"Are you Martha Boyle?"
Martha nodded.
"You don't know me," said the woman at the door. "Olive Barstow was my daughter. I was her mother."
Martha heard herself gasp. A small, barely audible gasp.
"I don't know how well you knew Olive," said the woman. "She was so shy." The woman reached into the pocket of the odd smock she was wearing and retrieved a folded piece of paper. "But I found this in her journal, and I think she'd want you to have it."
The rusty screen that separated them gave the woman a gauzy appearance. Martha cracked open the door to receive the pink rectangle....
This is from Kevin Henkes's masterwork, "Olive's Ocean," and it's almost like a parody of other Henkes writing. The hushed quality, the melodrama, the subtle weirdness (note that "odd smock") of the characters....I'm suddenly transported to Henkes Country, where mice worry about deteriorating swing sets, and where no one can say precisely the thing that is on his (or her) mind.
And look at those verbs! "Receive the pink rectangle." "Cracked open the door." "Retrieved a folded piece..." This is like a brief master class in writing. The way things start in medias res. The sense of people removed from themselves (one character "heard herself" gasp). A poetic interest in the distance between souls: "The rusty screen that separated them...gave the woman a gauzy appearance...." A subtle way of underlining the theme of identity: "Are you Martha Boyle?" (How can any of us say who we are? Do we really know ourselves?)
Henkes teaches kids to be careful readers. Notice that unsettling use of the verb "was" in paragraph three. A sharp kid will understand that Olive is likely dead, and that outliving one's daughter suggests that that daughter wasn't very old when she died. So there's a Gothic, suspenseful quality at work here.
How much can you cram into a work for kids? Quite a bit, as it happens. Henkes seems to see and to hear little clues and little mysteries...as the rest of us just wander through life on autopilot...But Henkes can disrupt that autopilot--as a gift to us--at least just for a little while.
P.S. What do I mean by melodrama? Secret notes! Notes tucked in journals! Notes intercepted by third parties! Writers seeming to speak from beyond the grave! Who wouldn't turn the page?
P.P.S. I love the special redundancy of: "She was my daughter. I was her mother." When something appalling happens to you, you sometimes need to repeat or rephrase the story--as if to persuade *yourself* of the reality of what has happened. That may be part of what is going on here.
Martha nodded.
"You don't know me," said the woman at the door. "Olive Barstow was my daughter. I was her mother."
Martha heard herself gasp. A small, barely audible gasp.
"I don't know how well you knew Olive," said the woman. "She was so shy." The woman reached into the pocket of the odd smock she was wearing and retrieved a folded piece of paper. "But I found this in her journal, and I think she'd want you to have it."
The rusty screen that separated them gave the woman a gauzy appearance. Martha cracked open the door to receive the pink rectangle....
This is from Kevin Henkes's masterwork, "Olive's Ocean," and it's almost like a parody of other Henkes writing. The hushed quality, the melodrama, the subtle weirdness (note that "odd smock") of the characters....I'm suddenly transported to Henkes Country, where mice worry about deteriorating swing sets, and where no one can say precisely the thing that is on his (or her) mind.
And look at those verbs! "Receive the pink rectangle." "Cracked open the door." "Retrieved a folded piece..." This is like a brief master class in writing. The way things start in medias res. The sense of people removed from themselves (one character "heard herself" gasp). A poetic interest in the distance between souls: "The rusty screen that separated them...gave the woman a gauzy appearance...." A subtle way of underlining the theme of identity: "Are you Martha Boyle?" (How can any of us say who we are? Do we really know ourselves?)
Henkes teaches kids to be careful readers. Notice that unsettling use of the verb "was" in paragraph three. A sharp kid will understand that Olive is likely dead, and that outliving one's daughter suggests that that daughter wasn't very old when she died. So there's a Gothic, suspenseful quality at work here.
How much can you cram into a work for kids? Quite a bit, as it happens. Henkes seems to see and to hear little clues and little mysteries...as the rest of us just wander through life on autopilot...But Henkes can disrupt that autopilot--as a gift to us--at least just for a little while.
P.S. What do I mean by melodrama? Secret notes! Notes tucked in journals! Notes intercepted by third parties! Writers seeming to speak from beyond the grave! Who wouldn't turn the page?
P.P.S. I love the special redundancy of: "She was my daughter. I was her mother." When something appalling happens to you, you sometimes need to repeat or rephrase the story--as if to persuade *yourself* of the reality of what has happened. That may be part of what is going on here.
Comments
Post a Comment