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Review | The Giver (The Gift Edition), Lois Lowry, illustrated by Bagram Ibatoulline

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Lois Lowry’s The Giver changed my life when I was young, about 14, I’d guess. I was trying to figure out what I wanted to do with my life, and all I knew was that I didn’t want to become a businessperson. My relatives were all businesspeople, and not even in exciting jobs like manufacturing toys or selling books. With the exception of one uncle whose job required him to travel often, everyone else’s jobs seemed a vague, bland mass known only by the generic term “business.” I wanted to be something more exciting — a writer, maybe, or a lawyer or detective! My career dreams were heavily influenced by books I loved to read, where characters seemed to lead such exciting lives. Yet I was also afraid an office job would be my most practical, viable option. At 14, I wasn’t sure what I wanted, only that I wanted to LIVE, all caps, flashing lights and everything.

So Jonas’ world in The Giver really spoke to me. An orderly, “perfect,” yet ultimately colourless society, it is an ambiguous utopia, much like Anarres in Ursula le Guin’s The Dispossessed, where the inhabitants are content enough (no Hunger Games style scrounging for food) but no one’s truly happy. Everyone’s life is strictly planned out since childhood; your career is chosen for you at twelve based on your observable skills and you enter a few years of training before starting to work. All the memories of the world we know — all all the joy and pain that come with them — are stored in one person, The Receiver, who shields the rest of the town from those experiences. This society has sacrificed individual freedom and extreme emotion for peace and satisfaction.

I love how Lowry launches us into this society’s mindset right away, showing how even thought and language are restricted from the very first paragraph:

It was almost December, and Jonas was beginning to be frightened. No. Wrong word, Jonas thought. Frightened meant that deep, sickening feeling of something terrible about to happen.

Jonas almost immediately corrects himself: he doesn’t feel frightened, he feels “apprehensive.” Can you imagine the twelve year olds — or heck, even the adults — in our society, who can easily say things like “OMG, I’m freaking out!” about standing in line for the upcoming Hunger Games movie censoring their emotions like Jonas does automatically? To 14-year-old me, all eager to LIVE, Jonas’ world seemed like hell.

cover of my original copy from 1990s

When Jonas starts to realize himself that his world isn’t as perfect as he’d always been taught to believe, I wanted him to start a revolution. His battle was my battle, in the way only the very best books, read at just the right time, can do. If he can introduce passion to his world, it somehow meant that I too would be able to inject passion into my own future.

A lot of dystopian YA has been written since Giver, so let me make this clear up front: Giver doesn’t have the action or thrills of Hunger Games or Divergent. It’s a quieter, more contemplative and philosophical book. It’s also absolutely brilliant, a great book for anyone from eight years old up. It blew me away when I was 14, and it still blows me away now, at 28, though in very different ways.

So imagine my delight when HMH published a gorgeous gift edition, complete with illustrations and a ribbon bookmark. It’s utterly beautiful, one that I love to think will introduce a whole new generation to this story and grace the shelves of long-time fans like me, right beside the tattered, dog-eared copy with yellowing pages read so many times over the years. When I received this book in the mail, I literally had to stop for a moment, stroke the cover, savour the slow turning of pages, and just, well, stare in awe. My sister too, who first read it when she was 10, almost teared up when I showed it to her. We all have that one book from childhood that stays with us forever. The Giver was that book for me, and seeing it re-released over a decade later, in such a beautiful edition — well, it’s an experience I wish upon all of you.

Minor quibble, and to be honest, I don’t know how they could’ve avoided it, is that the illustrations give away a minor spoiler about something revealed only mid-way through the book. (If you haven’t read Giver yet, skip to next paragraph.) I remember reading how the apple changed for Jonas and not knowing how, because Jonas himself didn’t understand the change. I loved the experience of trying to figure out how it could’ve changed, and being utterly shocked at the discovery later on that colour was a foreign concept to Jonas’ town. Here, the illustration shows the apple bright red between black and white figures, robbing the readers of the experience I had, of imagining all the ways the apple could have changed. The idea of utter colourlessness is as foreign to me as colour is foreign to Jonas’ town, and I remember struggling to imagine how such a town would look. Is everything in black and white or just vague, translucent outlines? Are black, white and grey considered colours and if so, how does this town look? With Ibatoulline’s black and white sketches, however beautiful, this edition takes that mystery away completely. Unavoidable, but also somewhat regrettable.

the cover of another edition I own

Overall, The Giver (Gift Edition) is a beautiful, fitting tribute to a mind-blowing classic. I love reading it again at 28 and seeing how much my views have changed since 14. I understand better now the desire to wipe out all pain and just lose all the memories that hurt, and I can see how that can be tempting enough to make me willing to give up even the potential for strong positive emotions. I can see how people would be willing to give up individual choice if that was the only way all wars and conflict would end. I still don’t think I’d make the choice that Jonas’ society did, but I do understand them better now. I see more now the subtle nuances in Lowry’s tale and appreciate its complexity better. What will I think of it at 42? At 56? Even next year, I might read it differently. The Giver is the kind of book that grows up with you, I think, and I love that about it.

For anyone who’s interested about how my 14-year-old self’s dreams turned out: I actually did end up with a business degree. I also ended up with jobs in an art gallery and a bookstore, both of which I think will thrill my inner 14-year-old, and both of which put my business background to good use. I grew up, and learned, among other things, that business doesn’t have to be boring after all. More importantly, I learned that even with a boring job, one’s life never has to be colourless. The most mundane moments come with infinite possibility, and excitement can come from the smallest things. That spark, or rather, the desire to keep that spark ignited, I owe to Lois Lowry, The Giver, and the amazing reading experience I had at 14.

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Edited January 27, 2013:

For anyone who may not be aware: The Giver is the first book in a series of four. The final book, Son, was published last Fall. My review of Son here.

Review | The Chronicles of Harris Burdick, Chris Van Allsburg et al

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“The story of Harris Burdick is a story everybody knows,” Lemony Snicket writes in his introduction to The Chronicles of Harris Burdick, “though there is hardly anything to be known about him.” Over fifty years ago, a man named Harris Burdick appeared at the office of children’s book publisher Peter Wenders. Burdick brought with him fourteen illustrations with captions and left, promising to return with the full stories the next day. No one ever saw Burdick again.

Truth be told, I wasn’t familiar with the legend of Harris Burdick, and immediately Googled him — surely, there must have been some clue about what happened to him? Turns out, he is a creation from the mind of children’s book author and illustrator Chris van Allsburg (also the genius behind the classic The Polar Express). I was somewhat disappointed at this discovery, but I was also in awe of van Allsburg’s imagination. What a marvellous idea! To learn more about Harris Burdick and see some fantastic stories inspired by him, go to www.whoisharrisburdick.com. There’s also a teacher’s guide at www.mysteriesofharrisburdick.com.

What is real is the amazing rush of imagination Burdick’s captioned illustrations inspire. In his 1984 introduction to the original Mysteries of Harris Burdick, van Allsburg writes, “I told Peter Wenders how difficult it was to look at the drawings and their captions without imagining a story.” Indeed, an idyllic image of children by a lake comes with the intriguing, horrific caption “He threw with all his might, but the third stone came skipping back.” An image of a harp in the woods has the caption “So it’s true, he thought, it’s really true,” which holds the promise of wonder and magic. The seemingly ordinary thriller-type caption “His heart was pounding. He was sure he had seen the doorknob turn” raises all sorts of questions with the accompanying illustration of a room with a door barely two steps high. I would love to take these illustrations to a third grade class and see the kind of stories eight year olds can come up with. I can imagine readers and writers of all ages delighting in the imaginative experience of creating the lost stories of Harris Burdick.

In Chronicles, that task falls to several of the best, most imaginative authors of our time. Included are stories by Stephen King, Lois Lowry, Gregory Maguire, Sherman Alexie, Kate DiCamillo, Cory Doctorow, and the creative genius who began all this in the first place, Chris van Allsburg. Seriously, this line-up alone was enough to make me want this book, even before learning the legend of Harris Burdick.

The book lives up to its promise. Put such talented writers together, provide them such inspiration and let their imaginations fly, and you end up with a wide range of really good stories. I enjoyed reading these stories, and I love how I enjoyed each story for a very different reason. Stories range from sweet to spooky and the subject matter from mundane to extraordinary.

Some stories in the collection did stand out for me, and for very different reasons. Sherman Alexie’s “A Strange Day in July” is one of my favourites. Alexie took the Enid Blyton-esque image of children by a lake and went the Neil Gaiman/Stephen King route, crafting a remarkably chilling tale about a pair of strange (to my mind, almost psychotic) children. As a major bookworm, I really enjoyed Walter Dean Myers’ “Mr. Linden’s Library,” about a book that kept writing itself as you read. It’s more sinister than you would imagine. Jon Scieszka’s “Under the Rug” is an amusing horror story that for some reason reminds me of Roald Dahl, about a grandmother who spouts cliche’d wisdom and a grandchild whose laziness creates a Dust Monster. Scieszka’s ending was unexpected, yet it totally fit, and I love how he poked fun at the grandmother’s bite-sized pieces of advice. Linda Sue Park’s “The Harp” is a traditional fairy tale, but its ending is very touching. I love the scientific angle to Chris van Allsburg’s “Oscar and Alphonse” and the Twilight Zone feel of M.T. Anderson’s “Just Desert.”

Chronicles ends with a blast, literally, with another of my favourites, Stephen King’s “The House of Maple Street.” I love how King weaves unexplained supernatural elements into a story about domestic abuse and child empowerment. The stepfather in this story is a total jerk, I felt for the mother, and I was cheering on the kids the entire time. Though it’s the supernatural elements that resolve the conflict in this story, it’s the true-to-life elements that stuck with me.

Chronicles of Harris Burdick is an absolute treat. It’s a wonderful storybook, and I love reading all the stories these authors came up with. But it’s also a marvellous nudge on the imagination. Van Allsburg is right — it is difficult to see these images, especially with their captions, and not have the imagination spark with all the possibility of storytelling. Personally, I’d be fascinated to see the stories other authors would make from these images, particularly J.K. Rowling, Suzanne Collins and Arthur Slade. In the meantime, I think Lemony Snicket’s introduction sums up the experience of Harris Burdick perfectly: “As you reread the stories, stare at the images, and ponder the mysteries of Harris Burdick, you will find yourself in a mystery that joins so many authors and readers together in breathless wonder.” Breathless wonder, indeed.

Review | Cain, Jose Saramago (Margaret Jull Costa, trans)

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Jose Saramago’s Cain just blew me away. The cover grabbed me at once: Titian’s (Tiziano Vecellio) Cain and Abel. The original painting showed Abel’s murder from below; Cain is caught in the act against the backdrop of a dark, roiling sky. We feel Abel’s fear; Cain appears a monster. In contrast, the book cover focuses on the two figures, with Abel barely in the frame. Rather than a portrait of a larger than life monster, this image is a dynamic depiction of rage. We feel Cain’s fury, we see the precariousness of his pose and can anticipate the downward strike of his stick. It’s a beautiful, powerful, savage image, and it’s given resonance by Cain’s confession in the book: “I killed abel because I couldn’t kill you [god].” This fury then is directed not at a younger brother, but at god, and we feel that throughout the book.

Cain relates the Old Testament from an all too relatable perspective. Condemned to wander the world forever, Cain witnesses Abraham’s attempted sacrifice of Isaac, the destruction of the Tower of Babel, Moses and the golden calf, Sodom and Gomorrah, the trials of Job and Noah’s Ark. At each incident, Cain is bewildered, frustrated and, progressively, furious at the callous, unjust, ever cruel actions of god. About Job, Cain tells an angel

…job, for all his wealth, is also a good and upright man […] he has committed no crime, and yet, for no reason, he is about to be punished […] I don’t think [god is just]. […] if the lord doesn’t trust the people who believe in him, I really don’t see why those people should trust in the lord. […] now [god’s] going to make job suffer because of a bet and no one will hold him to account.

Cain’s objections are reasonable and definitely relatable. The final observation, that no one holds god to account, is troubling, and definitely with a point. I grew up Catholic, and have always had drilled into me the idea that things happen according to God’s plan, which we must trust even though we do not understand. This belief can certainly provide comfort and in lots of ways, things in life do eventually work out. However, when a loved one is suffering from illness or some other personal crisis and begs you to tell him or her why such a horrible thing is happening, the idea that it’s all according to a divine plan rings hollow. Sometimes, life just really sucks; fate seems unfair and like Cain, I can see no logic in it. In Cain, god probably does have a plan, or so the angels claim, but it’s capricious at best and at worst possibly even diabolical.

Cain, however, does hold god to account, and acts as humanity’s advocate in his debate with god. Take for example the story of Abraham’s bargain with god to spare Sodom and Gomorrah if Abraham can find a certain number of innocents. I learned this story as a lesson in God’s mercy and love for humans, such that he’s willing to change his plans for our benefit. But, the story goes, it turns out there were no innocents so Sodom and Gomorrah were destroyed anyway. Here, Cain asks, even if we assume that the residents were sinful, surely the children in those cities were innocent. Why then were they killed as well? In this and other incidents, the people Cain encounters explain that god’s plans are inscrutable, and the platitude grows as thin for us as it does for Cain.

What I love most about Cain is that Saramago keeps it from being pure commentary or manifesto by keeping Cain very much flawed. God may be cruel and Cain’s arguments may make sense, but Cain is, in many ways, also capricious. Cain’s killing of Abel is deeply symbolic and significant, but Cain’s refusal to accept full responsibility is immature. His motive, that god ignored his offering while favouring Abel’s, seems childish in that “mom always liked you better” kind of way. Cain ends up destroying innocent lives just as he accuses god of doing, though unlike god, his motives are clear: revenge on god. I love the moral ambiguity this creates. In his battle against god, how much does Cain actually end up becoming like him? If Cain is humanity’s advocate in this tale, how much are we like him, in our capacity to be just as cruel and capricious as we accuse god to be? Conversely, how much of god’s “mysterious ways” are actually just as screwed up as Cain’s?

Saramago ends his tale with “one thing we know for certain is that they […] are arguing still.” Saramago offers no easy answers or neat resolutions. Rather, he raises many, troubling questions. He also creates in Cain what I hope will be the most memorable portrayal of one of Christianity’s most reviled figures. Saramago’s Cain is less like Dan Brown’s symbolic, practically sanctified version of Mary Magdalene and more like the complex, sympathetic, yet still culpable figure of Judas in Jesus Christ Superstar.

The dialogue in Cain is written in long, run on paragraphs without quotation marks. I usually dislike this style, finding it confusing and unnecessary. However, I love it here, where it creates a rich fluidity. Cain’s lines hurtle almost right on top of those spoken by angels or god, making my eyes race down the page, building momentum until Saramago issues a full stop. It’s an exhilarating, emotional experience, and its intensifying rhythm captures the rush of Cain’s anguish, and his fury, perfectly.

Cain is a potent, powerful book, deceptively unassuming in its 159 pages. The cover alone gives it a prime spot in my bookshelf. The intimacy implied in the cover art is reflected in Saramago’s words and Costa’s translation; it draws you in, keeps you close, and refuses to let go.

EDIT:

Turns out Publishers Weekly loves Cain as much as I do! It’s on their list of 100 Best Books of 2011. Read Gabe Habash’s beautifully written review here. I love the way Habash begins his review:

Oh, José, ye, the teller of paragraphs spanning eight pages. Tell me a story, an old, old story, about the man named Cain, who murdered his brother and was condemned by God to wander out his days.

Full list from Publishers Weekly coming out November 7th.