I was shocked, as I expect many who read this blog will have been, by the death of Diana Wynne Jones. I'm not a devoted fan, I will confess that now, so anyone who was planning to write their own obit. can feel free, but nevertheless, I mourn her loss. She was one of those writers that one simply thought would always be there, somewhere, a necessary presence, there to remind us of what fantasy should be like, can be like if you know enough, think enough, write hard enough, a reminder to fantasy writers of what they should be trying to attain. She was a writer of endless inventiveness, originality and imagination, an inspiration, acknowledged or not, to later generations of writers. She knew fantasy inside out and the mythos on which it is largely based, because of that, she knew how hard it is to be original. For me, originality is the hallmark of really great fantasy and Diana Wynne Jones had it in spades.
Taking a leaf from the
Bookwitch's blog and adopting a bit of serendipity, going off at a bit of a tangent, I'll admit to another shock this week, with the death of Elizabeth Taylor.
Again, I've never been a great fan of hers, but like Diana, I just always thought that she would
be there, somewhere, being impossibly beautiful and sultry, a last reminder of a lost world of Hollywood glamour when stars were stars. I read Camille Paglia's article in yesterday's Sunday Times, mourning the loss of 'Hollywood's last great goddess of erotic power' and found myself wondering with her at the contrast between Elizabeth Taylor, the '
pre-feminist woman', and the 'skeletal,
pilates-honed, anorexic silhouettes' of modern female stars, like Gwyneth
Paltrow,
Keira Knightley and most others that you could name. As though, somehow, Hollywood has rejected the depiction of real women in favour of androids.
I don't suppose that Elizabeth Taylor and Diana Wynne Jones will appear together anywhere else, but isn't that what ABBA is for? Nostalgia is probably just another word for getting old, but for me the world will be much the poorer for the loss of these two very different women.
I was charmed and delighted when the Bookwitch reviewed How Ali Ferguson Saved Houdini. She compared it to Enid Blyton, but much better written. I loved the review, but this comment has stayed with me. Is Enid really that bad?
I am sure that we all watched Enid, the BBC4 dramatisation of her life. I watched in shock as a Helena Bonham Carter turned a childhood hero into a monster. Apparently, she was self-absorbed, manipulative and borderline abusive towards her own children.
But the critical-rot for Blyton set in much earlier than this drama. For years, she has been dismissed as a writer; not simply for her archaic attitudes (it is always the 'swarthy' character that has to be watched in the Famous Five), but also because of her carbon copy plots, her 2D characters, her wilful use of adverbs.
Even in the 1980s, when I was a child, some of my friends weren't allowed to read her. These same friends were also subjected to such outlandish things as soya milk and yoga, so in my eight-year-old eyes they were already to be pitied. But to be deprived of Enid Blyton seemed especially cruel, because for me, Enid Blyton was so much more than a writer. She was a haven. There were days when I desperately needed to hide and I hid inside my collection of Blytons.
Don't worry, this post isn't the opening of a misery memoir. Rather, I'd like to consider what it was about these critically trashed books that made them so powerful.
I knew that the Famous Five and the Five Find-Outers and the Secret Seven and the 'of Adventure' lot were all the same characters but with different names. I knew that. But I didn't care. In fact, the very opposite. I was glad to see them again in their different incarnations.
And I knew that Malory Towers and St Claire's weren't real (although that didn't stop me demanding a detour when, on a family holiday in South Wales, I misread a signpost). But despite the fact that I knew it was fiction, I had such a yearning to be part of the stable, unchanging world of lacrosse and midnight feasts and the upper fourth. It didn't matter that I couldn't tell a lacrosse stick from a liquorice stick. These girls were my friends. I loved that their characters didn't change, that there wasn't an emotional journey in sight.
I guess I'm saying that Enid Blyton's faults were the things that I loved - the unchanging, predictable world of a middle-class country I had never known.
It is telling, I think, that in the 9-12 section of my local Waterstones, Enid Blyton still takes up the most shelf space - yes, Michael Morpurgo has a fair spread and Jacqueline Wilson does even better. But Blyton is still Queen. Kids still need stories they can rely on.
Recentl
y I read Ali Sparkes' Frozen in Time. It is a deliberate and well-observed homage to the Famous Five. I enjoyed reading it very much. I was so pleased to
His name is on every child's lips these days.
Percy Jackson and The Olympians (The Lightning Thief) is the latest blockbuster film-from-book from the director of the first Harry Potter movie--and he's everywhere from Nintendo DS to an app for the iPhone. I first met Percy--half boy, half god, all hero--some years ago in my favourite New York bookstore,
Books of Wonder (on West 18th Street, and a must-visit if you are a children's book-lover in the Big Apple). He was quite famous then, but not nearly so famous as he is now. In the first of Rick Riordan's books, Percy is having a few problems in school, not the least of which is that he accidentally vapourises his maths teacher. Things go rapidly downhill from there, as Percy discovers that not only is he the son of Poseidon--but also that Zeus is after him for a crime he hasn't committed.
I just love the idea of moving the Olympian deities to 21st century America (as much as I loved the idea of them in North London in Marie Phillips' excellent novel
'Gods Behaving Badly'). And anything which gets children interested in Greek mythology is okay in my eyes. I've banged on about this at length on the comments page of the
Bookwitch's excellent blog, where someone suggested that it was wrong to tell these stories for children, and says that
'They are beautiful, but crammed with murdering, inzest (sic), sexual crimes and worst. These things you cannot be explained to young children, specialy when the hero is doing such deeds.' Needless to say, I disagree with this point of view quite vehemently. There are, of course, many kids out there who won't have a clue who Poseidon or Zeus or any of the rest of them might be simply because they haven't been taught or had access to any of Percy's mythic origins. That is a very sad state of affairs to me, and one I hope to help remedy with my own stories. But to say that those 'mythic origins' cannot be explained to young children at all is just plain wrong. It is perfectly possible to tell those ancient tales in an age-appropriate way--keeping the heart and spirit of the myth while skating gracefully around the more inappropriate bits. I should know. I've done it.
I've been involved in a passionate (but platonic) love affair with the Greek myths for as long as I can remember. Charles Kingsley's
'The Heroes' was my first mythological experience (my grandfather's tattered red-and-gold bound copy), and then I dived headfirst into the Iliad and Odyssey courtesy of Padraic Colum's magnificent retelling (illustrations by Willy Pogany). The Olympians have been part of my world ever since. I studied them at school, and delved further at university, and when I was first given the chance of retelling 100 of their stories by Orion (what more suitably-named publisher for this could there be?), I jumped at it. It has been and is my privilege and pleasure to be able to introduce a whole new generation of children to these wonderful tales in language suitable for the 21st century. Even in our modern, hi-tech lives there are a plethora of words and phrases with back references to these most ancient of tales. An ignorance of the basics of myth will keep them forever locked, dark and impenetrable and beyond understan
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Again, I've never been a great fan of hers, but like Diana, I just always thought that she would be there, somewhere, being impossibly beautiful and sultry, a last reminder of a lost world of Hollywood glamour when stars were stars. I read Camille Paglia's article in yesterday's Sunday Times, mourning the loss of 'Hollywood's last great goddess of erotic power' and found myself wondering with her at the contrast between Elizabeth Taylor, the 'pre-feminist woman', and the 'skeletal, pilates-honed, anorexic silhouettes' of modern female stars, like Gwyneth Paltrow, Keira Knightley and most others that you could name. As though, somehow, Hollywood has rejected the depiction of real women in favour of androids. 
So true, Celia. I'm also not a dyed-in-the-wool DWJ fan, as I'm not that big on fantasy, but such a sad loss. Both sad losses.
I am not keen on a lot of fantasy but I did enjoy DWJ - her description of Sophie's aches and pains is entirely real too!
Lovely post Celia.
Great post, great women. I heard - did you? - that Elizabeth Taylor left instructions for her coffin to arrive 15 minutes late at the church. She said she wanted to be late for her own funeral.
That is style.
Thanks Celia....I agree with what you say. I never met Diana W-J but did meet Liz Taylor (that famous production of Dr. Faustus in Oxford in the Sixties!) and can report that Richard Burton used to call her DUMPY as a nickname. She was extremely beautiful, but had reassuringly SHORT legs. Hence, I guess, the name....
I'll admit I've never read any of Diana's books. However having just looked at her vast book list I'm going to add her to my reading list. It is sad to think fans will never be able to experience the thrill of reading a new book by her but at least they can still enjoy the legacy she has left.
Thank you, Adele, for sharing that - good to know she wasn't perfect! I'm going to go back to DWJ's books also. What better tribute can you give a writer than to read or re-read her work?