Regular
readers of The Jade Sphinx know of
our deep and abiding respect for that extremely difficult art form, children’s
literature. Those who neither understand
nor respect this exacting art form do not appreciate just how difficult a task
it is. However, when children’s lit is
touched with something like genius, then the result is something that can be
savored by children and adults alike.
Critics cite
the Winnie-the-Pooh books by A. A. Milne (1882-1956) as the last
great contribution to the first wave of children’s classics; a period ranging
roughly from the Victorian era through the early 1920s. Milne approaches something close to the
sublime in his stories – they are delightful nonsense that, upon reflection,
actually make a great deal of sense.
Milne’s
genius was to take the stuffed animals owned by his son, Christopher Robin, and create a whole imaginary world in which they
could live. The animals, Pooh, Owl, Rabbit,
Eeyore, and Kanga and Roo, all have well-defined personalities and (sometimes
obsessive) character traits. There is a
distinctly … English flavor to the Pooh books, almost as if Milne brought a
child’s-eye view to one long, summer tea party.
In the hands of any other less-gifted author, Pooh would be too sweet
and indigestible by half; but Milne creates a world of remarkable charm, gentle
kindness and great humanity. In the
simplicity of Pooh and those around him, we often see the best (and most
ridiculous) parts of ourselves.
Milne
was blessed in his illustrator, E. H.
Shepard (1879-1976), who created a series of delicate and subtle drawings
to enliven the corpus. Those who know
Pooh only through the sometimes garish Disney interpretation are missing the subtlety
and quiet of the originals. Shepard also
drew the definitive illustrations for Wind
in the Willows, so he was instrumental in the success of two great classics
of the genre. (Sadly, later in life,
Shepard thought Pooh overshadowed his more serious work…)
Milne
ended the Pooh books with a beautiful coda of Christopher Robin growing up, and
putting aside childish things while promising to always have a special place in
both his heart and his memory for the denizens of the Hundred Acre Wood. It was a masterful way to preserve the
integrity of his creation, while assuring that it would also always be alive to
anyone who could open themselves to childish wonder.
So, it
is with a bit of surprise that the Trustees of the Pooh Property Trust would
think that a sequel, some 80 years after the fact, was either necessary or desirable. But in 2011 the Trust entrusted the property
to author David Benedictus (born
1938), and the illustrations to Mark
Burgess (born 1957), who sought to emulate Shepard’s style. The results were, at best, mixed.
Pastiche
is a ticklish thing to pull off. (Your
Correspondent has been guilty of literary pastiche himself.) While it is possible to imitate a voice, it
is nearly impossible to imitate genius. As
a result, the new writer seeks to introduce something new and original to
separate the new work from the original; but then … when individuality is
introduced, there is no longer any point to the pastiche.
Benedictus
is tasked with having Christopher Robin return from boarding school (fortunately,
there’s no mention of the 80 year lag; Robin must be the most abominable
student!), and beguiling a summer idyll with his old friends at the Hundred
Acre Wood. Now older, he involves his
friends in a spelling bee, cricket, and playing school. This is all right in-and-of-itself, but where
Benedictus fails is that his work is Milne and water: sometimes he gets the
tone just right, but when he doesn’t the whole enterprise comes crashing
down.
Not that
there aren’t moments to savor. I had a
smile for most of the reading, and found much of Return to the Hundred Acre
Wood charming. However, Benedictus bows
to contemporary tastes a little too often, and the note is jarring.
For example,
he introduces a new character, Lottie the Otter, clearly as a sop to political
correctness, seeing that the only other female in the tales is the motherly
Kanga. Lottie never works for a moment;
she is too contemporary a creation to blend seamlessly with Pooh and company,
and the character is fairly obnoxious, to boot.
So,
despite many inspired moments (Benedictus seems to understand both Owl and
Rabbit very well), we often feel that someone is trying to breathe life into a
creation not their own. And while the
drawings by Burgess are certainly serviceable, but no one would mistake them
for Shepard.
Pooh
buffs should stick with the originals; but for the casual reader, Return to the
Hundred Acre Wood is undemanding fun.
Here is
an except from the opening:
Who started it? Nobody knew. One
moment there was the usual Forest babble: the wind in the trees, the crow of a
cock, the cheerful water in the streams. Then came the Rumour: Christopher
Robin is back!
Owl said he heard it from Rabbit,
and Rabbit said he heard it from Piglet, and Piglet said he just sort of heard
it, and Kanga said why not ask Winnie-the-Pooh? And since that seemed like a
Very Encouraging Idea on such a sunny morning, off Piglet trotted, arriving in
time to find Pooh anxiously counting his pots of honey.
“Isn’t it odd?” said Pooh.
“Isn’t what odd?”
Pooh rubbed his nose with his paw.
“I wish they would sit still. They shuffle around when they think I’m not
looking. A moment ago there were eleven and now there are only ten. It is odd,
isn’t it, Piglet?”
“It’s even,” said Piglet, “if it’s
ten, that is. And if it isn’t, it isn’t.” Hearing himself saying this, Piglet
thought that it didn’t sound quite right, but Pooh was still counting, moving
the pots from one corner of the table to the other and back again.
“Bother,” said Pooh. “Christopher
Robin would know if he was here. He was good at counting. He always made things
come out the same way twice and that’s what good counting is.”
“But Pooh . . .” Piglet began, the
tip of his nose growing pink with excitement
“On the other hand it’s not easy to
count things when they won’t stay still. Like snowflakes and stars.”
“But Pooh . . .” And if Piglet’s
nose was pink before, it was scarlet now.
“I’ve made up a hum about it. Would
you like to hear it, Piglet?”
Piglet was about to say that hums
were splendid things, and Pooh’s hums were the best there were, but Rumours
come first; then he thought what a nice feeling it was to have a Big Piece of
News and to be about to Pass It On; then he remembered the hum which Pooh had
made up about him, Piglet, and how it had had seven verses, which was more
verses than a hum had ever had since time began, and that they were all about
him, and so he said: “Ooh, yes, Pooh, please,” and Pooh glowed a little because
a hum is all very well as far as it goes, and very well indeed when it goes for
seven verses, but it isn’t a Real Hum until it’s been tried out on somebody,
and while honey is always welcome, it’s welcomest of all directly after a hum.
This is the hum which Pooh hummed to
Piglet on the day which started like any other day and became a very special
day indeed.
If you want to count your honey,
You must put it in a row,
In the sun if it is sunny,
If it’s snowy in the snow.
And you’ll know when you have
counted
How much honey you have got.
Yes, you’ll know what the amount is
And so therefore what it’s not.
“And I think it’s eleven,” added
Pooh, “which is an excellent number of pots for a Thursday, though twelve would
be even better.”
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