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This was, by the critical standards of 1953, «junk» writing. And yet it is far
from «simple». It is characterised by a leisurely pace; narrator’s judgements
(«lovely», «curious»), a quite subtle use of free indirect discourse or
«mind style» («glimpses of») (see Wales 1990: 191-2); ingenious atmosphere
building by exploiting the negative or absence («not even...») as
well as assonance – «blazing», «brilliance». Not bad for a by-word for simplicity,
who was regarded for many decades as a threat to literacy.
In contrast, here is a modern, award-winning author, whose success has
changed the landscape of 21st-century children’s writing. This is from a book
described by another award-winning author, Jan Mark, as «beautifully written»:
[She] felt a thrill of fear. There was only one thing this could mean.
«Ah,» said the doctor, relieved to find the conversation turning to another
subject, «there’s a real advance. With the first model we could never entirely
overcome the risk of the patient dying of shock, but we’ve improved that
no end.» (Pullman 1996: 273)
Here we have a texture of clichés («felt a thrill»), telling rather than showing
(«relieved to find»), and curiously uneven and inappropriate speech patterns
(«could never entirely overcome... no end»). Of course, it is very difficult to
compare like with like, and it is unlikely that Philip Pullman, praised for his
prose, would appreciate being unfavourably compared to Blyton. But the
point is not that one writer is better than the other: the point is that complex
stylistic features once thought appropriate to «popular» writing do not
even feature in what is now seen as «quality» writing. Philip Pullman’s
Northern Lights, from which this extract is taken, has been a worldwide best-
-seller, studied seriously for its ideas. Pullman, a highly intelligent and articulate
author, has made points about style: «For me, prose should be a plain
glass window, and not a fanciful mirror – not that you need make it so workmanlike
that it’s drab» (Carter 1999: 184). However, it is questionable whether
this view would hold up theoretically – for meaning, and the way meanings
are constructed and accessed are embedded in style, and not separable.
A comparison between two well-respected «mainstream» authors of two eras
might be less contentious. The first is from Nina Bawden’s, Carrie’s War (1973):
They had left the wooded slopes behind them and the valley had opened out.
Springy, sheep-cropped turf, criss-crossed with dry stone walls, ran down to
the back yards of the houses. Narrow, straight streets; one long, thin one,
like a spine down the middle and short, stumpy ones leading off, steeply
climbing the hillside. It was peaceful enough and the slate roofs shone in
the soft, evening light, but it was still a hideous place, the oldest boy
thought: ugly houses and black pit machinery and smooth cones of slag,
meanly dark against the green mountain. (Bawden 1973/1991: 17)
Here we have multiple adjectives, a broad vocabulary, and a subtle
manipulation of both direct and indirect thought (what does «the oldest
boy thought» control?).
In contrast, Eva Ibbotson’s, Journey to the River Sea (2001), a contemporary
award-winner (Winner, Gold Medal, Smarties Book Prize, 2001; runner-
-up, Whitbread Children’s Book of the Year, Guardian Children’s Fiction
Award) seems stylistically unenterprising.
The market was dazzling. There were watermelons bigger than babies, and
green bananas and yellow ones that were almost orange. There were piles
of nuts heaped on barrows, and pineapples and peppers and freshly caught
fish and fish that had been dried. There were animals tugging at their
ropes, and delicate lacework and silverware and woven baskets and leather
bags. (Ibbotson 2001: 25)
Again, the author falls back on clichés («tugging», «delicate», «leather»),
simple listing, a neutral narrational style, imprecise images («animals»,
«piles... heaped») and one rather odd image («bigger than babies»). The
fact that this book is described on its cover as «A warm-hearted, well-written
and absorbing adventure» (Independent on Sunday) and «The most perfect
children’s book of the year... captivatingly told, funny and moving»
(Nicolette Jones, Sunday Times) perhaps makes the point that things have
changed.
The way in which style reflects, or necessarily invokes certain attitudes
can be seen in a comparison between The Tale of Peter Rabbit by Beatrix
Potter (1902) and a more modern version, adapted by David Hately (1987),
occasioned by Beatrix Potter’s exit from copyright. The new version is a
remarkable example of the «closing» of a text by a writer who betrays his
lack of faith in the capacities of his readership.
Potter writes:
«Now, my dears,» said old Mrs. Rabbit one morning, «you may go into the
fields or down the lane, but don’t go in to Mr. McGregor’s garden: your
Father had an accident there; he was put in a pie by Mrs McGregor.» (10)
Hately has different social perspective, a different relationship between
mother and child – and a different attitude to the death joke:
One day they were allowed to play outside. «Stay near home», said their.
«Please don’t go to Mr McGregor’s garden.»
«Why not?», asked Peter.
«Because he doesn’t like rabbits», answered Mrs. Rabbit. «He will try to
catch you.» (np)
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