Gregory J. Downs's Blog

The Ethics of Darkness
PART FIVE: RESOURCES
This is the epilogue to my “Ethics of Darkness” blog series. Check my earlier posts for the rest of the series.
To parents asking, “Where do we start? Where are the alternatives to what our children are reading now?” I provide you with this list, far from exhaustive: a small part of the wealth of literature suitable for children and readers of all ages. Many are classics, some are contemporary. Also included are a few resources for parents, educators, and writers interested in learning about darkness in children’s literature, and similar story-related topics.
Books for Children and Young Adults:(In no particular order: this is a list comprised more or less of books I have encountered over the years.)
The Hobbit by J.R.R. Tolkien.The Chronicles of Narnia by C.S. Lewis.The Prydain Chronicles by Lloyd Alexander.The Remarkable Journey of Prince Jen and other books by Lloyd Alexander.The Redwall Series by Brian Jacques.Bridge to Terabithia by Katherine Paterson.The Tale of Desperaux by Kate DiCamillo.Because of Winn-Dixie by Kate DiCamillo.Mr. Popper’s Penguins by Richard and Florence Atwater.Peter and Wendy by J.M. Barrie.Rifles for Watie by Harold Keith.Hans Brinker; or, The Silver Skates by Mary Mapes Dodge.By the Great Horn Spoon! and other books by Sid Fleischman. Johnny Tremain: A Novel for Young and Old by Esther Forbes.My Side of the Mountain by Jean Craighead George.The Eagle of the Ninth and other books by Rosemary Sutcliff.The Princess and the Goblin and other books by George MacDonald.The Phantom Tollbooth by Norton Juster.Charlie and the Chocolate Factory and other books by Roald Dahl.
Books and Resources for Writers, Educators, and Parents:
A Landscape with Dragons by Michael D. O’Brien. A book for parents on choosing the right books for children to read.On Stories by C.S. Lewis. A collection of essays by C.S. Lewis on storytelling, the philosophy behind stories, and certain of his own favorite stories.Plugged In Online, a website devoted to articles and blogs about entertainment and media.www.thrivingfamily.com, a division of the same organization as Plugged In, focused on book reviews.
Works Cited
Bunn, Christopher. “The Why of Stories.” Scribbles and Tunes for the Modern Human. Christopher Bunn. 29 September 2013. Web. 24 November 2013.Chesterton, Gilbert Keith. “A Defence of Penny Dreadfuls.” Essays in Context. Ed. Sandra Fehl Tropp and Ann Pierson D’Angelo. New York: Oxford University Press, 2001. 10-13. Print.Farley, Christopher John. “Should Young Adult Books Explore Difficult Issues?” Speakeasy. Dow Jones and Company. 5 June 2011. Web. 24 November 2013.Grimm, Jacob and Wilhelm. tr. Margaret Hunt. “Brother and Sister.” Virginia Commonwealth University: Grimm Fairy Tales. n.d. Web. 24 November 2013.Gurdon, Meghan Cox. “Darkness Too Visible.” The Wall Street Journal. Dow Jones and Company. 4 June 2011. Web. 24 November 2013.Hoose, Bob. “Hitting the Books.” Family Room. Focus on the Family. February 2010. Web. 24 November 2013.O’Brien, Michael D. A Landscape with Dragons: The Battle for Your Child’s Mind. San Francisco: Ignatius Press, 1998. Print.O’Connor, Flannery. “The Total Effect and the Eighth Grade.” Essays in Context. Ed. Sandra Fehl Tropp and Ann Pierson D’Angelo. New York: Oxford University Press, 2001. 23-25. Print.Tolkien, John Ronald Reuel. The Two Towers. New York: Houghton Mifflin Company, 1994. Print.Whitmore, Meredith. “My, What Gory Tales They Read.” Plugged In Blog. Focus on the Family.
21 June 2011. Web. 24 November 2013.

It’s been a while since I sat down and actually read through The Hobbit. It’s a little embarrassing to admit, actually, since I have a reputation among my peers as “The Tolkien Guy.” I used to read the Hobbit and Lord of the Rings every year, but in the past few years I’ve neglected that duty. Actually, I’m beginning to think maybe that’s a good thing. Over time, unexposed to anything but the movies (which are, I realize more and more, not nearly sufficient), I’ve lost whatever preconceived notions I had about Tolkien’s books. Earlier this summer I finally read The Silmarillion, and my reflection on that book can be found here. Then, this past fall I managed to make it through all 500+ pages of Tolkien’s Letters. With these under my ever-more-hobbitlike belt, I have a much different and deeper understanding of Tolkien and his mythology.
So, reading about Bilbo Baggins was a new and different experience, and I am proud to say I love it even more now than when I first did, at age seven or so. There’s just something so archetypal, or beyond archetypal, about Bilbo’s there and back again adventure. It’s a story that speaks to the soul, and there’s no way for me to do it justice in a single blog essay. Nevertheless, here are a few points that I thought came through in this reading that I hadn’t considered before.
~Is the hobbit for kids? I don’t think so anymore. It has a reputation as “Lord of the Rings for kids,” or “a prequel to Lord of the Rings,” but neither of those are strictly true. For one thing, I recall reading in Tolkien’s letters that while the Hobbit is to be enjoyed by kids, he later came to the conclusion that any sort of “writing down” to kids was a mistake. And you can notice if you look carefully that the Hobbit really grows up as the story progresses. Which makes me think…
~It’s Bilbo’s story, and it matures as he does. Even at the end, when all is back to normal, normal doesn’t feel the same. There is something about an adventure that makes normality seem all the more real, all the more worthwhile… which is another Tolkien notion I am wholly on board with. (See “On Fairy Stories,” his excellent essay, for more of this sort of thing.)
~The Hobbit movie, on the other hand, does not grow up in the same way, and the only thing about it that makes normality seem better is the way it makes me want to never watch a movie again. I’m seriously doubting whether movies can ever be the kind of fundamentally good entertainment that books can be, and books like the Hobbit are.
~Show, don’t tell? I don’t think so! The Hobbit has rekindled my interest in narrative – the kind of story that tells instead of showing. I know that’s the opposite of what they tell you in writing classes, but really, I’m getting sick of all the modern “show, don’t tell” novels and their in-your-face storytelling. Not that it’s bad, but it’s just such a visual form of art. Sensual, you might say. It overwhelms the senses, kind of like junk food, and the more you take in the less you can feel, and so you eat more, and… you get the picture. The Hobbit recalls my mind to the past, to stories as stories instead of stories as movies-on-paper. I’ve resolved to try out more narrative-centric storytelling in my own writing, when I get the chance.
~I’ve found that all the best things that come from reading a book, I can’t even write down. It’s the kind of experience that can only be shared by other people reading the same thing, and loving it the same. One down, three more to go! God willing, The Lord of the Rings is next in line for a good solid Sunday evening read.
~GJD

PS. What is your favorite Tolkien book, and why?

The Ethics of Darkness
PART FOUR: THE PATH UPWARDS
This continues my series on “The Ethics of Darkness” in children’s literature.
Young people read good and bad books at the most impressionable time of their lives, and their future—the future of us all—depends on their being fed the right kind (the healthy kind) of literature. If we, if everyone who writes books or reads books or is responsible for children, can all agree that we want the world to be a better place, then we must concentrate on the way literature can help us improve it. The problem we face is simple enough: books for kids are getting darker and not making the world of kids any better. The responsibility rests on the shoulders of all who have a hand in making, giving, and reading the books that will one day be in the hands of children. The solution is simple: stories must be provided which include darkness only in such a way that it will teach kids to avoid the same kind of darkness in real life. This must be done without immersing them in the actual experience of evil, for the method of immersion too often sinks the reader (especially the young reader) into the evil itself, rather than providing an admonition about it.
The path to changing children’s and young adult literature for the better should end up primarily under the control of two specific groups: writers and parents. Children, as recipients of literature and entertainment, as readers, are not equipped to deal sufficiently with the bombardment of graphic content that faces them. As my own mother would say, “there is a reason I am the mom, and you are my son. I know what is best for you.” Does anyone seriously believe that children can decide for themselves how much darkness, how much of the occult, how much of alcoholism, how much drugs or murder, rape or incest, pederasty or sexual experimentation they can handle in their reading? Most parents would agree that their children should not participate in these things in real life, especially at their young and impressionable age. Children simply do not have the discernment faculties and wherewithal that adults do. As parents, then, those who have children must take an active role in deciding what is good or bad, healthy or unhealthy for their children to read: the younger and less mature the child, the more active this role must be. The bottom line is that parents must regulate what their children read. They must be clear with their children about the boundaries of what books they may and may not read. They must ensure that their children stay away from the books that may harm them and have ample opportunity to read books that interest them, that improve their artistic and moral sense, that improve them generally, and that they can relate to.
Writers too must take a hand in effecting literature for the better. Without the authors there can be no new stories for our youth. We need writers to construct stories that better reflect goodness with an appropriate eye to showing young people the dangers of evil. This can be done creatively and engagingly without immersing readers in the graphic, corruptive proportions of the evil itself. “Can it really, though?” some might be tempted to ask. Yes, it can. Look at the classics. Look at all the books that have come before our time (which, by the way, is not very long. The trend I speak of began only a few decades ago, judging from the essay by O’Connor). Young people have always been able to find material for reading, because there is always someone willing to write. Only in very recent years, it would seem, has the collective group of writers decided that they must be graphic, intimate in darkness, and angst-filled in order to write a good entertaining book. Thus, it is not too much to hope that a move by writers to write more wholesome books will not only result in a better range of books to read, but in an overall improvement in the art of writing.
It is a massive undertaking, and any progress will require a heroic effort on the part of writers and parents both. But is there any price too high when it comes to raising the next generation? I hope that for all of us there is not. Besides, it may end up requiring less effort than most people would think, if one parent, one family, one writer at a time commits to making literature a healthier place for children and young adults. The change must begin somewhere, and it must begin soon. Why not with us? Why not now?
“‘I had forgotten that,’ said Eomer… ‘How shall a man judge what to do in such times?’‘As he ever has judged,’ said Aragorn. ‘Good and ill have not changed since yesteryear; nor are they one thing among Elves and Dwarves and another among Men. It is a man’s part to discern them, as much as in the Golden Wood as in his own house.’”—The Two Towers, by J.R.R. Tolkien

Well, folks, that’s it for the essay. I hope it got you thinking. Next week, for those who are interested, I’ll post my sources as well as some resources for those interested in investigating this topic and trend for themselves. Whether you’re a reader, a parent, or a writer, I hope you have read something meaningful here. It is certainly a meaningful topic for me, and I have no doubt that somewhere out there, it means something for someone else, too.

As I sat watching The Hobbit: An Unexpected Journey Extended Edition with some of my family the other night, it was brought home to me just how hard it is to make a book into a movie.

You wouldn't think it was that hard. I mean, the story's already there. And I'm not saying that I didn't like the Hobbit movie, but it did teach me some valuable lessons about how not to adapt a classic fantasy storybook into a movie. So, to, uh, celebrate the release of The Hobbit: The Desolation of Smaug (I haven't watched it yet), here are three important things to keep in mind in case you plan on making movie-making (or movie-watching) a hobbit... I mean habit.

(Especially if you plan on adapting one of my 3 all time favorite books into a blockbuster cinema event.)

1- Tell, don't show. I mean, they tell you the opposite in writing class, so I understand this might be hard to get. And I know that movies are visual and require a more visual kind of story. But there are limits. And when we go past those limits, we end up making a movie 3 times as long as it needs to be, and dragging out hours of needless and frankly boring material. Like another chase scene. And another pointless scene with elves talking to each other. And another awkwardly-worded flashback-cutscene.

2- Source material is important. Don't ignore it, and don't do things that wouldn't fit at all with the original. Like, for instance, don't have the dwarves make innuendos at elf-females. Or have dwarves swim in the elf fountain. Or have dwarves make fart jokes. At least have people speak like they do in the book. I only noticed a handful of times the lines the characters said corresponded to what they said in the book. And the replacement lines, too often, were inferior. It made the movie a lot less believable.

3- Listen to Aristotle. In his Poetics he examines the elements of poetry (to the Greeks, all stories came in poetry). Of these, the element of "Spectacle" is the least, and too much of it ruins the potential of a moving story. The Hobbit is a moving book, but at least the first movie lost most of that adventurous, heroic quality under waves and waves of needless special effects. As such the Goblin Caves, the Forest Fire, and other of the intense moment in the book are buried beneath six feet of whiz-bang. Observe the picture at the top of this post... case en point.

Just some thoughts, really. But together these three things really unmade the Hobbit movie for me. As in, they made it nothing. It as completely separated from the genius that is the Hobbit book. These days, I've been re-reading a lot of the old good books, and realizing what made them great. They tell stories that matter, that are both deep literature and good art. I just wish I could say I was rediscovering movies the same way, but I'm not. Not even the Lord of the Rings movies do for me what they used to. But perhaps there's just something about a book that no movie can capture. What do you think?

~GJD

The Ethics of Darkness
PART THREE: THE DARK IMMERSION
Last week, we dove into the darkness. This week we’re back out again, and hopefully we’ve come a little closer to the answer. Let me refresh your memory with the closing words of last week’s post, quoted from Flannery O’Connor:
“Modern fiction often looks simpler than the fiction that preceded it, but in reality is more complex…. The modern novelist merges the reader in experience; he tends to raise the passions he touches upon…. Unless the child has had some literary experience before, he is not going to be able to resolve the immediate passions the book arouses into any true, total picture…. here the moral problem will arise. It is one thing for a child to read about adultery in the Bible or in Anna Karenina, and quite another for him to read about it in most modern fiction. This is not only because in both the former instances adultery is considered a sin, and in the latter, at most, an inconvenience, but because most modern writing involves the reader in the action with a new degree of intensity, and literary mores now permit him to be involved in any action a human being can perform.”
With this in mind, let’s start building a basis from which to solve the problem. We need to know what stories are good for our children before we start finding them or writing them, don’t we?
Mrs. O’Connor raises several valid points. Firstly, she agrees with the general consensus: there are a lot of very well-written modern books out there. Secondly, she points out that the immersive quality of these books could be harmful for young readers, who do not have the experience or discernment ability of adults. Thirdly, the “darkness trend” is dangerous because it does not distinguish between right and wrong as well as past literature, and also because it no longer considers any event, any circumstance or situation which man’s sick mind can think of, off limits. As an excuse for pushing the boundaries of morality and common sense ever farther, writers say: “But what about those fairy tales and classics, like the stories from the Brothers Grimm?” There is darkness and pain aplenty in those stories, they argue, yet they were meant for children, were they not?
It is a valid question. There are several points that distinguish stories like the Grimms’ from the stories many children and young adults read today. (Yes, children read the gory and sexual books, too. I know children who have.) The first point: The Grimm stories are not strictly for children to read alone. They are to be read to children. The main difference between these two approaches is that the Grimms’ approach leaves room for the wiser, more experienced parent or storyteller to be present. This is vitally important, for when a child is afraid, confused, or needing to discuss the story, a guiding presence is essential to give them a proper and healthy understanding of what has just been read. The second point: The Grimm stories contain violence and strife, but nothing near the caliber of the rape, cutting, sex, and abuse that permeates modern literature. The third point: The Grimm stories do not utilize the sensuous, immersive language that modern novels do. This means, essentially, that you are told about someone being mutilated, rather than directly experiencing the gritty viscera of mutilation. If you do not think this is an important distinction, read these two accounts of violence, one from the Brothers Grimm and one from a modern novel.
From Brother and Sister by the Brothers Grimm:
“Then she told the king the evil deed which the wicked witch and her daughter had been guilty of towards her. The king ordered both to be led before the judge, and the judgment was delivered against them. The daughter was taken into the forest where she was torn to pieces by wild beasts, but the witch was cast into the fire and miserably burnt. And as soon as she was burnt to ashes, the roebuck changed his shape, and received his human form again, so the sister and brother lived happily together all their lives.”
From Rage, by Jackie Morse Kessler:“She had sliced her arms to ribbons, but the badness remained, staining her insides like cancer. She had gouged her belly until it was a mess of meat and blood, but she still couldn't breathe.”
Hidden in these two lines is the key to the understanding why modern children’s literature is broken, and how to fix it. The difference between these two accounts of darkness brings up a point that is crucial to understand. Darkness itself is not the primary issue. It is how we are presenting this darkness to children in literature that should concern us. Think of what you just read from the Grimms and from Rage. The Grimm story tells of a dark event, but does not immerse the reader in the negative, harmful experience. The modern story plunges the reader directly into the tortured experience of the viewpoint character. Now, think of the essay I quoted from Flannery O’Connor. Part of her point is that most young readers simply will not be able to draw the positive value from a largely negative, immersive work. And often, these young readers are missing any sort of guide, such as a parent who is able to read alongside them and help them work through the issues they are presented with. Another perspective, similar to O’Connor’s but dealing with more contemporary stories, is presented in the nonfiction book A Landscape with Dragons by Michael D. O’Brien:
Shock after shock pummels the reader’s mind, and the child experiences them as both psychological and physical stimuli…. In sharp contrast, the momentary horrors that occur in classical tales always have a higher purpose; they are intended to underline the necessity of courage, ingenuity, and character; the tales are about brave young people struggling through adversity to moments of illumination, truth, and maturity; they emphatically demonstrate that good is far more powerful than evil.
It is not too hard to see, especially if you have read some of the stories in question, that most of the new young adult books are very well written, in the sense that they completely immerse you in the world of the protagonist. Here is the problem. We will never help children grow up to healthy adulthood by immersing them in more darkness, and often in a sickening kind of darkness which they have not yet experienced, and may never have to experience, at least not so directly. Think about it in this way: If you want your child to know safety precautions and stranger danger, would you arrange for them to get kidnapped so they can experience the wrong way to deal with the situation, and undergo the negative consequences for themselves? Of course not. You would teach them as thoroughly as possible the right thing to do, but you would not consciously expose them to the evil itself. You do not teach your child to stay away from the hot stove by pressing his hand down on the burner, do you? You do not teach your teen to stay sober and drive safely by getting them drunk and telling them to drive around the neighborhood, do you? You do not teach your daughter the danger of eating disorders by starving her, do you?
The point is that it is never a good idea to teach anyone, but especially the young, the dangers of real life by immersing them in a dangerous and harmful experience. Why should literature break this rule and be applauded for it? Another metaphor is useful here. Culture is very much like an enormous wheel. Part of the wheel is reality, the events and people that make up the real world. Part of the wheel is literature, the view of man and man’s struggles and hopes that humankind puts into their art. Reality feeds literature, and literature feeds reality. If in reality more and more people try to do good, then literature will eventually reflect that effort. If in literature, more and more people try to write books that are both good and interesting without being grotesque or exposing children to the actual experience of evil, then reality will, even if only partially, be affected positively. That is why great books are said to have changed, or shaped, the world. Perhaps we should ask ourselves, then, whether literature is feeding the wheel of culture in a way that will make it strong, or in a way that breaks it down.
Next week: the final part of my argument brings the ball into your court, dear reader. Whether you’re with me 100% or not, by now I hope you’ve realized something’s up. Next week, we start figuring out just what to do about it.

I have decided to be both generous and pithy, and give you a summary of this post before the actual body of the post. Begin Summary:
Injustice! C.S. Lewis’ best book, the best story he ever wrote, is ignored! No one knows about it!
End Summary.
I have learned by now that sometimes the best way to convince someone of a truth is by showing them, not telling them. But isn’t it funny? Sometimes you can show someone, by telling them. For instance, only minutes ago I have set down Till We Have Faces. It is a novel set in the distant past, in a place where philosophy and science are newborn and the gods and religion may or may not be real. But that is a poor summary, and if I tried to tell you any more about it I would not do it justice and you would probably get bored and leave.
So, I want to show you what I mean. And all I can do to show you how good it is is to tell you to read it.
But I will do more than that, because even though I can’t do it justice in words, I must say something about the book or burst! It is certainly the best book I have read in a long time. It is on the same level of depth and artistic intensity as The Lord of the Rings, which is to say it is both a good piece of art and a good piece of philosophy. Ever since I was a small child I have read and re-read Lewis’ Narnia and Tolkien’s Hobbit, and as I got older I discovered Lewis’ Space Trilogy and Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings. Somehow, though, this one book evaded me. Strange. It’s Lewis’ last novel, and many people (I am only now meeting them) think it is his best. All I can say on that point is… yes. Probably. It is what I would call a beautiful book, and I mean that in the truest Form of the word.
Several things which others (including the publishers of this book) will say: It is a tale of Cupid and Psyche. It is a story of Greek Mythology. It is an allegory. It is Narnia for adults. All of these things are true, in a way, but not a very big way. The name Cupid never shows up in the book. The Greek Mythology is only on the fringes: you hear about the Greeks, and the world the novel is set in is vaguely Ancient History, but there is no recognizable pantheon, and what mythology is in the book seems wholly new when you finally find it. (At least to me – perhaps a mythology buff would recognize the Greek elements sooner.) As for being an allegory, or an adult Narnia… No. It just isn’t. Rather, it is a book for people who want serious (meaning well-written) fiction, with something deeper at the core then “will she escape the kidnappers and find her boyfriend again?”
This is a book for people who read Narnia and found it’s story pleasing but its faith and portrayal of another world “too simplistic.” This is also a book for people who loved Narnia, and yet want something deeper: an answer to the hardships and darkness that have risen since childhood left them. If Narnia is a fantasy (I use the word cautiously, don’t mistake me) for the child in each of us, Till We Have Faces is a story for the full-grown lover (or hater) in us. Like the Song of Songs in the Bible, this is not for just anyone to read. You must have some grasp of reality, of maturity, to glimpse its meaning. But it is a good meaning, in the end.
And that, for now, must be enough.

~GJD

The Ethics of Darkness
PART TWO: THE DARKNESS TREND
Last week, we looked at the problems of the new dark trend in YA/Children’s Literature:
“The only problem, the only aspect of this new, growing trend of dark literature that bothers me is that the strategy is not working. Rather than seeing young adult literature produce a generation of able and ready, healthy young adults, we have just as much (if not more) depression, suicide, sexual activity, substance abuse, and many other ugly factors among children and teens. Of course it could be objected that literature is not the sole cause, and that is true. But literature does not seem to be helping the situation, and it is probably a larger factor than most people suspect.”
Remember that? Today we dive into the core of the contemporary “strategy,” and take a look at literature of the past, so that we can begin analyzing just what went wrong.
Of course we cannot shield young people from the darkness of real life, but whenever we endeavor to “prepare them” we must ask ourselves two vital questions. One, are we preparing them in the right way? Two, is our preparation geared toward helping them fit in, or making life a brighter, more hopeful place for them? I propose that the current run of books in children’s and young adult literature is going about the process of “helping” young people in entirely the wrong way. These books expose kids of all ages not to the real, but the grotesque. They do not guide children’s minds, they violate them. The problem is not the darkness itself, then, but the way in which the darkness is presented. Books by C.S. Lewis or Lloyd Alexander are not afraid of dealing with very real darkness. Look at the classics which children (used to have to) read in school. Many of the same themes are there, but dealt with much more tastefully. In the case of many of the new books, the author simply goes too far. Meghan Cox Gurdon, a writer on children’s literature for the Wall Street Journal, was harshly criticized by the public and by critics alike, simply for writing an article saying so: that there are some places a novel just should not go. If you disagree, or think that this is all reactionary fear, then read this section from her article, Darkness Too Visible:
In Andrew Smith's 2010 novel, "The Marbury Lens," for example, young Jack is drugged, abducted and nearly raped by a male captor. After escaping, he encounters a curious pair of glasses that transport him into an alternate world of almost unimaginable gore and cruelty. Moments after arriving he finds himself facing a wall of horrors, "covered with impaled heads and other dripping, black-rot body parts: hands, hearts, feet, ears, penises. Where the f— was this?" No happy ending to this one, either.
Who would want their child, whatever the child’s age, to read such things? “But,” plead the authors of this kind of story, “how else are we going to get the message across?” If writing like the above excerpt is the best modern authors can do, then perhaps it is time to accept that even if they have not lost all semblance of artistic talent, they have lost any kind of tact. If nothing else, parents and writers need to be aware that there is a line, somewhere, and that line is being crossed. Rather than applauding authors who cross this line, complimenting them on their “creativity,” should we not be trying as hard as we can to find literature that will actually help children? Senseless gore, meaningless sex and a constant overload of vivid, nauseating details cannot possibly have a positive effect on young readers: and if it does, is the negative impact of the images worth what small lessons can be gleaned?
Even mentioning the word lessons is dangerous, because many people do not like being told that they should take value out of what they read. “It is just entertainment,” they say, objecting that these books cannot be too bad, and pointing out that many of these same raw, dark events are depicted in the Bible, too, and in the old “classic” stories, such as the Household Tales of the Brothers Grimm. This response, however, ends up being little more than an excuse. In the Bible, as well as in many great secular literary books, horror and darkness are indeed present, but they are presented in a way that explains the darkness and what is wrong with it, without forcing the reader to experience the darkness for themself. This is a concept that has been around for a long time, though the general public has yet to realize the significance of the issue. In this passage, written in 1963 by Flannery O’Connor (American novelist, essayist, and student of fiction), the issue I speak of is brought to light, near the beginning of the “darkness trend.”

Modern fiction often looks simpler than the fiction that preceded it, but in reality is more complex…. The modern novelist merges the reader in experience; he tends to raise the passions he touches upon…. Unless the child has had some literary experience before, he is not going to be able to resolve the immediate passions the book arouses into any true, total picture…. here the moral problem will arise. It is one thing for a child to read about adultery in the Bible or in Anna Karenina, and quite another for him to read about it in most modern fiction. This is not only because in both the former instances adultery is considered a sin, and in the latter, at most, an inconvenience, but because most modern writing involves the reader in the action with a new degree of intensity, and literary mores now permit him to be involved in any action a human being can perform.

Hey there, citizen. A little while ago I wrote an essay on Children’s Literature, and the way it seems to be getting worse and worse as time goes on. Not necessarily in a “skill level” sense—there are certainly a lot of well-written books out there nowadays—but definitely in a moral sense, and, unless I’m completely whacked-out, in a subtler artistic sense as well. Today I’ve begun to post that essay, in parts, in the hopes that it will touch a cord with some of you parents and writers out there. Warning: the essay contains excerpts from several graphic, disturbing scenes from contemporary YA novels.
Why am I doing this, exactly? I’m doing it because I love stories, but when I go to the library, instead of meaningful stories, all I see on the shelves (and read in the books, whenever I dare to pick on up and read it) is more gore, more sex, more evil, more darkness, and less and less imagination. Not imagination in the sense of “what I can think up,” ‘cuz believe me, writers are thinking up a whole ‘lotta new stuff these days. It’s just not anything worth reading. The kind of Imagination I’m looking for, that I found in The Hobbit and Narnia when I was younger and in Out of the Silent Planet and David Copperfield when I was older, is not bound to that darkness. These next few posts are merely some organized points on the ethical problem of dark (even gruesome) children’s literature, along with some ideas on how we might go about solving it.
The Ethics of Darkness
PART ONE: THE PROBLEM
It is a hard time to be a kid. It has never been easy, of course, but today seems even darker than the past, and kids are dealing with darker and darker issues at younger and younger ages. They are murdered, abused, neglected, and socially battered down every day. Modern young adult and children’s literature has recognized this, and adapted accordingly. Instead of books about The Boxcar Children and books where children find their way into Narnia, we have books dealing with rape and murder, self-mutilation and substance abuse, dystopia and PTSD. The Hunger Games. Paper Towns. The Marbury Lens. Some of these books are frankly disturbing, and rightly so, for they are addressing very real, very disturbing issues that real children and young adults face. Literature, the authors of these books propose, should reflect reality in order to help younger readers cope with their own problems. After all, they are going to experience darkness anyway, are they not? "There's nothing in my book that even compares to what kids can find on the Internet," says Sherman Alexie, author of The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian. His book deals with issues such as alcoholism, racism, and poverty. This and other similar books have drawn a massive amount of praise from critics.
And yet, not everyone agrees that the dark trend in modern literature is a good trend. Some parents complain that their children are being damaged by these books rather than being helped. Some authors, likewise, argue that exposing young people to more violence and darkness does nothing to advance the quality of literature, but rather constricts it. The best literature, they argue, raises our minds to something higher than the grotesque parts of our real lives. “…stories can reflect the things that are right and reassuring about life,” writes Christopher Bunn, author of The Hawk and His Boy, a fantasy-adventure book for young adults. “Stories can underscore human attributes that give one a little hope about life in general, amidst the insanity and squalor of that same life. Hope or warning.”
Nearly everyone involved in literature agrees that reading is important for the development of young people, yet, when it comes to the task of writing books for children, almost no one seems able to agree what kind of books these should be. Meanwhile, the world gets darker around us, and young people are left in just as scary a place as they always were. We cannot shield our young readers from the darkness in the real world, but no one is entirely sure how to use literature to help them deal with it. The debates rage hot on all sides, but no real solution seems to be presented. Should dark themes and situations be allowed? How much? How intense? Perhaps the reason so many fights erupt on this issue is because we are tackling the wrong problem. Perhaps we should stop asking “how much darkness should we allow in young adult and children’s literature?” and start asking “what is the healthiest way for literature to prepare young people for the darkness of real life?”
The tendencies of today’s younger-audience literature are obviously darker than in the past. Instead of adults reading 1984, our world witnesses young children reading The Hunger Games and any number of similar novels. The authors and readers of such works have a valid point: you cannot stop any child from being exposed to evil. One day, somehow, the child will be shown the darkness of real life, and there is nothing to do about it. Why not prepare them by exposing them to evil in literature that is often entertaining and well-written, as well as dark? “Literature is a luxury;” the famed writer G.K. Chesterton once said, “fiction is a necessity.” Contributor and editor for Speakeasyonline magazine, Christopher John Farley, writes:
When a visitor found out that I allowed my son to read the Scott Pilgrim series, which deals in a frank, funny way with issues of dating, identity and homosexuality, she told me I should get rid of the books. But I loved the series, and so did my son. A great book is a perfect starting point for talking with kids about the real world around them. One of my neighbor’s teen kids had been drifting as a reader until she picked up a copy of the violent young adult series “The Hunger Games.” She quickly completed the entire series, and was eager to discuss how excited she was by the books.
Sheltering children does not seem to be the answer: on that point most people would agree. It is certainly a valid wish to have engaging literature for young people to read, in which they are shown the world in all its darkness, in all its sadness and pain. But we must give them hope, some sort of light or happiness. We must improve their lives, or we are not helping them at all. There, too, most people would probably agree. Hopefully, no one wants to harm young people through literature, and if they do, is it not the duty of decent people, decent parents and writers, to stop them? We want young people to be made stronger, more likely to succeed. It is true that books like Absolutely True Diary and Wintergirlsdeal with real-life issues, and we assume they are written with an ultimately benevolent purpose in mind. Book and movie reviewer Bob Hoose, writing on his exploration of the overall trend of darkness in children’s literature, attests that they are often well written, too: “No slapdash jobs here… the authors I encountered created worlds and characters that were incredibly compelling.”            The only problem, the only aspect of this new, growing trend of dark literature that bothers me is that the strategy is not working. Rather than seeing young adult literature produce a generation of able and ready, healthy young adults, we have just as much (if not more) depression, suicide, sexual activity, substance abuse, and many other ugly factors among children and teens. Of course it could be objected that literature is not the sole cause, and that is true. But literature does not seem to be helping the situation, and it is probably a larger factor than most people suspect.

Next week, we’ll delve further into the shadows. We need to figure out why this isn’t working, and we need to learn how to gather the proper priorities. We will ask the hard questions and take a closer look at the way darkness and evil itself has been portrayed in literature over time, in an effort to better understand the problems of the present.

Technology has been fairly taking over my life recently, and that is a particular kind of irritating. I am generally against the whole trend of living our lives out of Gameboxes, sleeping on mePads, tweetering instead of talking, and dreaming in pixels. Tech isn’t evil or anything. Just misused and overused. Anyway, tonight the issue on our iPlate is all the stuff I can now watch/read/listen to online.
There’s more of it, that I know. Just a year ago I used the internet for schoolwork and Ubertube, or whatever, and even though that was fun (read: time-consuming) it’s nothing compared to what this past semester was like. I have Amazonian Prime, now, so I can borrow kindle books (haven’t yet) and watch endless amount of instant video streaming (that one I have done). Pandora’s (online) Box feeds my ears with never-ceasing melodies of exactly whatever I want to hear at the moment. And the reading… well, if reading memes and seeing funny pictures count, then I am still guilty (though to a lesser extent).
Overall, there have been some great results from this explosion of online media in my life (yeah, I know it exploded for everyone else years ago). I can watch every season of Aviatortar and Sherbertlock, and discover whole new realms of nerdy ecstasy, all at the touch of a button. And the music… neverending! I’ve discovered all sorts of new artists, great new songs and soundtracks, and my ear is being trained to recognize them even amidst all the schoolwork and job applications I should be attending to.
Except that’s the problem. I’m not attending to them. My media consumption has vastly increased with all the new opportunities I’m discovering online, and that has led to lots of new tasty stories and tunes for my intellectual palate, but there are several problems which have occurred in my own experience to make me doubt if this is worth my iVote.
For one thing: Ease of access. Yes, this is a plus insofar as it makes things, well, easy for me. But it also puts distractions that much closer. I get a lot less done of the important things (school, family, friends, etc.) when 20 episodes of Kung Fu Cow are just a click away from my procrastinating fingertips.For another thing: Glut of material. There is just too much. It’s great to have so many new songs (I’m particularly fond of soundtracks, and there are more than enough of those floating around), but the glut of material to consume makes it a lot harder to focus on particular favorites or to even fully appreciate good art when it comes.

So, overall, I think the increase in online media consumption is negative. I’m not saying it doesn’t have its attractions, but the thing that keeps playing over and over in my head when I see the next big online fad is I don’t need any of this. And that, I think, is the core of the matter.

Some thoughts on a play I went to see put on in my school's theater, written earlier this semester:
I often think it strange that I should like to watch Shakespeare so much, and dislike so much to be taught about him. I think the reason has to do with context. Whenever I am “taught Shakespeare,” I am taught things about him, things about his plays, social and historical context of him and his plays, and theories about him and his plays. All this can make it hard to read his plays without the bias of “education” weighing me down. It is like the oath of the king in Love’s Labour’s Lost (I cannot remember for the life of me any of the names of any of the characters… it is often like that when I experience Shakespeare): You must read Shakespeare, learn from him, delve into his histori-philo-religio-contextual background, but you must not get any enjoyment from what you are reading! This is, after all, art.Yes, yes it is art. As I watched the school production of Love’s Labours Lost, that was what kept coming back into my mind. (I often get reflective when experiencing good art. It is my nature.) This is art. It is supposed to please us. It’s funny, for crying out loud. It’s moving. The audience (myself included) laughed loudly and often for long stretches of time in unbroken joyful cacophony… we “wowed” at the “ouch” moments, we (well, they, not so much myself) “awwwwed” at the “touching” moments. What struck me as I continued to go through these experiences was how long it really had been since I had watched a Shakespeare play. Love’s Labour’s Lost is a comedy, for sure. And yet, it has layers of depth which we will lose if we only consider the “ha-has” it gives us.There were several layers to the play, as I remember. The first was that it was a really funny play, full of classic Shakespearean comedy, misinformation, and slapstick. The second was that it was slightly hipped-up, not in terms of an updated script (thank goodness), but the characters were dressed for a more modern age, say turn of the century, 1900 or so, and the action onstage reflected a more movement-heavy humor than I remember from my previous Shakespeare experience (not that I can boast of much in that department). Overall, this was good and added to the unique flavor of the play. Then there was the third level, in which Shakespeare actually managed to get across themes of undying importance to any audience made up of human beings: the rashness of swearing yourself into something you can’t do, the annoying power of love to mess everything up, the importance of keeping vows to remain consistent, and genuineness of those who know they are simple and stick to their guns.
All things considered, what moved me most about this play was the way all three levels of depth combined to make a really funny, yet really memorable experience. What I love most about Shakespeare is simply his great art. I don’t love everything he’s written, but I do genuinely enjoy much of it. I think it’s too easy to forget, especially with a giant such as Shakespeare, that he wrote to entertain and to teach a lesson, not just to “be great” and have college students study him hundreds of years later. But then, I am probably preaching to the choir on that point. Overall, this was a great experience, and I hope to see more of Shakespeare in the future. This play rekindled my desire to read the classics, which are classic not necessarily because they are “great literature,” but because they’re just good stories.