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I’ve been slowly rereading my collection of Beatrix Potter, utterly charmed and impressed. I’m taking my time to extend the pleasure. They don’t make books like these anymore. It might be interesting to try to puzzle out why that’s true, but we’ll leave that for another day and for, yes, Bigger Brains than mine.
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There’s so much to learn from Potter, so much to admire, though it makes me wistful to experience anew the loss of her talent — a nostalgic sense of how things used to be but are no longer.
Anyway, these are great books that seem as if they were beamed down from some other, more magical planet.
Here’s the opening spread from The Tale of the Flopsy Bunnies:
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There’s so much to say about Potter’s excellent work, but on this one page, three sentences, I’d like to focus on two things.
First, this is a fine example of how to introduce new, difficult words to young readers. Not to avoid that language, but to support the reader in the process. True fact: This is actually how I first learned “soporific,” when I read this book long ago as a new father. But notice what she does here: I have never felt sleepy . . .
(And notice, too, how I borrowed here italicization of “I,” a nice bit of emphasis.)
Potter gives us the meaning in the best way possible. She doesn’t stop (or stoop) to explain, doesn’t talk down to the reader. She provides the context clue that helps an attentive reader easily understand. Wonderful.
In addition, as a fan of William Steig — who also commonly used language that was above-level — I believe that these new, big, challenging words can actually draw readers into the story. Rather than slowing them down or breaking the magic, these big words can add a sense of mystery and allure. There’s something otherworldly about them. Intriguing.
The love of language itself.
Secondly, notice the writer’s voice. I once had an editor tell me that voice was the single most important thing when looking at new manuscripts. She said that as an editor, she could help fix a lot of problems: tighten the plot, deepen the characterization, even help when the writing goes astray. But voice was the thing she couldn’t teach, couldn’t correct. Without a strong voice — the sound of the writing, the tone and personality of the writer — there was little she could do. Because it was only everything.
Read that page through again. The connection between writer and reader is immediate. Someone is speaking directly to us. There’s warmth there, and interest, and our attention is grabbed. Not by a car crash or some other dramatic event; we are captivated by the almost confidential, casual tone of this storyteller. By the words themselves. It feels like we are listening to an older family member recounting over dinner a marvelous experience. It’s as if the writer was somehow miraculously making eye contact with the reader. Gather round, children, to hear my tale. We tuck in at the kitchen table and listen up, knowing this will be good.
And so alone in a room, surrounded by distractions, we turn the page.
There are endless examples of this throughout Potter’s books. The tone, the unique conspiratorial vibe.
Let me tell you a story . . .
I’ll leave you with a page from The Tale of Jemima Puddle-Duck:
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