?) rarely worry about messages unless they're prompted by some moralistic adult. They read Silverstein because he's fun and funny. Who cares about the sometimes 'naughty material' or the slack or lame rhymes? Only the adults."

Actually I think kids (how about aged 10, those I teach!) love Silverstein et. al. exactly because they are making great fun of moralizing tales. Kids are certainly familiar with scolding of all sorts. From the time they can look at a board book they are presented with moralizing tales (aren't Potter's after all?) So they love fun stuff, but they can also appreciate the parodies of many such work. Silverstein and Dahl consciously write against the standard dour moralizing work.

I also find Sciezka's work perfect for 9/10 year olds. He is making fun of stuff they know well! One problem is that Lane and Sciezka's work is often bought by adults for younger kids. My fourth graders generally find Lane's "The Happy Hockey Family" hilarious because it makes fun of the kind of early reading books they have recently outgrown. I'm not sure what a child still struggling through such books would think. And Wally's students wouldn't get it at all!

Wally,
I'm amazed at your student's reactions to Rootabaga Stories for all the same reasons you are. I was introduced to the first volume illustrated by Michael Hague when a fourth grade student of mine gave it to me for Christmas. My students and I had a wonderful time with them. They made their own clowns, created their own characters, explained what happened to characters and why they became that way. I wonder if my 4/5 graders actually enjoyed it as much as their work evidenced or if it was more my subtle domination. I also find the link between Sandburg and his daughters to be evocative. I can almost hear their giggles and exasperated "Dadd-y!" when I read some of the events and characters names. I was careful to share this dimension about the stories with my students and to ask if their mom, dad, grandma or grandpa ever told silly stories to them.

Who can say?

My students also tend to come into my class bent on finding morality and/or "usefulness" in children's books. "This is a good book because it teaches children about getting along with other people." Yuk! I do my best to discourage this approach by asking them how they'd feel if someone recommended a book to them by saying, "This is a great book, it will teach you how to get along with other people," or "This is a great book because it'll teach you about the Civil War." I do recognize that literature can be useful for teaching any number of subjects, but unfortunately this is the only approach that some of my students have ever known.

Don't you think a good deal of the blame lies with publishers?--like, specifically, with acquiring editors. So. . . who are these people? where did they get their notions? (I just this afternoon got an ostensible children's book for review--"Hazardous Waste Sites" (Lerner Pub.) Can you imagine any kid in his right mind. . . .?)

Judging by my own students, I think their frequently expressed Moral Imperative derives from an inability to say anything else--for example, aesthetical, structural, political, social, even familial, about a book. Or, from thinking they have nothing else to say, although, in fact, they might if only they had the courage. It's an unawareness of what actually are the sorts of things that people do say. . . besides "it's good for you."

Elderly lady in my class once and we were reading Jarrell's "Fly By Night," with Sendak's illustr. of little David floating in his dream, nudely, over the village. "If there's any little boys in MY house, they're certainly going to be wearing jammies," she blurted out.

Is it perhaps something about the transforming power of art, the capacity to allow oneself to be moved, that needs most urgently to be conveyed? The fact that this power and capacity is to be prized, and will suffice?

I'm surprised that my first response to Wally's post was to be surprised. It seems perfectly obvious that students are bound to express a preference for books that serve a larger purpose than inviting their souls.

Books that elicit a subjective response may seem threatening to groups of adolescents for whom subjectivity may be embarrassing. Perhaps this holds true for books of an eccentric character, like _The Stinky Cheese Man,_ or perhaps its facility for emulating the giddiness and intensity of childhood puts off adolescents or young adults who may wish to view childhood through the wrong end of the telescope. Children endeavoring to assimilate into the adult world are obviously embarrassed and beleaguered by those traits that betray them as children. Can college students hoping to 'succeed' in college, or join the ranks of the passed and professorial tend to view books as instruments of teaching, and thus utilitarian objects, and mightn't the act of teaching strengthen this perception or penchant, albeit unwittingly? I wonder if the particular egoentricity of adolescence may select out books that dont serve as instruments for wielding control over the environment. No, I would wonder if it didn't. In a sense, a philosophy of art for art's sake may become a machine for stamping books as useful (Life of Whistler) or not (Life of Ruskin), assuming that one wants to relish or perhaps even teach this philosophy. Then, utilitarian books as such may be dismissed 'for philosophical reasons' but really for utilitarian reasons in camoflage. How does one avoid being practical and remain reasonable? Also, perhaps the nature of discourse--which is utilitarian--prejudices students to prefer utilitarian over non-utilitarian books, because parsing subjective responses requires more energy, closer attention, more self-assurance and self-direction and more linguistic suppleness, and, therefore, tends to limit discussion. Am I wrong about this? Perhaps, if artistry doesn't stir adolescents, they are at least stirred by altruism. Connecting the book in hand to something greater may resonate the urge to find themselves in a world beyond themselves, to a continuum and process beyond the isolated act of reading, which is a nice act of imagining in itself. Hmmm. Perhaps affiliating with the utilitarian requires an act of imagination no less concealed than affiliating with the imaginative requires an act of will and purpose. Am I babbling? I'm babbling.

Michael's posting on this alarmed me a bit -- I'd already suspected that I'd been understood as proposing "art for art's sake" instead of "serving a larger purpose." I want to offer another alternative.

When Michael says,

"It seems perfectly obvious that students are bound to express a preference for books that serve a larger purpose than inviting their souls."

I think, yes, but that's not what I intended to be talking about. What I wanted to note was that many people want books to "have morals" or "teach lessons," and I don't think that's the same thing as "serve a larger purpose." I think _Stinky Cheese Man_ does, in fact, serve some larger purpose (larger than "inviting souls," for sure), and it has something to do with genres and customs of literature, and with exercise in reflection and metacognitive reading. I think Thurber and Lear, Sandburg and Dodgson do that sort of thing, too. In none of those cases is it "art" or "artistic sensitivity" that seems to me to be at issue. Being silly can change people's reading, and their attitudes. But there's not much to say about it . . .

    There was an Old Man who said, "Hush!

    I spy a Young Bird in that bush."

        When they asked, "Is it small?"

        He replied, "Not at all,

    Why, it is three times as big as the bush!"

"Books that elicit a subjective response may seem threatening to groups of adolescents for whom subjectivity may be embarrassing."

This is certainly true, but it's not what I'm seeing: in fact, I'm seeing people, often, who seem _only_ to want to bother with books that do just this, that elicit a [moral] subjective response.

"Can college students hoping to 'succeed' in college, or join the ranks of the passed and professorial tend to view books as instruments of teaching, and thus utilitarian objects, and mightn't the act of teaching strengthen this perception or penchant, albeit unwittingly?"

I couldn't agree more with what Michael is implying here. Exactly. And I think English courses, by and large, are the worst offenders in this, with education courses running a close second.

So the dichotomy isn't between "useful (Life of Whistler) or not (Life of Ruskin)," but between, let's say, "sensible" and "not sensible." I vote for the Silly Party.

"Also, perhaps the nature of discourse -- which is utilitarian -- prejudices students to prefer utilitarian over non-utilitarian books, because parsing subjective responses requires more energy, closer attention, more self-assurance and self-direction and more linguistic suppleness, and, therefore, tends to limit discussion. Am I wrong about this?"

Yes, I think so. At least in part. I don't think discourse is utilitarian, for starters, at least not in the traditional way of thinking about it; and I don't think subjective requires more energy. But I do think that the problem is "limiting discussion." English teachers are committed to discussion, and if all there is to do with a text is share a laugh, or a response, there's not much to discuss, and therefore the text is never assigned in the first place.

And no, I don't think Michael's babbling.

The discussion about utilitarian readings of literature -- and particularly Michael Joseph's speculation that teachers have something to do with this attitude -- sent me looking for a light-hearted essay by Jasper Neal in which he enumerated various ways of looking at literature that teachers bring with them into the classroom. Here are some of the possibilties that Neal identified, with slight modifications:

*Literature is a repository of information. Mastery of this information is prerequisite to entry into the upper class. Reading literature is like reading Miss Manners.

*Literature is a method of teaching mental discipline. Students must learn to control their behavior and to force their brains to memorize details -- even if those details are boring, indeed _especially_ if those details are boring. Reading literature is like memorizing the periodic chart of the elements or memorizing the multiplication tables through 12 x 12.

*Literature is a way of preparing for life. Students must learn that everyone has a boss. They must have practice in being made to complete unpleasant chores. Reading literature is like participating in one-on-one tackling drills at football practice or writing "I will not talk in class" 1000 times.

*Literature is an opportunity for the teacher to dazzle students with her cleverness. Listening to the teacher's explanation is like attending the performance of a magician or listening to Rush Limbaugh show how poor people are ruining America.

*Teaching literature is a way of imposing proper values. Reading literature is like attending a sermon by Billy Graham or a speech by Bill Bennett.

*Literature is literature. Reading literature is not like anything else and exists for no purpose outside itself.

Gloria again:

I found your post on the above very interesting.

Isn't it a truism that publishers, who are in it for the money and the money alone, will publish what they think the people with the money will want, thereby making them want more of it? (By the erasure/practical unavailablity of alternatives, I mean.) And that the most successful publisher will forecast what the demand will be, and the least successful will be just that bit behind the fashion...? (I never did Sociology of Literature, so forgive my naivete, here).

Their notions (apart from intuition about what will sell) must come from *not* critical/scholarly work, but book reviews in trade journals and figures on the sort of thing that is selling . At some point the opinions of the critical/scholarly work --- of the arbiters of taste, however they got to be that --- must filter down to those who bother about authority, otherwise there wouod be an absolute d ivorce between the two (which there isn't).

I myself used to sneer at an exclusive focus on the moral goodness or badness (which have underlying them unarticulated political and sociasl asumptions which are usually not all that hard to see) "In" (read into?) a narrative, especially within talk on children's literature, but I do think that it is not such a bad place to *start* discussion. What does it say, and do I like what it says? ---- and then move onto "How does it say what (I think it) it says, and *why* do I like how it says it?"

The trick is, of course, for the said students as for anyone else, the courage --- to dare to think and speak different (of course, a truism), and even more, to dare to engage in that aesthetic discussion for which they/we feel ill-equipped. The people who say things besides "it's good for you" or (as in *so* much book reviewing, stick to summarising the story and mouthing cliches) often say them in *such* difficult words, that it engenders fear. Criticism/scholarship/booktalk once aimed (or purported to aim) to be more accessible than it is is (generally speaking) today, and new breeds of hermetically and hermeneutically sealed talkers spring up daily. No wonder the sense of nothing to say and the safety of "it's good/bad for you" by relative novices.

I wonder if is is true that to study something in class is to have it killed for one?

At least the lady who wanted David in pyjamas was brave enough to react directly and to voice her thoughts. Something to start with...

When I speak (falteringly, softly, sometimes) about "the transforming power of art, the capacity to allow oneself to be moved" I am told that I am not up enough with literary theory... What should I reply?

I've been thinking as I write, so I hope my syntax etc. is passable...

Are publishers responsible for didactic, moralizing books for children? Before you can even answer that question you have to define your terms. What do we mean by "publishers?" Some houses see their market as schools and libraries. For them essentially the only question is does a book fit into the curriculum? A second related question is whether a book can be part of a series, since such publishers prefer to sell series. To criticize such works as being moralizing and unliterary misses the point. These are books that "meet a need," books that -- as you all note carefully, in code, in your reviews -- are "good for reports." It is unfair to lump those books with books aimed at a general trade audience. That is like saying academic books are hard to read. They are meant to be, you can't judge them the same way you would fiction or general interest biography. We could go off into the question of the "general reader" but that is another topic.

Looking at houses which aim at a broader market, there are a variety of agendas at play there too. Having a clear "hook" for a book, such as that it has a good lesson or instills some value or another, is often prized. That makes the book an easier "sell" not merely to parents and teachers but to house sales reps and store buyers. However, the fact that such appeals are convenient and easy does not at all make them universal. Personally, there is no faster way to get me to reject a book than to emphasize the purpose it serves. I believe in the truth of art. That is, invention, creativity, exlploration of ideas, these are what a book can bring to a reader. And it does so not because there are any messages at all. Rather, it is that when an author has integrity and talent, that is palpable -- if ineffable -- to the reader.

Publishing is not monolithic. Each house has its agenda and its market. And, within each house, each editor has his or her own taste and instinct. Certainly there are common themes, and certainly we all pay close attention to sales. But it does not really help to explain trends in books by talking about the industry as if it were of a single mind.

Linnea Hendrickson raises a concern of mine and maybe others as well--how to take students beyond the "it's good for you" rationale for using literature with children. This seems to be a particular problem when my university students are asked for objectives for using picture books. So many come in the form of "so children learn about sharing", when the picture book was not just about sharing, when the book had humor, when the illustrations were striking, etc. How can I help students see the aesthetic as well as the efferent aspects? This is probably also tied into meeting curriculum objects, which do need to be met.

And on a related note, does anyone have suggestions for how to help students recognize didacticism in literature, particularly recent literature? The Bernstain Bears have worked to some extent.

(Quote snipped from Russ Hunt -- f-r-)

I'd like to probe this, Russ. My sense of discourse as utilitarian derives from an assumption that classroom discussion doesn't simply occur, but to some extent is directed to conform to a loosely predetermined pattern and perhaps identifies the pattern in some enlightening way--the way an impression of type implies the matrix from which it was cast--and that this illumination of culture and the mind is of chief pedagogical importance. I hope my remarks don't leave the effect that I oppose this process, which I really sincerely admire. By asking whether teaching somehow bent literature to its purpose, I think I was echoing and reacting to Peter Neumeyer's observation that students expressed their sense of the Moral Imperative because they felt unable to say anything else, or because they lacked the awareness of what "actually are the sorts of things that people do say," or because they lacked courage. Surely there can be no text so opaque that "all there is to do with [it] is share a laugh, or a response"; but aren't there urgent and effable literary qualities that are sheared away in the pedagogical act, which after all has a point.

I found your post on the above very interesting.

Isn't it a truism that publishers, who are in it for the money and the money alone, will publish what they think the people with the money will want, thereby making them want more of it? (By the erasure/practical unavailablity of alternatives, I mean.) And that the most successful publisher will forecast what the demand will be, and the least successful will be just that bit behind the fashion...? (I never did Sociology of Literature, so forgive my naivete, here).

Their notions (apart from intuition about what will sell) must come from *not* critical/scholarly work, but book reviews in trade journals and figures on the sort of thing that is selling . At some point the opinions of the critical/scholarly work --- of the arbiters of taste, however they got to be that --- must filter down to those who bother about authority, otherwise there wouod be an absolute d ivorce between the two (which there isn't).

I myself used to sneer at an exclusive focus on the moral goodness or badness (which have underlying them unarticulated political and sociasl asumptions which are usually not all that hard to see) "In" (read into?) a narrative, especially within talk on children's literature, but I do think that it is not such a bad place to *start* discussion. What does it say, and do I like what it says? ---- and then move onto "How does it say what (I think it) it says, and *why* do I like how it says it?"

The trick is, of course, for the said students as for anyone else, the courage --- to dare to think and speak different (of course, a truism), and even more, to dare to engage in that aesthetic discussion for which they/we feel ill-equipped. The people who say things besides "it's good for you" or (as in *so* much book reviewing, stick to summarising the story and mouthing cliches) often say them in *such* difficult words, that it engenders fear. Criticism/scholarship/booktalk once aimed (or purported to aim) to be more accessible than it is is (generally speaking) today, and new breeds of hermetically and hermeneutically sealed talkers spring up daily. No wonder the sense of nothing to say and the safety of "it's good/bad for you" by relative novices.

I wonder if is is true that to study something in class is to have it killed for one?

At least the lady who wanted David in pyjamas was brave enough to react directly and to voice her thoughts. Something to start with...

When I speak (falteringly, softly, sometimes) about "the transforming power of art, the capacity to allow oneself to be moved" I am told that I am not up enough with literary theory... What should I reply?

I've been thinking as I write, so I hope my syntax etc. is passable...

As an author of trade books for children, I have to second what Marc Aronson says. It has been my experience that trade publishers typically want nothing to do with didactic, moralizing manuscripts. In fact, preachiness is the kiss of death in these publishing circles. Many beginning writers make the mistake of thinking that their books need to "teach" children something (yes, I was there once, too) and that's one of the reasons their stories keep getting rejected.

In response to Marc Aronson:
1. No, I don't think we have to define our terms when we say "publishers." Publishers of books for young people are just that. If they are ground-breakers in the textbook world or trade book world (e.g. the old Bank Street or the current Candlewick) honor is due them. If they're accommodating hacks (e.g. the old Ginn or the several current major houses kowtowing to whatever winds blow today), they deserve disdain.

2. Contra Aronson, it doesn't matter what the market is. Class is class. Schools and libraries don't deserve pap or propaganda anymore than does my grandson--who goes to schools and libraries.

3. The question is not at all "what will fit in the curriculum." Like R. J. Reynolds saying "the only issue is, what will fit in the mouth."

4. Nor is the question whether it can be put into a series. At least, that's not the question for most of us on this list--readers for and to children. That may be a question for stockholders (like R. J. Reynolds, or the Oakmark mutual fund). But that's presumably not the interest for a group held together ostensibly by an interest in critical approaches to children's literature.

5. To criticize some series as "being moralizing and un literary" does not "miss the point" in the least. See # 4, above. It is the point.

6. The books "meet a need" says Aronson. So do amphetamines.

7. No, it's not like saying "academic books are hard to read." Nor are academic books "meant to be [hard to read]"--academic books at their best--shed light. Lumen. Luminously. That goes for kids' textbooks or Chad Walsh's or Hugh Kenner's introduction to poetry texts (or--pace [peace] Aronson--) Holt's beautiful old The Logic and Rhetoric of Exposition, or Gamov's old cosmologies.

8, Aronson is absolutely correct that making a book easier to "sell" to parents teachers and "sales reps and store buyers" is often a factor for publishers. One of the reasons Jim Moffett's old language arts series (Houghton--"Interaction")--inspired and extraordinary--failed was because reps couldn't (a) get it, (b) explain it easily. (vested interest here--I was a co-author).

9. Aronson is right--publishing is not monolithic, and each house has its agenda. But, as far as I can see, currently those agendas are about as distinct from each other as Dodges and Plymouths: cow-poke grannies recollected, toys shared, straight and narrow paths rediscovered, mommy football players, lost children found. All commendable, in life.

But look what happens: over the years, I've tried to read with students John Donovan's spare and splendid "Wild in the world" (subject for front page article in NYTBr). A "downer"--they hate it. Russell Hoban's "The Mouse and His Child"--an extraordinarily rich book that flirts with, though finally rejects, existential despair. They hate it. Ted Hughes's poetry books for children--even the ones illustrated by Baskin. They think it's a foreign language. (Though they sort of like the facile prose "How the Whale Became.")

This unfamiliarity with the possible scope of literature, then, underlies the problems they and we encounter in subsequent years. One practical consequence of publishers' lack of committment when "markets" are involved, is the the impunity felt by legislators (once our students) for the public support of the arts, the impoverishment of public tv and radio, the virtual impossibility of small poetry presses to survive, and the supermarket monopoly of such as Barnes and Noble--resulting in the further eradication of anything that will not please the broadest and most uncritical constituencies--cited by Aronson.

When Aronson talks about agendas and markets, he's totally, completely, tellingly right. That IS what publishers are about. But these proximate interests of most publishers are by no means synonymous with what many think are the most valuable, and often most fragile, manifestations of a real culture. (Stands to reason: say a publishing house house is owned by Rupert Murdoch, or by Xerox. . . . . !)

With all respect, I do believe we--he and I--are talking of quite different matters. Peter Neumeyer

Michael raises some interesting questions:
" I'd like to probe this, Russ. My sense of discourse as utilitarian derives from an assumption that classroom discussion doesn't simply occur, but to some extent is directed to conform to a loosely predetermined pattern and perhaps identifies the pattern in some enlightening way--the way an impression of type implies the matrix from which it was cast--and that this illumination of culture and the mind is of chief pedagogical importance."

When I responded about discourse being utilitarian I was addressing what I think is a larger issue: the whole notion that language is about processing and exchanging information, when it seems to me that it's really about creating relationships and sharing values, and that "exchanging information" is simply a pretext for that other function. What I think language is doing is useful, but I don't think of it as what the word "utilitarian" is pointing at. And I wasn't, for sure, thinking of the language of classroom discussion.

On the other hand, Michael's characterization of that language is accurate; and I'd agree that it's because classroom language tends to be of that kind that we find so much focus in classrooms on the moral & social functions of literature, and on certain _kinds_ of functions.

"By asking whether teaching somehow bent literature to its purpose, I think I was echoing and reacting to Peter Neumeyer's observation that students expressed their sense of the Moral Imperative because they felt unable to say anything else, or because they lacked the awareness of what "actually are the sorts of things that people do say," or because they lacked courage."

Yes; and what troubles me here is that strange pressure to "say something," to say "the sorts of things that people do say." The sorts of things that people do say in English classes, in the language which has become appropriate to the classroom, are just the kinds of things the students we've been discussing here say: "This is a good book because it shows how you have to work with others," or "This is a good book because it tells us to be considerate."

"Surely there can be no text so opaque that "all there is to do with [it] is share a laugh, or a response""

I wouldn't have suggested that such a text is "opaque," but what is there, really, to be said about the Edward Lear limerick that I offered as an example? It's not opaque, but I sure hope it doesn't teach some lesson I've missed, about care in bird-watching or something.

"but aren't there urgent and effable literary qualities that are sheared away in the pedagogical act, which after all has a point."

Well, yes, and it has a point, I guess: all I'm saying is that I believe the reason my students find it so difficult to attend to Lear is that when those "urgent and effable qualities" are sheared away they're rendered apparently unimportant. I don't think they are unimportant.

I'm not sure I grasp all of what Sanjay says in his recent post, but I am interested in what I think he is saying. I would like very much to hear his thoughts on Herb Kohl's position in SHOULD WE BURN BABAR. I had a hard time with some of Kohl's ideas about the right political and social slant for children's books. Any response to this?

15 May 1996
Joezoro

Peter Neumeyer wrote,
"Is it perhaps something about the transforming power of art, the capacity to allow oneself to be moved, that needs most urgently to be conveyed? The fact that this power and capacity is to be prized, and will suffice?"

These are good quesions, but is there some anxiety in young readers that precedes these questions? That is, Peter suggests, or at least I infer, that young readers do not want to be moved; or perhaps, do not know that this is an option; or perhaps, they fear being moved; or perhaps, have been taught that stability in one's being is the end all, be all of existence. So, with this in mind, they have learned long ago to be fakes--to put on stability like a suit of armor. Sure, they're protected, and largely immobile. It is certainly the power of the arts that we want our students to experience, but before this, or during, it seems that it is a student's specious notion of their own indivudiual, neutral stability that we need to point out to them. But, does this then lead to more engaged readers? It might. It might not.

Bonita says,
"Maybe I'm like your students in that discussion of "art for art's sake" makes me feel nervous, confused, and inferior. I don't think they need to see the aesthetic aspects, at least, not in those terms. I think they need to learn to enjoy, so they can pass on their enjoyment. Books are supposed to be fun. They can be more than that--but not until they've -been- that."

Yes. I've been concerned that people heard me saying, early on, that we needed aesthetics rather than morality. A false dichotomy, I think. What I was interested in was fun . . . and I'll buy Bonita's last two sentences and cross-stitch them into a sampler.

This, however, I'm not so sure about:

"(Of course, one way to increase enjoyment would be to point out beauties that the student has missed.)"

I spent the first quarter century of my teaching career doing that. I'm _very_ doubtful that anybody's enjoyment was increased. Nothing as powerful in destroying fun as having someone explaining what you missed, or what you should see when you do get round to reading it. What I try to do now is create situations in which they're more likely to _discover_ those things.

Reply to message from simdieke@nmu.edu of Tue, 14 May

"Linnea Hendrickson raises a concern of mine and maybe others as well--how to take students beyond the "it's good for you" rationale for using literature with children. This seems to be a particular problem when my university students are asked for objectives for using picture books. So many come in the form of "so children learn about sharing", when the picture book was not just about sharing, when the book had humor, when the illustrations were striking, etc. How can I help students see the aesthetic as well as the efferent aspects? This is probably also tied into meeting curriculum objects, which do need to be met.

And on a related note, does anyone have suggestions for how to help students recognize didacticism in literature, particularly recent literature? The Bernstain Bears have worked to some extent."

Oh, God, I'm jumping in without having read the whole thread, and probably about to make a fool of myself. Oh well....

Maybe I'm like your students in that discussion of "art for art's sake" makes me feel nervous, confused, and inferior. I don't think they need to see the aesthetic aspects, at least, not in those terms. I think they need to learn to enjoy, so they can pass on their enjoyment. Books are supposed to be fun. They can be more than that--but not until they've -been- that.

(Of course, one way to increase enjoyment would be to point out beauties that the student has missed.)

But the main thing, when you're teaching teachers, is that they should find stuff they love and share it with the kids. And that this is so the kids' lives will be enriched, and so they will have a source of joy forever.

All in my humble and ill-educated opinion, naturally.

(One thing you might do is copy some of the stumper questions from pubyac and childlit, to show how a book can linger in the mind for years and years.)

On the question of encouraging children's literature students to see the pleasurable aspects of books for children as well as the "morals": I've had most success making this happen most quickly when I ask my students, near the beginning of a course, to bring to class one book they loved as a child--or failing their continued ownership of the book or their ability to find another copy of it somewhere, at least a memory of such a book. (And failing all that, I ask them to bring a book that a child of their acquantance currently loves.)

Interestingly, almost everybody can recall a book that had a profound impact on them (or on children they know). And as they share these books with each other in small groups and discuss what they remember liking about them, they quickly discover that their discussions have almost nothing to do with messages and morals--and everything to do with a wide range of pleasures: moments shared with parents or grandparents or aunts, words that sound interesting enough to recall twenty years later, the smell and even the taste of books, empathy with characters, the thrill of being scared out of your wits, etc., etc. They also begin to think about the frequency with which they admit that, had they never seen these books before and were thinking about recommending them for children today, they would easily find reasons not to approve of their messasages, gender stereoptypes and so on.

Once students remember what books really meant to them in their own childhood, and how much their impact had to do with aspects of the books and the reading experience besides "messages," they tend to think about the books they then read in the rest of the course differently--and with much more pleasure for themselves.

Incidentally: the very best thing that happened to me this week was coming upon, in a second-hand bookstore, a copy of a book I remember loving as a child but had not ever been able to find since, until last Saturday: Frank Tashlin's The Bear That Wasn't (Dutton, 1946), about a bear who goes to sleep in the winter and wakes up to find himself in the middle of a factory that has been built around him. He keeps insisting he's a bear, but everyone tells him he's just a silly man who wears a fur coat and needs a shave, until they actually persuade him that that's what he is and he finds himself working on an assembly line. Very Kafakeque, with shades of Fritz Lang's Metropolis in the pictures--and also, I think, very very funny. I highly recommend it, if you can find a copy anywhere. And I think my deep and abiding memories of that silly man who needed a shave are exactly what reading children's books is really all about--as well as being deeply pleasurable for me as a child and as an adult, this story may well, I now realize, have struck some deep chord of recognition or rightness in my eight-year-old soul, and therefore, helped, in some perverse but insidious way, to form my politics and my cosmology as an adult.

I agree with the things Bonita, Russ, and Perry have said, that helping students to find pleasure in books, to love books, is the most important thing we, as teachers can do. And often, when you love something you find you want to talk about it, to tell others about it, to explore it at length, and even to analyze it, and all of this increases your pleasure.

I've used the same technique Perry mentions, of having students find and reread a favorite childhood book. I also often begin my class on the first day by reading something aloud to them, and then asking them to recall their earliest or most powerful memory of being read aloud to. This often evokes vivid memories of particular people -- often a teacher (and I'm amazed at how many remember the name of a particular teacher) or often a parent -- sounds, smells, and the entire feeling and context of the reading, and sometimes of the particular book read. Sadly, there are usually one or two students out of 30 or so who cannot recall ever having been read to, or having a story told to them.

I think it is important to validate each person's individual response to whatever he or she reads and take that as at least a starting place for continued responses.

One of my students this semester wrote something rather startling and sobering in her final summary statement, "I entered the class thinking it'd be another one of those informative but not necessarily educational courses. I figured we'd read a bunch of picture books and have to talk about them and then the professor would give the correct interpretation and explain the real way to use picture books and so forth."

Also, Perry's rediscovering of the story about the bear, sounds like the story by Jorg Steiner called The Bear Who Wanted to Be a Bear. My children and I loved this book, but I've never been able to find a copy to buy. It is interesting that this title emerges in the context of validating students' and children's responses, because the story represents the obtuseness and insensitivity of those in authority -- for children and students those are parents and teachers -- who refuse or are unable to see the realities of others' points of view unless they coincide with their own, or as my student wrote, "the professor would give the correct interpretation."

In a message dated 96-05-16 07:50:19 EDT bf455@cleveland.freenet.edu, writes:
"Maybe I'm like your students in that discussion of "art for art's sake" makes me feel nervous, confused, and inferior. I don't think they need to see the aesthetic aspects, at least, not in those terms. I think they need to learn to enjoy, so they can pass on their enjoyment. Books are supposed to be fun. They can be more than that--but not until they've -been- that."

I can't agree with you more, Bonita. Any discussion of pulling books apart and analyzing them makes me nervous. Nothing kills the joy of a book more quickly, in my humble opinion. I know literary analysis nearly killed the joy of reading for me in school. There are places to do this, and people who enjoy doing it, but it is no more meant that every child need be a literary analyst, than that every child need be a stock market analyst. It seems to me that a teacher's primary job is to instill a LOVE of reading, a PASSION for reading! If a child comes out of school with only that, then the doors of the future are wide open, for he or she will be a lifetime reader. Sadly, I don't think this is happening in our schools, especially our institutions of higher learning. Too often kids emerge from high school and college burnt out on reading, turned off to books.

I've also heard seen a lot of discussion here about "what the author intended." I can tell you, as the author of some fairly highly regarded books (NOTHING TO FEAR, A PLACE TO CALL HOME, etc.) that the author is usually first and foremost a storyteller, and her fondest hope is simply that the book be read and thus, the story passed on. Beyond that, what each reader takes away from a book is a complex melding of the experiences that BOTH the author and the reader bring to the book. I have often been surprised at things that readers have seen in my books. Sometimes they see things that I never saw until they pointed them out. Sometimes they see things that I still don't see even after they point them out. But that doesn't mean they aren't there. The process of writing is very metaphysical at times. If you really want to get into a discussion of "what the author intended" I think you first need to ponder the definition of "the author". Though I wear that title, I don't see myself as a "creator" (dictionary definition # 2), but rather as "one who writes" (dictionary definition # 1). As music comes through, but not from a musician, so story comes through me.

I've been following this tread with a combination of interest and dismay. As a great lover of books, I can't help but see their pleasurable attributes as an invaluable facet of reading, if not the entire reason for reading. As a teacher of children's literature, I'm not sure that I do such a good job of communicating this philosophy through my pedagogy.

I'm particularly perplexed as to how I can work more effectively to keep our class discussions of books open rather than didactic. I find this issue very troublesome every quarter when I reach a set of books that asks many of my students to stretch beyond their own cultural experiences--usually with Lawrence Yep's DRAGONWINGS and Mildred Taylor's ROLL OF THUNDER. Virtually every quarter I have students who cheerfully and confidently announce or attack these books as examples of "reverse racism" or "racist against whites." On rare occasions I have had other students speak up and rebut these opinions--but not often enough that I can rely on the collected wisdom of the class to thoroughly explore these points of view. I suspect most of my students don't agree that the books are "reverse racism," but they are also uncomfortable jumping into such a conflicted topic as race and discrimination.

In these situations I always find myself reasserting a strong control over the discussion. I explain what I think Taylor and Yep are doing in their texts--show how the authors are consciously and carefully using loaded terms, show the complexities of racism, etc. But no matter how open and inclusive I may try to be in these situations--I don't think I can still claim to be supporting and validating independent student assessments of texts. I do not want them to walk away confident in the opinion that Yep is a racist because his characters used the phrase "white demons." And I know I may not be changing the student's opinion--only his or her willingness to voice that opinion in front of the owner of the red pen and the gradebook.

How do the rest of you strike a balance or find a compromise between supporting student readings and teaching the "right" interpretation when the student's reading seems at best self-serving, at worst dangerous.

I don't know. This whole discussion makes me uncomfortable. I _love_ "analysis" (though I don't often mean what my English department colleagues mean by it), but I'm not at all sure what its connection is to my teaching. If I were teaching graduate courses in analysis, I guess I wouldn't have to feel so itchy about it, but I'm not: even in my senior level course in eighteenth century literature I have a really strong hunch that analysis isn't what ought to be going on if I'm going to help people become folks who like & understand eighteenth century literature. And in my children's literature course I _know_ the standard honest reaction is the one that's been quoted often in this discussion, and which we've all heard, the one about analysis killing enjoyment.

So, when Michael wonders

"why you [Bonita, but I'll take the rap too] don't enjoy analysis, but are drawn to a medium which leads inevitably to analysis, unlike say music or painting."

I think, well, why is it so widely believed that this medium leads "inevitably to analysis"? What do we mean by "analysis"? If we mean the kind of intense talking about it that occurs when my wife and I are on our way home from the theatre, that's one thing -- but that's not what happens in English classes, by and large. Not what's called "analysis" in the scholarly and critical journals, either. So when Michael says

"For me, the unexamined book isn't worth reading"

I don't think that's hubris, but I _do_ want to think some about what constitutes "examination." For me, the unexamined Bach cantata isn't worth listening to, either, or the unexamined Vermeer worth looking at. But in neither of those cases does what happens seem related to what I remember from English classes. (I enjoyed _that_, or I wouldn't be here, but I knew even then, I think, that the discussion of Milton's imagery that happened in my third year Renaissance class didn't have much of anything to do with the way I resonated to George Herbert's poetry. And I didn't particularly _want_ to "analyze" "Virtue," though I sure wouldn't have minded talking about it.

So I think I have to disagree with Michael when he says,

"I disagree with the premise proposed by somebody that the best thing a teacher can do is to introduce children to a love of books, or the pleasure of books. I think this is to mistake the effect for the cause. To examine, analyze, probe, palpate, explore, explode the reasons *something* in a text or a book induces a state of pleasure is a source of wonder, delight, bewilderment, joy, yes unease."

I think it's too simple to think of cause and effect here. But if it goes mainly in one direction it's from enjoyment to analysis, not the other way around. Even for me; certainly for most of my students who don't come with the helpless addiction to reading that I brought to school with me. In over thirty years of teaching English I've never seen a case where analysis _brought_ someone to enjoy something. I_have_ seen cases where analysis has enhanced enjoyment, illuminated it, reinforced and reinformed it. At least I think I have.

On the other hand, Michael's right, I think, to be skeptical of the notion that "the best thing a teacher can do is to introduce children to a love of books, or the pleasure of books." Way too often that's just tranformed into gushing, which I always found far more off- putting than analysis. The question of what you _do_ do to help people become more engaged readers is one I've spent a lot of time thinking about. Don't know that I've got the answer, quite yet, but I'm coming to see that it has something to do with embedding texts in people's lives. I don't think either analysis or gushing does it. Though both can contribute.

Reply to message from mjoseph@rci.rutgers.edu of Thu, 16 May
("I can't agree with you more, Bonita. Any discussion of pulling books apart and analyzing them makes me nervous. Nothing kills the joy of a book more quickly, in my humble opinion. I know literary analysis nearly killed the joy of reading for me in school. There are places to do this, and people who enjoy doing it, --- End of forwarded mail from JackieK@aol.com"

In fact, child_lit IS a place to do this and presumably child_lit subscribers are people who enjoy doing it.")

Quite right, which is one reason I hestitated to bring it up.

But the elementary classroom may -not- be a place to do it.

(I subscribe; I don't much enjoy analysis--but no one makes me read it.)

On May 16, 5:17pm, Bonita Kale wrote:
"But the elementary classroom may -not- be a place to do it. (I subscribe; I don't much enjoy analysis--but no one makes me read it.)"

Well, I wonder why you don't enjoy analysis, but are drawn to a medium which leads inevitably to analysis, unlike say music or painting. For me, the unexamined book isn't worth reading. (I couldn't resist writing that--forgive me my hubris.) I disagree with the premise proposed by somebody that the best thing a teacher can do is to introduce children to a love of books, or the pleasure of books. I think this is to mistake the effect for the cause. To examine, analyze, probe, palpate, explore, explode the reasons *something* in a text or a book induces a state of pleasure is a source of wonder, delight, bewilderment, joy, yes unease. It gives you a giddy sense of mastery, of understanding the world in which we think we live. By comparison, the unexamined book ... well, you know.

On Thu, 16 May 1996, Michael Joseph wrote:
"Well, I wonder why you don't enjoy analysis, but are drawn to a medium which leads inevitably to analysis, unlike say music or painting. For me, the unexamined book isn't worth reading. (I couldn't resist writing that--forgive"

For people who love them, music and painting inevitably lead to analysis.

Megan Isaacs asks:
"I know I may not be changing the student's opinion--only his or her willingness to voice that opinion in front of the owner of the red pen and the gradebook.

How do the rest of you strike a balance or find a compromise between supporting student readings and teaching the "right" interpretation when the student's reading seems at best self-serving, at worst dangerous."

Humility dictates that any answer to this be prefaced with the caution that we *can't* be sure we have struck a balance - the fact that we wield the red pen and gradebook inevitably means that some students, however open we may try to be, will feel that they must "give us what we want" and toe the party line even if they secretly disagree. Again, this is true even if we genuinely believe that we try to be open, because we are not the only ones conditioning students - and it only takes one or two teachers who will vouch no dissenting opinions to teach students the best way to get along in class.

That depressing thought over, it seems to me the best way to strike a balance between supporting student readings and imposing our own interpretations is to ask the students to tell us *why* they have read the book as they have - what it was in the text, or outside of the text, that leads them to that conclusion. Presumably, when we discuss our own interpretation of the text (if we discuss our own interpretation), we do give them reasons - pointing to specific language that supports our interpretation, discussing factors in the authors' lives or historical circumstances that make it likely or unlikely that passage x means (or doesn't mean) y, etc. We can certainly talk about what is plausible or implausible evidence, and surely if we see "teaching literature" as something more than simply encouraging unreflective readings, it is not unreasonable to ask the student/teacher/reader to be able to talk about those factors that have led them to the conclusions they have made.

I wonder if the problem with "analysis" is not the idea of examining books to get more out of them, but that, in a classroom setting, one's "analysis" is frequently judged right or wrong by a teacher. Does this not have the inevitable outcome of making students uncomfortable with the process of *feeling* about books--your feelings can be found to be wrong, and then where are you?

If the exploration can be made one of mutual curiosity and wonder--could the author have meant... or ... when I read that I felt ... --then perhaps it could evoke those feelings Michael speaks of being an essential part of reading.

I too remember those English classes Jackie eludes to in which we are told in no uncertain terms we were to get precisely this meaning out of that book. There was always a sense of failure when I didn't. Even a book I had thought I liked could be taken from me, in a sense.

So, when someone asks why an author wrote a certain book, I am often tempted to quote an author on this list who has been heard to say, "To get rich and famous." Tongue in cheek, obviously, but the point is that since we all bring our own realities to everything we read, do we not then take our own meanings away? And isn't that okay? And is it not, then, understandable that students shy away from being graded on their feelings?

Jane Buchanan says,
"I wonder if the problem with "analysis" is not the idea of examining books to get more out of them, but that, in a classroom setting, one's "analysis" is frequently judged right or wrong by a teacher. Does this not have the inevitable outcome of making students uncomfortable with the process of *feeling* about books--your feelings can be found to be wrong, and then where are you?"

I think this is absolutely right, but it's worse than this: even when the teacher does her best to _refrain_ from judging, students believe that's what's happening. They've learned it. So in some sense one's analysis is _always_ judged right or wrong . . .

"I too remember those English classes Jackie eludes to in which we are told in no uncertain terms we were to get precisely this meaning out of that book. There was always a sense of failure when I didn't. Even a book I had thought I liked could be taken from me, in a sense."

In many cases the classes people remember this way wouldn't be remembered this way by the teacher. In a journal article not long ago I saw an English teacher say that he never imposed his reading on students; rather, he encouraged them to offer their own readings, and them used his to "problematize" theirs. It didn't take me long to translate "problematize" into English there.

"So, when someone asks why an author wrote a certain book, I am often tempted to quote an author on this list who has been heard to say, "To get rich and famous." Tongue in cheek, obviously,"

I don't know. Samuel Johnson said, "no man, sir, but a blockhead ever wrote for any motive but money." (Or words to that effect.)

Some would say (would have said?, now never no more?) that it is *never* too early to introduce the young to the pleasures and the disciplines of cultivation and education, and of art and thoughts about it --- I wonder what the teachers and librarians on this list would say to Milton's Tractate on education? Sanjay

Reply to message from mjoseph@rci.rutgers.edu of Thu, 16 May
"Well, I wonder why you don't enjoy analysis, but are drawn to a medium which leads inevitably to analysis, unlike say music or painting. For me, the unexamined book isn't worth reading. (I couldn't resist writing that--forgive me my hubris.) I disagree with the premise proposed by somebody that the best thing a teacher can do is to introduce children to a love of books, or the pleasure of books. I think this is to mistake the effect for the cause. To examine, analyze, probe, palpate, explore, explode the reasons *something* in a text or a book induces a state of pleasure is a source of wonder, delight, bewilderment, joy, yes unease. It gives you a giddy sense of mastery, of understanding the world in which we think we live. By comparison, the unexamined book ... well, you know."

Well, I don't know about music and painting (David Lamb says they, too, lead inevitably to analysis), but I don't really think the written word does. Nor does exploring the reason something works give me a giddy sense of mastery, although it's often fairly interesting. In fact, a sense of mastery doesn't make me giddy at all.

I do read and enjoy -some- analysis (and of course, like everything, I suppose it follows Sturgeon's Law--90% of everything is crud). And I like it if someone else points out, "See, this bit about falling off the roof is a death joke," or, "That's a dig, you see?"

But for the most part, when I read literary criticism of any sort, it's merely an excuse to read more about a favorite book--an exact parallel is that when I see any book about movies, I look up Star Trek in the index.

When you're talking about elementary school students, the intention is not primarily to make them into close, scholarly, literary readers, or abstract mathematicians, or historians or scientists. We're talking very general education here. We want them to be able to read, write, think, etc., and one of the best ways to get them the practice they desperately need is to make it fun. You can read _Officer Buckle and Gloria_ to them, and show them the pictures, and point out (on the off-chance they missed it) how the pictures make it funny. That's enough analysis for a first to third grade class.

And I'm not saying that the teachers shouldn't understand more than the kids do, but in fact, most of them won't. How many teachers are there in this country? Can we honestly expect that all or most of them will be readers, writers, people who work logic/math puzzles for fun, etc? Sure, if you had only a few dozen teachers, you could demand they all be polymaths. But with millions, you have to take what you can get. Mostly, like the rest of us, they're good at some things, lousy at others.

Bonita writes:
" I'm not saying that the teachers shouldn't understand more than the kids do, but in fact, most of them won't. How many teachers are there in this country? Can we honestly expect that all or most of them will be readers, writers, people who work logic/math puzzles for fun, etc?"

And the only answer to this is a resounding YES.

I'm sorry to rain on the warm fuzzy feeling that all it takes to be a teacher is a love for students - but YES, I do expect my children's teachers to have a genuine appreciation for and interest in the world of the intellect. This is NOT too much to ask of people whose profession, after all, is to teach. If you don't have an interest in what you teach as well as who you teach, you are not going to be a very good teacher.

If a group called child_lit is not a place to analyse child_lit, what is? And if schools are not places where students learn English (not necessarily children's literature), where do they learn it? Stupefied, Sanjay

I don't want to play the Little Red Engine that Couldn't to the Discourse-Train of you Heavies in the Field (and sometimes I truly wish I *could* post directly to the list), but I *do* think that people interested in children's literature might sometimes talk about the literature (as that lovely detailed post on that novel did indeed do yesterday) rather than how to teach it (I mean "groove on"and get their pupils grooving with them, --- or do I mean suckling? my stylistics are out of date) and how to select it (keeping Gender, Class and Races balances balanced, and Daddy's Roommate, that literary masterpiece that must be *struggled* and "fought* for!) and how to fight school boards... *Fun, fun, fun* : the new hedonism is upon us!

But Michael, you said..." I disagree with the premise proposed by somebody that the best thing a teacher can do is to introduce children to a love of books, or the pleasure of books. I think this is to mistake the effect for the cause. To examine, analyze, probe, palpate, explore, explode the reasons *something* in a text or a book induces a state of pleasure is a source of wonder, delight, bewilderment, joy, yes unease. It gives you a giddy sense of mastery, of understanding the world in which we think we live. By comparison, the unexamined book ... well, you know."

Can you honestly tell us that you do not get a thrill picking up a new, un-read, un-reviewed, un-examined book and finding "JOY" !!! Now it is worth re-reading, considering, etc. but only after !!!

AMEN, Wally!! As an elementary school librarian I'm constantly amazed at the lack of intellectual curiosity in teachers. It is not so much anti-intellectualism, but non-intellectualism, and a real unexamined problem in American education.