Skip to main content

Sweeping Up the Heart (II)

If you're raising kids, or if you're just interested in how people behave, I can't recommend highly enough Kevin Henkes's new novel "Sweeping Up the Heart."

This is geared toward third or fourth graders, but, as with any good book, Henkes's work is universal. I don't imagine I'll ever outgrow it.

"Sweeping Up the Heart" concerns a little girl who has grown up without a mom. She spends most of her free time at a local ceramics studio, working on tiny molded rabbits. There, she meets a boy her age with similar interests, and the two get swept up in a drama. The boy becomes convinced that a local woman is the protagonist's dead mother in disguise--a visitor from beyond the grave!

Of course, the boy is wrong, but, being sensitive, he *has* picked up on something extraordinary about the local woman. The woman is linked with the protagonist's life in a surprising, inevitable way. The unfolding of various secrets gives you great pleasure: You might as well be stumbling upon the solution to a P.D. James murder mystery.

I admire so many things about Henkes, but I'll list a few here. The first thing you notice is that he doesn't judge any of his characters, and he helps you understand how each and every person behaves. The term "Chekhovian compassion" comes to mind, which is silly, because you're reading a kids' book with rabbit pictures.

Also: Henkes doesn't write what anyone else would write. The protagonist--and her particular struggles--couldn't come from anyone else. There's no formula. Nothing seems forced.

And, lastly, Henkes tackles things that other writers might shy away from. This is a quiet novel, but it's also a novel about death and divorce, and it's a novel that explicitly considers pain, human failure, and unending uncertainty. It does all that, but it doesn't feel inappropriate for a kid, and it also doesn't feel like a sermon.

I don't think I'm overselling anything here--but, also, this isn't a book you'll discover attached to a Janet Maslin review in the NYT. And that's a shame. Pick it up if you're looking for something to move you this weekend.
Labels:

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

How to Host a Baby

-You have assumed responsibility for a mewling, puking ball of life, a yellow-lab pup. He will spit his half-digested kibble all over your shoes, all over your hard-cover edition of Jennifer Haigh's novel  Faith . He will eat your tables, your chairs, your "I {Heart] Montessori" magnet, placed too low on the fridge. When you try to watch Bette Davis in  Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte , on your TV, your dog will bark through the murder-prologue, for no apparent reason. He will whimper through Lena Dunham's  Girls , such that you have to rewind several times to catch every nuance of Andrew Rannells's ad-libbing--and, still, you'll have a nagging suspicion you've missed something. Your dog will poop on the kitchen floor, in the hallway, between the tiny bars of his crate. He'll announce his wakefulness at 5 AM, 2 AM, or while you and another human are mid-coitus. All this, and you get outside, and it's: "Don't let him pee on my tulips!" When...
3 comments
Read more

Raymond Carver: "What's in Alaska?"

Outside, Mary held Jack's arm and walked with her head down. They moved slowly on the sidewalk. He listened to the scuffing sounds her shoes made. He heard the sharp and separate sound of a dog barking and above that a murmuring of very distant traffic.  She raised her head. "When we get home, Jack, I want to be fucked, talked to, diverted. Divert me, Jack. I need to be diverted tonight." She tightened her hold on his arm. He could feel the dampness in that shoe. He unlocked the door and flipped the light. "Come to bed," she said. "I'm coming," he said. He went to the kitchen and drank two glasses of water. He turned off the living-room light and felt his way along the wall into the bedroom. "Jack!" she yelled. "Jack!" "Jesus Christ, it's me!" he said. "I'm trying to get the light on." He found the lamp, and she sat up in bed. Her eyes were bright. He pulled the stem on the alarm and b...
1 comment
Read more

My Favorite Pop Song

  One thing I admire about Prince is his weirdly pretentious verses: Dream, if you can, a courtyard-- An ocean of violets in bloom. Also: Touch, if you will, my stomach. Feel how it trembles inside. No one else writes like this. Did people try to shoot down these choices? Did a producer say, "We'd like to rethink this one... Touch, if you will, my stomach...."  I can't help but wonder. But it's the chorus that makes this a classic. It's direct and universal--and it ends with that bizarre flourish, the allusion to "the crying doves." (Prince's song was number one in America for quite a while; it defeated Bruce Springsteen's "Dancing in the Dark.") How can you just leave me standing-- Alone in a world that's so cold? Maybe I'm just too demanding. Maybe I'm just like my father--too bold. Maybe you're just like my mother; She's never satisfied. Why do we scream at each other? This is what it sounds like when doves cr...
Post a Comment
Read more