“I’m Charles Baker Harris,” he said. “I can read.”
“So what?” I said.
“I just thought you’d like to know I can read. You got anything needs readin‘ I can do it…”
“How old are you,” asked Jem, “four-and-a-half?”
“Goin‘ on seven.”
“Shoot no wonder, then,” said Jem, jerking his thumb at me. “Scout yonder’s been readin‘ ever since she was born, and she ain’t even started to school yet. You look right puny for goin’ on seven.”
“I’m little but I’m old,” he said.
Jem brushed his hair back to get a better look. “Why don’t you come over, Charles Baker Harris?” he said. “Lord, what a name.”
“‘s not any funnier’n yours. Aunt Rachel says your name’s Jeremy Atticus Finch.”
Jem scowled. “I’m big enough to fit mine,” he said. “Your name’s longer’n you are. Bet it’s a foot longer.”
“Folks call me Dill,” said Dill, struggling under the fence.
“Do better if you go over it instead of under it,” I said. “Where’d you come from?”
Dill was from Meridian, Mississippi, was spending the summer with his aunt, Miss Rachel, and would be spending every summer in Maycomb from now on. His family was from Maycomb County originally, his mother worked for a photographer in Meridian, had entered his picture in a Beautiful Child contest and won five dollars. She gave the money to Dill, who went to the picture show twenty times on it.
“Don’t have any picture shows here, except Jesus ones in the courthouse sometimes,” said Jem. “Ever see anything good?”
Dill had seen Dracula, a revelation that moved Jem to eye him with the beginning of respect. “Tell it to us,” he said....
There's a cliche about windows and mirrors. Good fiction is both. It holds up a mirror to the reader: The reader sees himself reflected in the characters. At the same time, it holds up a window: It should show the reader some foreign things.
So, for example, the introduction of Dill, in TKAM, reminds me so much of myself. The very funny posturing in this dialogue could have been taken from any number of parties I've attended in my thirties. Dill boasts that he can read, then recognizes the transparency of the boast, and tries to cover it up by saying: "That's just an offer, if you ever need anything read...." Dill fights to hang onto his dignity in any way possible: "I'm little but I'm old." He can't help but slip right back into boasting mode: We learn he was selected for the Beautiful Child contest (and it's a source of comedy to imagine Jem and Scout not working hard to seem interested). I also like that Dill, clearly book-smart, can't quite manage his own body: He needs to be told to go over, instead of under, a fence.
At the same time, this passage is a window. Children can be blunt in ways adults can't. It's fun to see Jem's candor: "Scout can read, too, and she's younger than you." He cuts to the chase: The films in the courthouse aren't worth seeing, because they are "Jesus ones." There's also the childish bickering about names; it's a mean world we live in, and kids learn early!
The passage ends with a universal human truth: Anyone brave enough to see "Dracula" is worthy of some respect. Also, seeing "Dracula" means you have utility: You can tell a scary, gory story, and, in this world, that can be much more important than a past entry in the "Beautiful Child" contest, or the ability to read.
Lee establishes three eccentric, vivid characters, and she does it through showing, not telling. The level of detail, and the absurd turns the conversation takes: You feel as if you're watching real life.
All of this was missing from Roxane Gay's NYTimes piece over the summer.
“So what?” I said.
“I just thought you’d like to know I can read. You got anything needs readin‘ I can do it…”
“How old are you,” asked Jem, “four-and-a-half?”
“Goin‘ on seven.”
“Shoot no wonder, then,” said Jem, jerking his thumb at me. “Scout yonder’s been readin‘ ever since she was born, and she ain’t even started to school yet. You look right puny for goin’ on seven.”
“I’m little but I’m old,” he said.
Jem brushed his hair back to get a better look. “Why don’t you come over, Charles Baker Harris?” he said. “Lord, what a name.”
“‘s not any funnier’n yours. Aunt Rachel says your name’s Jeremy Atticus Finch.”
Jem scowled. “I’m big enough to fit mine,” he said. “Your name’s longer’n you are. Bet it’s a foot longer.”
“Folks call me Dill,” said Dill, struggling under the fence.
“Do better if you go over it instead of under it,” I said. “Where’d you come from?”
Dill was from Meridian, Mississippi, was spending the summer with his aunt, Miss Rachel, and would be spending every summer in Maycomb from now on. His family was from Maycomb County originally, his mother worked for a photographer in Meridian, had entered his picture in a Beautiful Child contest and won five dollars. She gave the money to Dill, who went to the picture show twenty times on it.
“Don’t have any picture shows here, except Jesus ones in the courthouse sometimes,” said Jem. “Ever see anything good?”
Dill had seen Dracula, a revelation that moved Jem to eye him with the beginning of respect. “Tell it to us,” he said....
There's a cliche about windows and mirrors. Good fiction is both. It holds up a mirror to the reader: The reader sees himself reflected in the characters. At the same time, it holds up a window: It should show the reader some foreign things.
So, for example, the introduction of Dill, in TKAM, reminds me so much of myself. The very funny posturing in this dialogue could have been taken from any number of parties I've attended in my thirties. Dill boasts that he can read, then recognizes the transparency of the boast, and tries to cover it up by saying: "That's just an offer, if you ever need anything read...." Dill fights to hang onto his dignity in any way possible: "I'm little but I'm old." He can't help but slip right back into boasting mode: We learn he was selected for the Beautiful Child contest (and it's a source of comedy to imagine Jem and Scout not working hard to seem interested). I also like that Dill, clearly book-smart, can't quite manage his own body: He needs to be told to go over, instead of under, a fence.
At the same time, this passage is a window. Children can be blunt in ways adults can't. It's fun to see Jem's candor: "Scout can read, too, and she's younger than you." He cuts to the chase: The films in the courthouse aren't worth seeing, because they are "Jesus ones." There's also the childish bickering about names; it's a mean world we live in, and kids learn early!
The passage ends with a universal human truth: Anyone brave enough to see "Dracula" is worthy of some respect. Also, seeing "Dracula" means you have utility: You can tell a scary, gory story, and, in this world, that can be much more important than a past entry in the "Beautiful Child" contest, or the ability to read.
Lee establishes three eccentric, vivid characters, and she does it through showing, not telling. The level of detail, and the absurd turns the conversation takes: You feel as if you're watching real life.
All of this was missing from Roxane Gay's NYTimes piece over the summer.
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