Last year we read a bunch of Kate DiCamillo, and this year we've read Karina Yan Glaser's The Vanderbeekers of 141st Street and Jeanne Birdsall's The Penderwicks: A Summer Tale of Four Sisters, Two Rabbits, and a Very Interesting Boy.
When we were reading DiCamillo, especially Despereaux and Edward Tulane, I really felt that she immerses you in the story, in the characters, in the place(s). Sometimes I thought the language was a bit rough, but it was set in such a world of fantasy, that I could forgive the torture of rats etc.
Now, reading The Vanderbeekers and The Penderwicks, I felt like these books were "very good" compared the junk hitting library shelves at an alarming rate. But... I don't know if it is because they are not fantasy, but about real families living life. Or what it is. But I just can't say that I loved either of them. Better than the twaddle? Yes! Much better! Wonderful beyond compare? Meh.
I enjoyed how Glaser depicted the brownstone. You do love that building and its inhabitants. But I couldn't get over the love interest. And the lying and sneaking around.
I also felt that we get to care about some of the Penderwick sisters. But I did not care for the love interest, yet again. And the sneaking around and lying to parents. Parents who are depicted as mean, a bit dim, and kids who hoodwink them.
These are much better books than the "obvious" twaddle being published today. But, still, I can't help but feel that there is something lacking. Depth. Nuance in the plot. Nuance in the language. Nuance in the thoughts presented. There is little description. No theology. Very few "ideas."
I think it also has something to do with these words by C.S. Lewis:
A children’s story which is enjoyed only by children is a bad children’s story. (“On Three Ways of Writing for Children,” paragraph 7)It is usual to speak in a playfully apologetic tone about one’s adult enjoyment of what are called ‘children’s books’. I think the convention a silly one. No book is really worth reading at the age of ten which is not equally (and often far more) worth reading at the age of fifty—except, of course, books of information. The only imaginative works we ought to grow out of are those which it would have been better not to have read at all. A mature palate will probably not much care for crème de menthe: but it ought still to enjoy bread and butter and honey. (“On Stories,” paragraph 19)
I really wanted to like these books. There is so much hype about them in my world. A world where people know and value a good book! But I just can't.
Now I'm feeling badly that I've recommended them and even bought them as gifts for unsuspecting people. Two life lessons learned. Don't judge a book by what others tell you. And don't gift books you've not yet read yourself!
Now I'm feeling badly that I've recommended them and even bought them as gifts for unsuspecting people. Two life lessons learned. Don't judge a book by what others tell you. And don't gift books you've not yet read yourself!
I know that we won't know if something will become a classic, until it stands the test of time. And it can't stand the test of time until the years have passed. But already now, mere years after these were published, I have my doubts.
I'd love to hear what you think, dear readers! Have any of you had similar feelings? Or am I just a book snob!?!?
