RobertMcCrum: Why Children Are Never Too Small For Big Ideas Essay, Research Paper

Why children are never too small for big ideasToday, The Observer is devoting a full page to new books for teenagers, an in-between genre that’s sometimes classified by publishers as ‘young adult’ reading. We shall, accordingly, be giving new books for five- to 12-year-olds a miss this half-term. I hope readers do not miss the wild rumpus of wolves, pigs, witches and trolls. At its best, full-blown children’s literature can be every bit as absorbing as grown-up writing. Consider, for example, The Gruffalo by Julia Donaldson, illustrated by Axel Scheffler (Macmillan). Three years ago, when this bedtime book was first published, The Observer described it as ‘a modern clas sic’. It went on to win the Smarties Gold Prize, (the children’s Booker), and the Blue Peter Award for the best book to read aloud. The Gruffalo is, in the first place, a model of narrative drive and economy, a witty exploration of fictional archetypes, possibly inspired by Where the Wild Things Are. It begins, like all the classics, in medias res : ‘A mouse took a stroll through the deep, dark wood… ‘ The mouse, who is the quintessence of cheeky vulnerability, encounters a fox, who invites him to lunch ‘in my underground house’. Whereupon, combining charm with guile, the mouse declines (’It’s terribly kind of you, Fox, but no_ ‘), pleading a prior engagement (’I'm going to have lunch with a gruffalo’). This is a new one on the fox, who asks: ‘What’s a gruffalo?’ Now the mouse summons all his imaginative powers. A gruffalo? he replies. ‘Why, didn’t you know? He has terrible tusks, and terrible claws, and terrible teeth in his terrible jaws.’ ‘What’s more,’ says the mouse, clinching it, ‘his favourite food is roasted fox.’ And away goes the fox in a panic. Round one to the mouse who now, in another neat narrative device, lets the reader in on his subterfuge. Doesn’t the fox know ‘there’s no such thing as a gruffalo?’ One of the many incidental pleasures of the book is its sly, subversive intelligence and the way in which it knowingly conspires with the unconscious sympathies of both parent and child. Meanwhile, our friend the mouse continues on his way through the deep, dark wood. Next, he meets an owl and then a snake, both of whom decide that, while ‘the mouse looked good’ (to eat), they can be dissuaded from their predatory desires by the imminent arrival of the gruffalo whose fabled terribleness (’his eyes are orange, his tongue is black, he has purple prickles all over his back_ ‘), has become a key part of the mouse’s defensive repertoire. After overcoming the threats of both snake and owl in this way, the mouse exults in his storytelling prowess. ‘Don’t they know,’ he repeats triumphantly, that there’s no such thing as a gruffalo?’ But_ Here the narrative moves into a masterly new key. ‘Who is this creature with terrible claws etc ?’ Oh no! It’s_ the Gruffalo ! The embodiment of all that’s terrible (the thing that children love) takes one look at our picayune rodent hero. ‘My favourite food!’ says the gruffalo. ‘You’ll taste good on a slice of bread.’ It’s at this point that Julia Donaldson executes a narrative masterstroke of such utter genius that she should be put in charge of all the fiction-writing courses of North America, transforming the mouse from vulnerable (but crafty) victim to assertive protagonist. ‘Don’t call me good!’ says the mouse. ‘I’m the scariest creature in this wood.’ The gruffalo, of course, does not believe him, but the mouse says: ‘Walk behind me, and soon you’ll see. Everyone is afraid of me.’ So the mouse, followed by the marvelling gruffalo, parades through the deep, dark wood and meets, in succession, the snake, the owl and the fox, all of whom take one look at the gruffalo and make themselves scarce with pathetic excuses. The resourceful mouse has one last trick to pull. He must, somehow, get rid of his nemesis, the gruffalo. No problem. ‘And now,’ he says, by way of valediction, ‘my tummy is beginning to rumble’, adding in his most menacing tone: ‘My favourite food is gruffalo crumble.’ ‘Gruffalo crumble!’ the Gruffalo said. And quick as the wind he turned and fled. At last, the mouse is alone in the forest. He finds a nut and, in the best classical manner, all is resolved. ‘The nut was good.’ The mouse may be small, but he’s clever. Bossed about, like a child, by threatening creatures far bigger than himself, he has triumphed through a mixture of wit, cunning and bravado. The Gruffalo is only 20 pages long. You can read it aloud in seven minutes with ease. The Observer was wrong. It’s not just a modern classic. For any child between the ages of three and five, it’s a small masterpiece. [email protected] Join the World of Books debate at www. observer.co.uk