The Winner's Circle: Shen of the Sea, by Arthur Bowie Chrisman (1926)

Few Newbery-winning authors are as obscure as Arthur Bowie Chrisman, possibly because few winners of the prize had literary careers that were as slight. Chrisman's first book of short stories, Shen of the Sea, took the 1926 Newbery, but despite the fact that he lived for nearly three decades afterward, he published only three more books: two additional short story collections, both long out of print, and a local history volume about Clarke County, Virginia. For all practical purposes, Shen of the Sea is the only thing associated with Chrisman that anyone other than a serious children's lit specialist will ever encounter.

The first thing to understand is that this is probably not a book that could be written today, and it's certainly not a book that could be published today. In order to deal with it at all, we have to have that understanding up front.

Although Shen of the Sea is subtitled "Chinese Stories for Children," it has no source notes of any kind, and none of the tales are recognizable versions of any standard Chinese folktales. All of the stories, in fact, seem to be either entirely Chrisman's invention, or so wildly changed from their original form as to be unidentifiable. This is true despite the fact that a large number of the tales are porquoi stories about the origin of such things as chopsticks, china plates, tea, and kites.

Indeed, Chrisman's "China" is a sort of hazy fairyland, one constructed almost without relation to any place or time that may have really existed. Although there's a definite fondness for the idea of China in his writing, his grasp on the details of the country and culture is tenuous at best -- perhaps understandably so, given that he knew only a handful of words and phrases in the language, and, unlike Elizabeth Foreman Lewis and Elizabeth Coatsworth, never personally visited Asia. One simply can't read this book and expect to find cultural or historical accuracy.

So, it's fairly off-putting to 21st-century eyes. It fails any given test of authenticity, and it smacks of cultural imperialism, to say the least. Those are the facts, plain and simple.

And yet, Chrisman's wry humor and folk-style plotting are still effective. I found Shen of the Sea perfectly readable; it wasn't a chore to trudge through in the same way that something like Smoky, the Cowhorse was. It's more comparable to The Matchlock Gun in that the writing is perfectly fine even when the content isn't -- and if Walter Edmonds' finely-tuned prose runs circles around Chrisman's sometimes stilted English, Chrisman doesn't consistently demonize and inhumanize his non-white subjects like Edmonds does. Is that faint praise? Maybe. You certainly couldn't give Shen of the Sea to a kid without any explanation, and you might not want to give it to them at all.

But like so many of the other early Newbery winners, it's hard to definitively say that Shen wasn't the most deserving book of its year. The best-remembered titles from the 1925 publishing year weren't eligible: Emily Climbs, by L.M. Montgomery (Canadian); Gallery of Children, by A.A. Milne (British); The School at the Chalet, by Elinor M. Brent-Dyer (also British). The only Honor book was Pádraic Colum's The Voyagers: Being Legends and Romances of Atlantic Discovery, which isn't one that inspires a lot of fervor. The few other eligible books that are more or less still in print aren't necessarily ones most people would argue for either: The Adventures of Little Joe Otter, by Thornton W. Burgess; Raggedy Ann's Wishing Pebble, by Johnny Gruelle; The Lost King of Oz, one of the many inferior sequels by Ruth Plumly Thompson.

Maybe it's another reason to be grateful that the Newbery was instituted. If these early winners tend to be of...uneven quality, I don't think it can be argued that the state of American children's literature is orders of magnitude better than it was back when the award was instituted -- and of course, that's one of the main things the Newbery was supposed to encourage.

2013 Contenders: Temple Grandin, by Sy Montgomery

Temple Grandin is a fascinating woman. As Sy Montgomery points out, she is the only person to have been honored by both PETA and the Meat Industry. Her insights into the inner lives of livestock have revolutionized practices in the cattle industry, from feed lots to slaughterhouses. And she has accomplished all of it while struggling with moderate to severe autism - a condition that was even more poorly understood when Grandin was a child than it is now.

Montgomery's account of Grandin's life is intensely readable. The lively anecdotes and firsthand quotes lend it an appealing sense of immediacy, and help to paint a nuanced portrait of a complex personality. Above all, the subject of autism is treated thoughtfully. Grandin has made it quite clear that she feels her autism is a gift that allows her to see the world in a special way. Growing up with autism in the 1950's, however, she also encountered a great deal of cruelty and misunderstanding. Montgomery does an excellent job of explaining both the blessings and challenges of living with autism. That deviation from the typical "overcoming obstacles" story arc elevates this biography well above the typical disability narrative.

Montgomery also treats the livestock industry fairly. A vegetarian herself, she unflinchingly reports the cruel practices that take place in some farms and processing plants. She is equally quick, however, to acknowledge and applaud those who have made significant improvements by following Grandin's guidelines. The back matter includes an excellent list of resources on both autism and animal welfare for those who wish to do further research, as well as "Temple's Advice for Kids on the Spectrum." 

The book's one real weak point is its organization. The lack of a table of contents is disorienting, and since the narrative jumps backwards and forwards in time, the inclusion of dates would have been helpful.

Newbery? Heck, I don't know. I will openly admit that I have very little sense of what makes a good informational Newbery winner, but I suspect this isn't it. In her five-star Goodreads review, Nina Lindsay notes that there's "nothing flashy about this book," and I think that's worth noting. Though it excels in character development, I think it's too stylistically plain-spoken to catch the committee's attention. 

Published in April through Houghton Mifflin Harcourt.

2013 Contenders: Postcards from Pismo, by Michael Scotto

Almost as long as there have been novels, there have been epistolary novels. It's a form that's been used by everyone from Samuel Richardson to Mary Shelley, from C.S. Lewis to Lionel Shriver, and it can, in the right hands, bring intimacy to a story, call into question the reliability of any one interpretation, and bring a setting to life.

Although there are plenty of classic adult epistolaries, and even several definitive YA works in the form (e.g. Daddy-Long-Legs, by Jean Webster; Sorcery and Cecelia, by Patricia C. Wrede and Caroline Stevermer; The Perks of Being a Wallflower, by Stephen Chbosky; and, depending on how you think it should be filed, even Anne of Windy Poplars), there are far fewer for children that have had staying power. There's Dear Mr. Henshaw, which won the Newbery in 1984; Nothing But the Truth, which garnered Avi a Newbery Honor in 1992, and...probably some others, but none that come to mind, though Peace, Locomotion, by Jacqueline Woodson, has a chance to make that list in a few years. For whatever reason, there just aren't very many middle-grade epistolaries that have been given "classic" status.*

That doesn't mean, however, that there aren't some interesting ones being written, as this short list from NPL's Book Buddies indicates. And Postcards from Pismo, the second novel by Michael Scotto, is certainly a worthy addition to that list.

Postcards from Pismo is a monologic epistolary, meaning that we only get the letters and emails written by Felix Maldonado, the protagonist, while the precise contents of the responses he receives in return must be inferred. Felix's letters are addressed to Lt. Marcus Greene, an American soldier stationed in Afghanistan. His first letter is the result of a class project to send mail to the overseas troops, but Felix and Lt. Greene become ongoing pen pals and develop a close friendship. Felix looks to Lt. Greene for advice on subjects including dealing with school bullies; his concerns about his brother Quin, who has joined the National Guard; and how best to control his habit of worrying.

My favorite thing about Postcards is the way that it stays true to the viewpoint of its main character. Although the novel is set in the present day and deals with the war in Afghanistan, it's essentially apolitical; this is realistic, as few 10-year-old boys have nuanced political views, and the book avoids trying to shoehorn such views in. Also, on several occasions, Felix lacks the patience to wait for a response, and sends a flurry of correspondence. This rang true to me, as I remember having a hard time waiting for things when I was a 10-year-old boy myself. Felix always feels like a real person; I think the epistolary form helps, as it provides opportunities for Felix to drop in asides and personal details.

Although it's not a criterion for the Newbery, I do have to say that I'm not sold on the illustrations. The book contains a few of them, in the form of postcards and snapshots, and I think it would have been more effective to use actual photographs rather than black and white drawings.

I don't think Postcards from Pismo quite hits the heights of this year's top Newbery contenders -- the ending is a bit pat and predictable, and I'm not sure it takes full advantage of its coastal California setting. But it's genuinely engaging, and it's well worth a read.

Published by Midlandia / NNDS in May


*If you can think of any others, please mention them in the comments!

2013 Contenders: In a Glass Grimmly, by Adam Gidwitz

"We would tend to favor the grand, flawed effort over the exquisitely crafted miniature." -Michael Cunningham, "Letter from the Pulitzer Fiction Jury: What Really Happened This Year"

Yes, I'm linking to Cunningham's article again. This particular line jumped out at me because I think it points to one of the quirks of the Newbery process. After looking over the list of winners, I think that most Newbery committees have done the opposite of what Cunningham is saying: they have favored the exquisitely crafted miniature over the grand, flawed effort.

That was on my mind as I read Adam Gidwitz's latest novel. It's a companion piece to his 2010 novel, A Tale Dark and Grimm, which is still my choice for the best Newbery-eligible book of that year. And it is a grand, if highly flawed, effort.

Let's pause a moment for full disclosure, though: I have three great weaknesses in literature. 1. Anything to do with folklore. 2. Anything to do with Victoriana. 3. The grand, flawed effort. I love the Harry Potter books for being a glorious, uneven brew of adverb abuse and brilliant mythological pastiche. I love The Girl Who Circumnavigated Fairyland in a Ship of Her Own Making for boldly using a narrative style so precious that it will make you either gag or swoon. And I love Adam Gidwitz for writing brave, funny, disgusting books. 

Unlike A Tale Dark and Grimm, which confined itself to riffing on tales collected by the Grimms, In a Glass Grimmly casts a wide net for its sources of inspiration, throwing in everything from Christina Rossetti to a Car Talk puzzler. Like the earlier novel, it takes a pair of children - Jack and Jill, in this case - and walks them in and out of a series of fairy tales. The stories are unified by an overarching theme/lesson, which is reinforced by the obnoxiously intrusive narrator.

Ultimately, I think that approach was more effective within an all-Grimm universe. By the end of In a Glass Grimmly, it felt to me as if Gidwitz's creation had gotten away from him. The tidy ending seems hastily tacked-on, and the reinforcement of the theme feels forced in some of the stories. That's too bad, because Gidwitz's imaginative vision is grand and delightful, and he's not afraid to take the reader into scary places.

(Really scary places. Like through the digestive tract of a massive salamander. I read that passage while I was eating lunch yesterday, and I wish I hadn't.)

I don't think this one is going home with a medal*, and I don't necessarily think it should. But I do think that we should applaud authors who test the boundaries of possibility in children's literature. Their grand, flawed efforts are renewing the vitality of the genre.

*I should mention, too, that nobody was really sure about the eligibility of A Tale Dark and Grimm, since it relied so heavily on non-original material, and the same questions hold true for In a Glass Grimmly. 

Publication in September through Dutton Juvenile. 

2013 Contenders: Prairie Evers, by Ellen Airgood

Sometimes, the differences between a book we enjoy and one that we don't can be so subtle that they're hard to identify. We know what we like and dislike, but trying to explain it seems more than a little difficult.

Prairie Evers is a book that made me ponder this fact. I liked it, but why? Aren't there criticisms that could be leveled at it? And in fact, aren't some of them the same criticisms that I myself aimed at Okay For Now, one of last year's most talked-about books? (Note: It's hard for me to talk about Prairie Evers without spoilers, so I'm not even going to try to avoid them here.)

Much as in Okay For Now, there's a disjunction between the first part of the book and the second. For the first half of Prairie Evers, it's a gentle New Kid In Town kind of novel, in which the titular protagonist's problems are things such as Grammy moving away, starting school for the first time, and making friends. As such, it's a surprise when the second part of the book turns out to focus on child neglect, domestic violence, and justifiable homicide. The sunniness of the ending is fitting given the first part of the book, but one could question whether or not it flows naturally from the second part.

I was frustrated by the way that Okay For Now seemed to change its own rules, going from realistic to decidedly unrealistic. But Prairie Evers has some of that as well. Although it's basically realistic fiction, I had a hard time understanding how Child Protective Services didn't become involved with Prairie's friend Ivy's family, and a tough time believing that Ivy's mom would just let her go live with Prairie; these are things that other folks have brought up on Goodreads.

So what's the difference? Why did I enjoy Prairie Evers and find Okay For Now tough going? One reason may be that Prairie Evers does limit its miracles; no one here has a wildly successful premiere of a Broadway show that's attended by their personal hero. Another reason is that, although Prairie learns about friendship and seeing things through other people's eyes, her lessons aren't all about the Power of Art, and though she does visit the library, she doesn't end up sounding like a library PSA. Those are personal pet peeves of mine, and where Okay For Now pushed those buttons, Prairie Evers didn't.

On a less comparative note, I enjoyed Airgood's writing, and found Prairie a believable and likable protagonist. I was homeschooled as a kid too, and Prairie's description of what it was like to interact with other kids upon first going to public school rang true to me. The descriptions of chicken raising also felt real and vital. Although she's had success with adult fiction, this is Airgood's first children's novel, and I hope she writes more of them.

So what of the Newbery? I don't see it happening; there are too many other competitive titles, and even if Prairie Evers is less problematic than Okay For Now, Okay For Now was shut out of the 2012 awards in a much weaker field. The committees are different, and it's a new year, but I still don't think we'll see Prairie Evers on Newbery Day. It's a book I enjoyed, however, and I look forward to more of Airgood's work.

Publication in August 2012 from Nancy Paulsen / Penguin

Bloggers Behaving Badly

 What is up with the book blogging world lately? Just this week, we have:

1. Stop the Goodreads Bullies. I post that link with a conflicted heart, because I honestly don't want to give those people any web traffic. They appear to have decided that the proper response to ad hominem Goodreads reviews is to post personal, identifying information about the offending reviewers. This is just the latest kerfuffle in the middle school cafeteria that is the current YA book blogging world*. 

2. ChickLitGirls Threaten Author With Ridiculous Lawsuit.  To summarize: ChickLitGirls charges authors for their (exclusively positive) reviews. An author mentions this on Twitter. ChickLitGirls makes absurd legal threats.

And that's not even touching the subject of the bloggers/linebackers on the ALA exhibits floor who shove people out of the way in order to grab stacks of the latest mermaid dystopia titles.

You guys. I love the relative peace of the children's lit world. I love the fact that it's a safe space, where I can write critical reviews without worrying that Jack Gantos is going to appear on my doorstep and threaten to rub my face in the dirt.

If this kind of malarkey ever creeps into our little haven of civility, I will personally call down the ghost of Peter Sieruta to give us all a stern-yet-gentle talking-to.

(And if any of you are artistically inclined, please please please create a "Ghost of Peter Sieruta" image that we can use when discussions start to become uncivil. Many of you knew him better than I did, but I think he would have liked that?)

*Of course I'm not talking about excellent blogs like Bookshelves of Doom, which has been around long enough to hate Shadowmancer as much as I do. There are plenty of YA bloggers who don't engage in this nonsense, and I'm sorry that they have to be associated with it.

The Winner's Circle: The Cat Who Went to Heaven, by Elizabeth Coatsworth (1931)

In the 1920s and '30s, American literature went through a period of fascination with east Asia. The most prominent author of this trend was Pearl S. Buck, who picked up a Pulitzer in 1932 and a surprise Nobel Prize in 1938. Buck, of course, wrote primarily for adults, but plenty of children's authors worked the same vein. Three of them managed to pick up the Newbery for their efforts: Arthur Bowie Chrisman, for Shen of the Sea (1926); Elizabeth Foreman Lewis, for Young Fu of the Upper Yangtze (1933); and Elizabeth Coatsworth, for today's subject, The Cat Who Went to Heaven (1931).

American literature long ago went in a much different direction. By the time I was in college as an English major in the late '90s / early '00s, Buck was essentially a footnote; we never read any of her work, and the only time she was even mentioned was as one of the most egregious mistakes made by the Nobel committee. The children's authors have fared even worse: Chrisman is almost forgotten now, and though Lewis won the Lewis Carroll Shelf Award in 1960, both she and Coatsworth are considered minor figures in American children's literature, known mostly to specialists in the field.

Indeed, I'll confess that, despite the fact that she published over ninety books in a career that spanned nearly half a century, I've never read any of Elizabeth Coatsworth's other titles. As such, I don't feel qualified to pass judgment on her career as a whole, other than to note that the vast majority of the books she published are out of print. However, I do feel that I can say that, if The Cat Who Went to Heaven is a neglected Newbery these days, it's not without reason. 

Set "once upon a time" in Japan, The Cat Who Went to Heaven tells the story of a nameless artist and his (also nameless) housekeeper, who adopt a cat, which they name Good Fortune. The artist has been very much down on his luck, but he soon receives a commission from the priest of the local temple to produce a painting of the death of the Buddha. This tableau includes all of the animals except the cat, who, legend has it, rejected the Buddha's teachings. However, this omission seems to depress Good Fortune, which leads the artist to relent and include the cat in the painting anyway, which leads to Good Fortune's death (from joy!), and the (literally) miraculous ending. (The ending, by the way, led Rachael to exclaim "That's not a Newbery book, that's an e-mail forward!")

It's tough going for a modern reader. The overly exoticized Orientalism and weepy sentimentality are serious turn-offs, especially in the ending. The housekeeper periodically breaks into awkward songs in which she praises her master and expresses her intense desire to serve him; the power and gender dynamic at work here is uncomfortable at best. Simply put, it's a book whose whole sensibility seems very dated, far more so than many much earlier American children's classics such as Little Women (1868-69), Adventures of Huckleberry Finn (1884), or even The Velveteen Rabbit (1922). For a child today, it could just as easily have come from the moon as anywhere else.

I didn't put The Cat Who Went to Heaven on my list of obvious Newbery mistakes because there just weren't a lot of options for the 1931 award. Although a record eight Honor books were named, it's a depressing list that mostly goes to show that the powers that be were willing to fetishize pretty much any kind of exoticism: Floating Island, The Dark Star of Itza: The Story of a Pagan Princess, Queer Person, Mountains are Free, Spice and the Devil's Cave, Meggy MacIntosh, Garram the Hunter: A Boy of the Hill Tribes, and Ood-Le-Uk the Wanderer. I couldn't find any other classic books that went unhonored, though I could have missed something.

So was it a mistake? Eh, probably not. But is it worth reading? Not at all, unless you've got a thing for outdated 1930s books, or you're a Newbery completist.