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.