Every once in a while, I'll experience a (delightful) case of love at first sight. I don't know if this is true for everyone, or I am just unnaturally fortunate, but whichever it is, I've learned to greatly cherish these rare moments. Ever so often, one of them will catch my eye and I'll think instantly, I know about you. I'll then become consumed by an urge to possess the object of desire, which often leads to very lengthy bookstore receipts. Nevertheless, worthwhile.
It was certainly the case with Sam Leith's The Haunted Wood. I knew as soon as I glimpsed the equally foreboding and appealing cover that it was a book I might enjoy. Still, I hesitated. I had to go home and Google it, first. Negotiate with myself whether it was worth returning to that lovely little Waterstones basement (it inevitably is). But seeing it had good reviews, and passing again by it the next day, I simply couldn't help myself.
A history of childhood reading.
I gotta say, it's a subtitle I had my doubts about. I thought how much do I know really, beyond Winnie and Harry Potter, to justify buying this kind of tome? Still, I got it and delved in as soon as I finished my existing literary commitments.
It made for slow reading. I knew from the first chapter, devoted to some of the earliest recorded storytellers, like Apuleius and Aesop, that this was the kind of book you want to really take your time with. Savor it, yes, as the writing itself is charming and down-to-earth, but also give yourself space to digest the wealth of knowledge being pelleted at you on a continuous basis.
When asked what exactly the book was about, I always struggled to reply. Was it the history of the writers themselves, a complex synopsis of the earliest stories we hear, a literary exploration of an oft neglected side of the craft? All three and none at the same time.
It does take you through the life of renowned children's authors, like AA Milne,Enid Blyton and CS Lewis. But briefly. Only in as much as it's relevant discussing their existence in terms of their work. How the war shaped some of our most well-loved gentle (literary) giants. How childhood and other misfortunes oriented them towards having something to say to the younger generations.
What I loved about the book is, it doesn't dwell. It doesn't make a point of over-dissecting Roald Dahl's anti-semitism. It doesn't linger over the more recent JK Rowling trans debacle. It understands that, in the interest of literary history, these are irrelevant distractions. Quite the opposite, in fact, Leith goes to great lengths to point out that, were it not for these "problematic" people, the history of literature would be that much poorer.
I just finished a PA course on Shakespeare, touching upon the very idiocy of that English word. Problematic. Shakespeare, by the by, has regularly been considered deeply problematic, also.
Does it matter if you like children's books? Not so much. I mean, chances are you'll find one old-timey (or more recent) favorite in the book's 500-something pages. But as I said, it's unlikely you'll have a cult for each work or author discussed. You don't need to. Reading entire chapters of authors you don't know, don't remember, or only vaguely heard about, will remain a delight to anyone of a literary bend, because that's what's at the core of Leith's work. He weaves through these personal histories with such flair and such obvious fondness, not only for children's literature, bot for childhood itself, that it's impossible not to enjoy the book.
That being said, it's not a nostalgia read. It's a very applied study of the stories we hear when we're very little, their psychological connotations, influences, and ultimately, their impact. Because we think, after all, in words and stories. As such, there's few things more impactful on the development of our thoughts than the stories we hear as children. And that's something that should interest us all, regardless if we're parents, teachers, scholars, or simply people of a nostalgic bend.
I read it as a writer, at times. As a reader, often. And as a child, throughout.
I left with a burning desire to read several of the stories discussed within, and longing wistfully for the box set of Narnia books I once borrowed from my cousin. With Watership Down readily waiting on my Kindle, disregarding the psychology books I had lined up. I left it with a permission slip to revisit childhood and curiosity for a while, but not ever as fully.
Because while I can regain the curiosity, the same can't be said for the same naivety I had back then.
That is actually a great asset.
As I tell my students on the mat, find a place where you're safe, curious and free, and know you can return here at any time. That is childhood. And what a joy to discover this book and be reminded of that.
