The other day, inspired by a post on Yuri’s Bookswept blog (follow link or see Blog Roll below) in which she tagged the 1993 children’s book The Giver by Lois Lowry and added two images to a quote from the novel, I reread Lowry's novel. I remember Lowry’s book as one of the formative literary experiences of my childhood; I remember it as bold and daring and bothering to go places that children’s lit did not often go. I remembered it being somewhat sexually explicit (it is not—I think my hormones may have been playing games on me…this was sixth-grade or thereabouts...) and provocative in the same way that I would later find Atwood and Orwell.
But more than anything, I remember being frustrated by the ending; it was inconceivable to me that a book could not provide some solid ground for the reader to land on. I recall being tortured by the idea of not knowing what happened to Jonas and Gabriel. It took a long time for me to come around to the notion that maybe an ambiguous ending served the book far better than any other one. After all, Jonas’s escape from his seemingly utopian community represents the first real choice made by him in the story; this choice may level either success or failure onto both him and Gabriel, but at least it’s a choice—at least there is free will. In providing a happy ending (or a unhappy one), Lowry would negate the opportunity for the reader to make a choice. In a way, the ambiguity forces us to be free.
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Granted, this is a complicated reading of the text—not one that I arrived at as my sixth-grade self. Nor even, I might add, a reading that I arrived at until quite recently. Only upon rereading Lowry’s novel did all of this strike me. The novel has received boatloads of criticism over the years—some of it related to that ambiguous ending, but lots of it also dedicated to the subject matter. (I think any good vision of dystopia is bound to fight its fair share of battles in the challenged books area: 1984? Lord of the Flies? See more here.)
But many of the "let's-ban" complaints labelling it as a provocative work are baseless. Critics have claimed that it problematically displays hot buttons such as euthanasia and infanticide in a problematic light (actually, the protagonist is horrified when he discovers these practices), sexuality (the words “sex,” “puberty,” “romance” do not even appear—the word “love” is used in only a family-related context; there is nudity...but it's old people and the nudity is not described; the closest we get to a sexually-charged description is Jonas looking at the back of Fiona’s neck), and attitudes towards pain and suffering (did they miss the part where experience of such emotions lead to “wisdom”? They’re talking about the same “wisdom” the rest of us know, right?).
But the most cutting (and accurate) criticism is the criticism concerning the plausibility of Jonas’s world. I speak not, of course, as to whether or not this particular utopian community is possible, but rather as to whether the community stands up to tests of logic in terms of itself. The Wikipedia provides a helpful example by looking at the “Birthmothers” in the community, noting that if there are 50 new children each year and a Birthmother gives only three births over three years, then there ought to be 17 (all right…16.6…) Birthmothers designated each year. This, of course, is nowhere near the reality portrayed in the story. The government functions of the community also provide fodder for questions, as do the general life patterns of the community members. All in all, it’s probably a good thing that Lowry’s prose keeps its footing in Jonas’s point of view (limited third-person) and ignores these questions. She chooses to stick to her story.
So plausibility is a problem. But I didn’t catch those errant details as a child (I must admit to not seeing them during my most recent reading either) and I suspect that Lowry knows the problems exist, but does not see them as obstructing a child’s enjoyment of the story. They are slight details that fade into the background of the story relative to Jonas’s struggles.
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So why am I writing a review of a children’s book? I can only offer that it’s always nice looking back and realizing that experiences in my childhood are still worthy of admiration. This is not always true. We need to do no more than turn back to that childhood television show (and be sure to not let yourself be overwhelmed by nostalgia). I suspect that you’ll often see that it’s inane enough that you and your friends might have dreamed it up and filmed it together one Saturday afternoon (I overlook notable paucity of acting/writing/directing/cartooning skills, of course).
But some things hold up. Reread the first page of Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone. If you can put away your cloaks and wands (July 15 is coming!) and be unbiased readers for a moment, you’ll see that Rowling’s prose is a little clumsy and flat. (This example is not to say that Rowling’s prose did not greatly improve over the course of seven books—it did.)
Lowry’s prose, on the other hand, is flat as well, but it is not clumsy. Lowry has written a simple, understated novel that at least for me, has withstood the test of time. Has it done the same for you? If you’ve read it (or even if you’ve not), I’d recommend sitting down with this slim volume and giving it a go. At 180 pages of SEVERELY ENLARGED typesetting, it’ll take you no more than two hours. Don’t blame me if you ignore your daily regimen of Kafka short stories…it’s well worth it.
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