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76 pages, Hardcover
First published August 8, 2019
Children’s books say: the world is huge. They say: hope counts for something. They say: bravery will matter, wit will matter, empathy will matter, love will matter.
"When I write, I write for two people: myself, age twelve, and myself, now, and the book has to satisfy two distinct but connected appetites. My twelve-year-old self wanted autonomy, peril, justice, food, and above all a kind of density of atmosphere into which I could step and be engulfed. My adult self wants all those things, and also: acknowledgements of fear, love, failure; of the rat that lives within the human heart."Proceeding to draw a cogent history of the genre and its development, she points that there is also something instructive in reading these emboldening—and often, subversive, whether fantastically or otherwise— texts “specifically written to be read by a section of society without political or economic power.” Indeed, children's literature is political, as is all other literature, and it is through an assertion of this that Why You Should Read Children's Books... finally brings us back to the hope-making and alchemy that lies at the heart of our desire to read. Fittingly, Rundell—who first discovered books in a small children's library in Harare, Zimbabwe—closes her brilliantly worded and justly argued address to the old and wise with a portion about the politics of access:
"Children's books are not a hiding place, they are a seeking place"Yes, they are. Yes they are!
and,
"If hope is a thing with feathers, then libraries are wings."
So defy those who would tell you to be serious, to calculate the profit of your imagination; those who would limit joy in the name of propriety. Cut shame off at the knees. Ignore those who would call it mindless escapism: it’s not escapism: it is findism. Children’s books are not a hiding place, they are a seeking place. Plunge yourself soul-forward into a children’s book: see if you do not find in them an unexpected alchemy; if they will not un-dig in you something half hidden and half forgotten. Read a children’s book to remember what it was to long for impossible and perhaps-not-impossible things. Go to children’s fiction to see the world with double eyes: your own, and those of your childhood self. Refuse unflinchingly to be embarrassed: and in exchange you get the second star to the right, and straight on till morning.
When I write, I write for two people: myself, age twelve, and myself, now, and the book has to satisfy two distinct but connected appetites. My twelve-year-old self wanted autonomy, peril, justice, food, and above all a kind of density of atmosphere into which I could step and be engulfed. My adult self wants all those things, and also: acknowledgements of fear, love, failure; of the rat that lives within the human heart.
So defy those who would tell you to be serious, to calculate the profit of your imagination... Ignore those who would call it mindless escapism: it's not escapism: it is findism.