Gillian Avery (1926–2016)

This book has everything. It gives history associated with children's literature generally, with the specific stories (the different versions of "Little Red Riding Hood," for example, are a fascinating study), and even with the content of some specific stories (e.g. the section on alphabet poems describes an older, 24-letter English alphabet). And what a collection! It contains tradition stories, including fairy tales. It contains more modern responses to these fairy tales, such as parodies show more and cynical, worldly retellings. Its collection of literature includes humor and serious works. It includes poetry, prose, plays, and picture books (and yes, the actual pages of the picture books are reproduced as images, so the readers can see more than just the text). It even has a section of full-color pictures. It includes many works that I recall from my own childhood, and it grounds them in context so that I can better understand their history and their context in the canon.

This book brings me joy. show less

This, and Childhood's Pattern by same author, cover the same topic: the ideal child hero/heroine, and how different generations shifted what constituted a desirable character. Which sounds dry, but Gillian Avery is blackly hilarious about "enlightened self interest" the super-wholesome victorian hero refusing morphine on his deathbed ("I cannot consent to enter the presence of my Creator in an intoxicated condition") and icky phonetic babyspeak, as each of these arise. I own both titles, show more this one is fractionally more entertaining, and the emphasis is slightly different, but to buy both might feel redundant. show less

[Sharon, I know you are gonna love this one!]

I have the same problem with Russian fairy tales no matter how many collections of them I read. The stories are all pretty much the same: plot, characters, and phrasings. It is all so repetitive. The male hero is always a prince named Ivan. He is always the youngest child. He is always underestimated by his father. The female protagonist is always beautiful. She is always meek, kind, a good cook and maid, and really has no control over her fate. show more Animals always talk. There is always at least one witch who eats a lot. There are always jealous siblings. Things happen out of the blue, with little-to-no explanation. The young couples fall instantly in love and go on some harrowing journey, but they always lives happily ever after, for many, many years. If you've read three random Russian fairy tales, you've read all Russian fairy tales.

The translations always annoy me. They seem so literal, which makes for a clunky narrative. It's not poetic or artistic. It's more like a relaying of facts. Romance isn't romantic. Adventure isn't adventurous. Russian fairy tales are unemotional.

The Russians excel is so many things, including storytelling, but it seems like it is a talent they were not born with. It is a talent that evolved, and their fairy tales are the primitive cave paintings of Russian literature.


show less

http://nhw.livejournal.com/705821.html

Eleven-year-old Maria runs away from school to her great-uncle who is the Warden of an Oxford college. She gets put in with the three sons of the neighbouring house, and their eccentric temporary tutor Mr Copplestone (who would certainly be played by Stephen Fry in the movie version). She also develops her own little research programme, solves a historical mystery, and thus gets her Bildung. It's a lovely little book. My favourite scene is where she show more manages to talk her way into the Bodleian Library, in a combination of drive to find the answers to the historical mystery that has been puzzling her, and carrying out the terms of a dare from one of the boys next door. show less