Lit Kid: how bad is your baddie?

It’s school holiday week, and I’ve done a certain amount of pre-writing. So you’re getting all the goodies three days in a row – next week it’s back to normal service.

(Writing about children’s literature is the sweet spot for now; so if I want two posts in the same week, I can. It’s my holiday too.)

Back to the books now.

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Last time, I tried to draw a distinction between anti-heroes and villains.

While anti-heroes may awaken some sympathy, or cause us to laugh, villains do not win our favour in the same way.

Whether they are ‘bad through and through’, or the sheer amount of their treachery goes against our opinion of them, we choose to hate them – instead of admiring them (at least in part).

Let’s try this out with some examples. I’ve tried to find some villains who are named in the book titles; others loom large, even if they don’t get top billing.

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‘Bad through and through’

You don’t have to go too far to find these characters. In The Twits, Roald Dahl spends quite a chunk of time making clear that the title characters are thoroughly bad.

Whether it’s their weekly Bird Pie arrangements, or their cruelty to the Monkey family, or their ongoing nasty tricks played on each other: we are clear by the end of the opening section that we are to offer them no mercy.

All of this sets the scene for a pretty spectacular and intricate comeuppance.

(And we have to add a further shout out here for Simon Callow’s audio book version of the story. You can hear an excerpt of it here.)

Hot on the heels of The Twits are many of the other Roald Dahl villains. Grandma, in George’s Marvellous Medicine. Aunt Sponge and Aunt Spiker, in James and the Giant Peach.

But there are many more in children’s literature to choose from. The Wolf and the Seven Little Kids was one that scared me a lot – he was particularly nasty in his determination to eat up every single one of the little kids (baby goats, lest you worry about the Kid part of Lit Kid).

You can see the pictures from the Ladybird version of it here – but only if you are feeling very brave.

Of course, there are plenty more that are bad through and through. Most of them we’ve known as long as we can remember.

The troll in The Billy Goats Gruff. The evil Queen in Snow White (the Disney pictures stick in my mind for this one).

We know they are bad – and there are worse besides in the original Brothers Grimm fairy tales, if we dare to look.

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‘Quality of badness tips the scales’

High up on the list, for me, would be Count Olaf, the dastardly villain in the Lemony Snicket books A Series of Unfortunate Events.

Olaf is not named in the titles of the series – but he is the key person responsible for creating many of the unfortunate events.

Olaf does seem to manage to turn on the charm at points – whether to reassure other adults that he is a suitable guardian for the children, or even, turning the head of Aunt Josephine.

Interestingly, the true judges of his forms of evil are the Baudelaire children, who always see through him: his disguises, his schemes.

Another contender would be Jadis, Queen of Charn, who is woken (rightly or wrongly) from centuries of sleep in The Magician’s Nephew.

The book is a favourite of mine, and I like the way in which C. S. Lewis gradually builds the picture of her as we go through the book. We see also how this picture is formed through the different perspectives of the main characters.

Diggory, the boy hero, is initially impressed by her – but soon sees how little she cares for the damage she inflicted when using the Deplorable Word against her own people.

Uncle Andrew, a fairly shady character himself, is impressed by her powerfulness. He sees an ally in her determination that she is right, and that others are inferior – but receives little kindness from her when she realises he is weaker than she.

A particularly striking scene is where she has stolen a hansom cab. We are partly impressed by her ability to control the cab and horse, driving at breakneck speed – but repelled by her treatment of the horse.

By the time we see her in The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe, the die is cast. She is fully in villain mode – and receives all the consequences that go with attempting to kill Aslan.

I suspect Cruella de Vil, villainess of One Hundred and One Dalmatians, falls into this category. There is something of her style and dash that appeals – she does start out being named as a friend of Mrs Radcliffe (at least in the film version).

But as soon as we understand her real reasons for liking the Dalmatians’ coats, and her plans for the puppies, it’s clear how we are to feel about her.

(I should confess that I have not yet read the original story – but I do have a copy, and the intentions to remedy that.)

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There is not much that is noble about sticking a glass eye in your husband’s tankard of beer. The ‘bad through and through’ villains are mean; they are persistent; and they do not adapt themselves to others.

But perhaps these elements are to bring out the hero’s qualities all the more. Many of the Roald Dahl villains are relentless in their pursuit of others; the heroes emerge as able to change and innovate.

Their own plight does not blind them to the difficulties of others – and as a result, they find allies who help them fight back. (Think about the other animals who help dig, in Fantastic Mr Fox – and who share the triumphal banquet.)

For the more slippery villains, the heroes are by contrast dependable. While others may choose to charm or flatter, they remain themselves. They dig deep in hard times – and they also find unlikely helpers along the way.

Whichever mode of villainy, or sheer badness, we find ourselves presented with in life, we are not unprepared.

We have both characters to compare them with – and suggestions of how to respond without being caught up in the dreadful deeds ourselves.

When we moved in

We got on with some painting at the weekend. Not the filling a blank canvas type – instead, creating the blank canvas itself.

When we moved in, we were desperate to put our stamp on a place of our own. Five years of marriage: renting, saving, waiting for enough job stability to start a mortgage.

So we painted the place ourselves. We soon learned we weren’t that great at DIY; that where it mattered, it was better (for us) to pay someone who could do a decent paint job.

But this room doesn’t need a fancy finish. In fact, it’s the only room that’s not been redone since we moved in. Time to freshen it up.

When we moved in, every room was a different colour. There were stencils all the way up the stairs; small stencils above the handrail.

I knew they had probably taken a long time to do. I also knew, very quickly, that they would likely not last the first weekend we were in the place.

They didn’t.

Both of us were in on the painting, this last weekend. Dan on the rollering – broad brush stroke type stuff. Me on the taping up the woodwork; painting the edges by skirting boards, and so on.

(Pretty much our usual styles of operating: big picture vs details. Good team work for painting; for living, too.)

We stuck on a whole range of music to help us through the day. A proper painter would have their radio; a preferred radio station, and would get on with it a whole lot faster too.

We jumped around, in terms of choosing music. If it was reasonably high energy, that was enough. We took newspaper reading breaks, too, when we’d had enough of one circuit of the room.

(Sugar soaping: tick. Remembering that you then need to wash off the sugar soap: not so much. A further circuit of the room for that.)

When we moved in, we pulled in some painting favours. We’d helped other friends paint their places, at least a bit; we figured we could ask for some help.

It speeded up turning the yellow room white. The big mauve room: that took at least three coats to get it to white. (I know why our downstairs neighbour sighs when it’s time to paint their ‘big room’ again. It takes a long time.)

We had begged a different set of favours this time round: grandparent favours so that it was just the two of us to get on with the painting. We stepped back in time, just a little bit: just the two of us, back painting this room.

We got faster as we went on. By the time we’d finished the second coat of paint, we’d got it down to an hour to go round the whole room. (The gloss work is still to do. We took the decision to leave the ceiling as is.)

When we moved in, I remember us hosting our first meal with friends. A big pot of chilli, picnic style, sitting on the laminate floor of the attic (the one room that didn’t need painting, and so wasn’t in upheaval).

This time round, we went for calorie distribution between the two of us. Cooked lunch; takeaway meal for later, once we were tired and unlikely to want to cook. (We were.
We didn’t. We still wanted to eat though. Good move.)

When we moved in, we were both 30. There are some ways of going back in time, and repeating an earlier experience is one of them.

We can’t go back to 30. But actually, we don’t need to.

Lit Kid: crime and consequences

There seems to be an ongoing conversation in my head about the nature of good and bad in kids’ books. I’m going with it.

But with the good and bad also goes society’s response: as seen through the plot twists.

I started off with the anti-hero: and the more I think about it, the more I find of them – though still more for adults than for kids.

I’ve already applied my first test: if they are (generally) bad in the story, and still (intentionally) bad at the end, they’re an anti-hero.

The anti-hero is the baddie that gets away with it, to a large extent. But in many stories, the writer is not prepared to let the baddie get away with it. For crimes, there are consequences.

The classic notion is Crime and Punishment (along with a novel of the same name). But how comfortable are we, as early twenty-first century readers, with the notion of punishment? Particularly in children’s books?

I’ll settle for consequences. Which is often what we see happening, in children’s stories.
The villains ply their trade – and events head in a direction where the villain comes a cropper, even if it takes a while longer than we’d like.

So here’s some new tests. The anti-hero gets away with most of their naughty deeds by the end of the story.

The villain does not – maybe for a time, but consequences must follow.

The anti-hero usually has some little elements which allow us to warm to them, or admire them, or even laugh at them a little – the ‘badness’ level is reduced a bit. (Depravity sounds a bit strong, in kids’ books.)

The villain, by contrast, lacks this. There may be nothing we like about them – bad through and through.

Alternatively, there may be some likeable things about them, but the quality of their badness tips the scales: they end up much more bad than anti-hero.

Villains are memorable. It may be their appearance, their habits – but without doubt, we remember their villainous deeds.

Because, it seems, much of children’s literature is about deeds, not just intentions, or even what we say. Children are all about action – and actions definitely speak loud in children’s books.

The anti-hero acts (or in Blart’s case, tries to avoid acting, and ends up doing so anyway). Sometimes they do so mindfully, sometimes situations present themselves in which they can’t quite resist the potential for badness.

Villains, by contrast, also act – but there is more of a sense of intention. As they act, so they are – thoughts and deeds together.

They may take a while to show their true colours, sometimes, but when they do, we soon understand who they truly are.

Next time, I’ll show you my examples of villains – and also try to draw some conclusions about what their deeds draw out of the heroes of the stories.

That was the week that was: mid Feb 2014

I used to write more on Facebook. More of the daily diary; the little moments.

These days, I’m writing here – which means I don’t always keep track of what is happening each week.

Last week, I wrote a post which included some of that ‘what’s current’ information. So for my own sake, and my future reading self, I might just note down a few more things from time to time.

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We finished reading Atticus Claw Breaks the Law this week. Who could resist a hero with the name Atticus Cattypus Grammaticus Claw – and one who doesn’t mind a good tickle in the ribs?

Needing a new book, we’ve turned to Mr Gum and the Biscuit Billionaire. We’re only a chapter in, and there is a talking gingerbread man who throws money around, and has just bought himself a mansion.

Given that I’m quite happy to read about talking food, this one should be fun. (Plus there’s the February break due soon – cue lots more reading time.)

Dan is working his way through The Tower of Geburah as the other chapter book read, as a breather between Narnia books. As this one is in a similar vein, it is also being well-received. (‘Read more! read more!’.)

There is much drawing going on – thanks to a Draw Your Own Monster book. So we’ve had battling seamonsters, and a very scary one with a rotary whisk attachment.

A recent kids’ TV programme gave rise to enquiries about my own days of working at a hotel. So I’ve now started writing down some stories of my own childhood/teenage years.

I know some stories of my parents’ past, but not so many, and as these things are often told verbally, I sometimes get details muddled up. It may not be riveting reading for others, but I am enjoying capturing the details.

Dan and I are enjoying a certain amount of Winter Olympics highlights after Junior Reader’s bedtime, some of which can pretty much give you whiplash just watching. (Short track speed skating, for one.)

I have finished a re-read of Miss Smilla’s Feeling for Snow, a book I’ve probably read a good four or five times now, and one I shall probably return to again.

(There may be a Lit Grit genre of posts emerging – seem to be reading (and re-reading) a lot of crime novels at the moment.)

Dan has now chosen and acquired his birthday chair. How do you celebrate turning 40?
With a chair, of course.

He has a more modernist number; I’m choosing to have a well-loved armchair recovered. (Once I’ve finished clearing out the attic, that is.) Grateful thanks to family for supporting our respective chair projects.

We have now been in our home for long enough to have the washing machine start to give warning signs (having been bought when we moved in). Aiming to do something about it before disaster really does strike.

In a similar vein, there will soon be rolling up of sleeves and rollering of walls, on the one room that hasn’t seen any new paint since just after we got the place.

This week includes learning about haiku poetry at school; avoiding heavy rain and sleet (but doing far better than many who are so waterlogged this week). Subtraction with borrowing from the tens column.

I learn the difference between tornados and twisters, thanks to Junior Reader’s class project on extreme weather. Tornados start from the ground; twisters start from above and go down. (Now you know.)

I try my friend’s recommendation of using up leftover pizza from a pizzeria: freeze it, then bake it again when you are ready to eat.

Junior Reader was very happy to oblige in sampling it.

All of it.

Rethinking souvenirs

I am looking at the last few boxes to tackle, up in the attic. These are the difficult ones.

The clear out has been going well. Lots of paring down to what we need – and for those things where it’s harder to let go of them, at least some thinning of what we hold on to.

A lot of it is paper. Easy enough to deal with.

But some of it is special paper.

It’s the paper of an airline ticket, with your name on. With a significant date and destination.

It’s the entry stub for an amazing art gallery. The leaflet reminding you of a special excursion you took while on holiday.

You may well have the photos. You have the memories too, some clearer than others, but that’s OK. You may have others who were there, to swap stories with.

Do you need the paper proof too?

I find this one difficult. Various different parts of me have an opinion on the importance of the paper, and all of them are ganging up on me, telling me to keep it.

The linguist: remembering school teachers’ injunctions to collect real material while abroad, learn from it.

The communicator: appreciating the designs, the choice of what to say and what not.

The historian: looking at the significance of what we learn from documents; what’s intentional, what you read between the lines.

The aspects of our all so recent culture where you had to have a ticket for a flight – not a printout, not an email on a phone. Where countries you visited still had separate currencies.

A food label where it was typical to have the information in just one language, rather than the many that often grace our packaging these days.

There are souvenirs because you used to have to go to a place to see these things; these bits and pieces of daily life. A few might crop up in textbooks; maybe even in reference books.

But now I can go online and hunt up the packaging design for a potentially tooth-rotting childhood drink – or see photos of a far-off church I visited one time. All without getting up. (But you might have to scroll down to see the pictures.)

I don’t have to hold the paper to prove to you what life is like there – I can just open a laptop and show you. That is partly exciting, and partly unsettling.

I can’t open a box, and take out a horde of ancient coins, and let you handle them. There are museums for that, and they look after things well, too.

But I can pass you real items, parts of the past, parts of my past. I can tell you what was happening that day.

And you will learn some things from handling that leaflet, that piece of paper, that you cannot learn through a glass case, or on a screen.

Maybe the solution is going back to scrapbooks of some kind. I don’t just want the items on their own; I want to include the story that goes with them.

So maybe some day, someone who knows me can hold the whole thing in their hands. As a gift. As a passing on of life, of story.

That partly sounds self-important. It isn’t meant to be.

It is the pieces of life that I would like to know about for the generations before me; the ones that feel everyday and ordinary, but that still show the passage of time and events.

I have things that belong to my grandparents; in a few cases, great-grandparents. But I don’t necessarily have the stories that go with them. I would really like both.

That will take time. I want to avoid feeling guilt for the process taking time – I also want to avoid putting it off because it takes time.

I want to find a level of doing this that doesn’t mean I’m hoarding every last bus ticket to tell my story. But maybe I can find a balance.

And just as importantly, a place to house all these memory-making items while I work out how to do it.