Once I wandered into a stone courtyard where a beautiful and abstract marble sculpture turned on a pedestal. Two white benches formed a right angle facing the piece, and a columned loggia on the far side showed a lawn bordered by tall cypress trees in the distance. I stood and watched the sculpture for a few minutes, feeling somewhat disturbed by the speed of the turning base. It wasn’t going fast enough to make me dizzy, but it was moving too rapidly for me to really grasp the shape of the work in my mind. One rounded knob on top seemed to evolve from the graceful loop at the top of a treble clef into a whorled groove like the soft curve of a conch shell. Then, before I could put the whole shape together in my mind a jutting, angular facet spun into view and the previous smoothness I thought I saw was lost. It was very disconcerting.
I was about to move on and follow the pleasant coolness of the shady breezeway to the grass beyond when I noticed a little placard engraved with a one-word title, Complexity. I sank down onto one of the cool benches and pondered the sculpture anew. This time, with the title giving me some context toward understanding, the spinning added to the beauty. As aspect after aspect moved into view I was just as overwhelmed as before by my inability to grasp the piece in its entirety. This time, though, I realized this may have been the artist’s intent. The piece was simply too complex, too beautiful, too extraordinary to be comprehended in one or even many viewings. I watched intently for another while before eventually walking to the open grass beyond.
It has been several years since I last visited the stone courtyard. I long to go back again, but even if a lifetime passes before I see that gently turning piece once more, I have found solace for my longing from unexpected sources. One day at the library I answered a telephone call from a salesman. As we talked, I wondered why he seemed so familiar to me. I recognized him somehow, from somewhere I couldn’t recall. Then it hit me. It was not his words or his accent, but something about the unfolding nuances of his personality that reminded me of Complexity. I began to see similarities, lights and shadows, in all the people I know very well.
As one of my sons and I walked up to school one morning he was grumbling about how much he hated the daily routine of waking up, getting dressed, then having to go sit for six hours at a desk when he really wanted to play and make his own choices. His complaining intensified until he had worked himself into a state and he didn’t want to keep trudging up the hill. Then something inside of him revolved, just like the sculpture, and he dashed laughing and scrambling up the hillside to take a bow from a rocky outcropping as I applauded his spectacular performance.
I see complexities in myself as well, and understand them no better than I did the initial glimpse of the sculpture. Why are there days when I wonder to myself if there is an overarching purpose of life? Those are days of shadow. But I have lived with myself long enough to know that shortly after the questioning will come days of light when a view from the hill with the town spread below and my sons running down the trail in the foreground will send a jolt of gold into my heart. At those moments, overall purpose seems moot because meaning is palpable.
So what does all this have to do with children’s literature? For me, a bookshelf full of children’s books is a place reminiscent of that hidden courtyard where I stumbled on the spinning statue years ago. It is a place that is larger inside than out. It is a place that contains thousands, even millions of worlds: a new one in each book, a new one for each person that reads that book. In these books there are words and thoughts and ideas complex enough to occupy a person for a lifetime. Are you in the mood for an adventure? There are tales to whet your appetite. Do you want something philosophical to chew on? The wisdom of the ages is waiting on the shelves. Do you or your children want to escape into a magical land where horses fly and the phoenix sings? All that and more is ready for the taking. And sometimes, in the lifelong exploration of the ever evolving genre of children’s literature, it’s possible to stumble on a few answers as well: answers to some of the complex questions of life. I sometimes wish I could be back in that quiet courtyard far away, but as I look into the bookshelf and the thousands of worlds resting on its wooden planks, I know there is complexity enough even here to keep exploring for a lifetime. And isn’t that what reading is all about?
Complexity is also one of the keynotes of literature itself, in my view — whether for children or for adults.
A lot of art has to do with the tension between order and disorder: seeing patterns in the apparent chaos of events, appearances, sounds, blobs of paint, and the like. Too much order leads to monotony, but too much disorder leads to confusion and (physical, mental, emotional, or even spiritual) dizziness. Complexity is the interface between order and disorder.
I think part of why we like stories is because they reveal to us an underlying sense of order in events: whether that order is taken from the logic of character motivations and development, external archetypal patterns, or even the demands of the narrative form. As such, it provides ways for us to make meaning of experience — the insights you talk about. Within children’s literature in particular, they help introduce us to the complexity of the world itself.
I have a friend who teaches an “advanced” English class in our local high school, and she has despaired of her students ever being able to read what she calls “complex” stories, stories with more than one plot-line, stories that move backwards and forwards in time in order to give the complete picture.
And I am a little appalled. She insists that her students only want to read the most linear of plots. I sincerely hope this isn’t true.
But what if it is?
I would worry more if I didn’t see children checking out and loving books like The Westing Game, Mr. Terupt Falls Again, Mr. Lemoncello’s Library, and others like this. These books are certainly complex but also compelling and exciting and a good read. So don’t despair!
Kathryn
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Just out of curiosity, are you the Kat Poulter who just moved into my ward?