CSotD: Homer shakes his head “That’s not it at all, that’s not what I meant at all”
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Since I have just spent several months in a home with a small child to be read to, today's Cul de Sac hits a vulnerable target. There sure are a lot of decent artists out there who can't tell a story, and it sure doesn't stop them from publishing picture books for kids.
Calvin used to torment his father with one type of horrible children's book — the kind that relies on stringing together nonsense syllables as a substitute for narrative content. Calvin's favorite author was Mable Syrup, who wrote "Hamster Huey and the Gooie Kablooie."
Alice, we see here, favors the Faux Odyssey, a pointless work in which the author simply draws a random sequence of pictures of animals for a wandering baby (human or animal) to interrogate.
Both genres have some quality forebears. At least for the first two-thirds of his career (before he descended into self-parody), Dr. Seuss wrote brilliant, inspired nonsense, and it is not his fault that those who followed weren't able to do the same, anymore than E.E. Cummings (who did capitalize his name) should be blamed for all the poets who thought they were building on his foundation.
Similarly, there have been some good books in which a young animal wanders, encountering other types of creatures. Similarly, not a lot, as a percentage. And, while books consisting largely of nonsense syllables are more cloying, you at least know from the second page that you are in narrative hell. By contrast, there is a special horror in the Faux Odyssey because, the first time through, you read it with some small hope that there will be a point at the end.
And there never is.
When my kids were little, we made a point of buying them good picture books, like "Millions of Cats," "Angus Lost," "Make Way For Ducklings," "Mike Mulligan and his Steam Shovel," various classic Seuss books, "Madeleine" and Maurice Sendak and, of course, "Good Night, Moon." But the others appear, like dandelions, unwanted and ineradicable, amid the carefully cultivated pansies and marigolds and irises and tulips … and kids don't seem to differentiate, at least at the moment.
Someday they will realize which of their picture books were wonderful and which were dreck, and that is the point when parental vengeance comes, because they will have carefully assembled a garden of wonderful books for their children, and their children will come racing to them, clutching dandelions …
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