Musings on Jane Eyre, by Charlotte Bronte

Fiction Review, Old Favorites, Romance, Starred Review 0

Jane Eyre

by Charlotte Bronte

Signet Classic, 1982. 461 pages. First published in 1846.
Starred Review

This is not going to be a standard review. It turns out I already did a review of Jane Eyre back in 2001, when I was first writing Sonderbooks. If you haven’t read Jane Eyre, Dear Reader, stop reading these spoiler-filled musings and go read the book! It’s a classic! You really should read it!

I listed Jane Eyre on my list of about ten favorite books when I was a Freshman in college. I loved it wholeheartedly — the romance, the melodrama, the true love, the clever and conscientious but plain heroine. I’m still a romantic, and I still loved the story, but I found my perspective at 47 quite different than when I first read it around 15.

In the first place, I hadn’t remembered that the book is a thoroughly Christian one. There are multiple obscure Biblical allusions, over and over again. Now, I understood the allusions, but I’m definitely not used to seeing them in a book that’s for the general public. It made me wonder how much readers miss, reading it today. For example, “A frequent interlude of these performances was the enactment of the part of Eutychus by some half dozen of little girls; who, overpowered with sleep, would fall down, if not out of the third loft, yet off the fourth form, and be taken up half dead.” (Eutychus fell asleep when Paul preached a long sermon and fell from the third loft, but was then restored.)

But mostly I found myself awfully cynical over the romance! Mr. Rochester is just plain mean when he works at making Jane jealous. She could have done much, much better with half a chance of meeting more people! Mostly, I now have a hard time thinking anything at all good about a married almost-40-year-old man who falls in love with a 19-year-old! Right, they’ll have a lot in common! Sure, she’s the only one who’s ever really understood him! I have a much, much harder time believing that than I did when I was a teenager. Rather than find Mr. Rochester romantic, this time I thought him making a fool of himself, and not even being very nice while he was at it.

Mind you, I do like Jane and the way she deals with him as he manipulates her. I don’t blame her for falling in love with him, but if she’d seen more of the world, I hope she would have realized how much better she could have done. (I read a book once that said the reason so many middle-aged men have affairs with much younger women is that those are the only ones stupid enough to fall for the line, “My wife doesn’t understand me.”) This guy was twice her age and besides being married, had had three different mistresses. He doesn’t deserve you, Jane!

What’s more, I found myself wondering if the insane wife was actually insane before she got locked in the attic for years and years. Mr. Rochester explains to Jane that soon after the wedding, he hated his wife, even before she went mad — as if that makes it okay. He tries to portray himself as so compassionate for “keeping” her locked up in the attic with a jailer and pretending she doesn’t exist. I still wonder: How insane was she before she got locked up?

Okay, but Jane completely wins me over in the second half. How incredibly refreshing to see someone decide she would rather die than be a mistress! Yes, she’s truly tempted, horribly tempted. But she follows her principles. Mr. Rochester tells her about his mistresses:

“It was a grovelling fashion of existence: I should never like to return to it. Hiring a mistress is the next worst thing to buying a slave: both are often by nature, and always by position, inferior: and to live familiarly with inferiors is degrading. I now hate the recollection of the time I passed with Celine, Giacinta, and Clara.”

Jane wisely reflects:

“I felt the truth of these words; and I drew from them the certain inference, that if I were so far to forget myself and all the teaching that had ever been instilled into me, as — under any pretext — with any justification — through any temptation — to become the successor of these poor girls, he would one day regard me with the same feeling which now in his mind desecrated their memory. I did not give utterance to this conviction: it was enough to feel it. I impressed it on my heart, that it might remain there to serve me as aid in the time of trial.”

But where Jane fully won my admiration and my heart was after she asked herself who would be hurt by her becoming Mr. Rochester’s mistress. “Who in the world cares for you? or who will be injured by what you do?” Her answer made me cheer:

“I care for myself. The more solitary, the more friendless, the more unsustained I am, the more I will respect myself. I will keep the law given by God; sanctioned by man. I will hold to the principles received by me when I was sane, and not mad — as I am now. Laws and principles are not for the times when there is no temptation: they are for such moments as this, when body and soul rise in mutiny against their rigour; stringent are they; inviolate they shall be. If at my individual convenience I might break them, what would be their worth? They have a worth — so I have always believed; and if I cannot believe it now, it is because I am insane — quite insane: with my veins running fire, and my heart beating faster than I can count its throbs. Preconceived opinions, foregone determinations, are all I have at this hour to stand by: there I plant my foot.”

You go, Jane!

Now, part of my enthusiasm for Jane was reflecting that if young women today had half the principles of Jane Eyre, and refused to have affairs with married men, how many, many lives would not be torn apart! If more people let principles rein in their passions, I persist in thinking that many less hearts would be broken, including mine.

However, by this time I was loving Jane and rooting for Jane, so no matter how dissimilar our situations, now I saw myself in her. I, too, felt torn away from the one I had thought was the love of my life. Okay, so he left me, and didn’t want me around. Leaving wasn’t my choice — though the decision to stop begging him to come back seemed almost as difficult as Jane’s decision to tear herself away. The fact is, I had never stopped loving him, and when he moved to the other side of the world, I felt like my heart was being torn out of my chest. How could I fault Jane for loving Mr. Rochester when I still love my husband? I could easily understand Jane’s despairing wanderings. I took great comfort in Jane’s realization that was the same as I had come to — that there was nothing she could do to help the man she loved with all her heart. She would have to entrust him to God’s care.

“Worn out with this torture of thought, I rose to my knees. Night was come, and her planets were risen: a safe, still night; too serene for the companionship of fear. We know that God is everywhere; but certainly we feel His presence most when His works are on the grandest scale spread before us: and it is in the unclouded night-sky, where His worlds wheel their silent course, that we read clearest His infinitude, His omnipotence, His omnipresence. I had risen to my knees to pray for Mr. Rochester. Looking up, I, with tear-dimmed eyes, saw the mighty Milky-way. Remembering what it was — what countless systems there swept space like a soft trace of light — I felt the might and strength of God. Sure was I of His efficiency to save what He had made: convinced I grew that neither earth should perish, nor one of the souls it treasured. I turned my prayer to thanksgiving: the Source of Life was also the Saviour of spirits. Mr. Rochester was safe: he was God’s and by God would he be guarded. I again nestled to the breast of the hill; and ere long, in sleep, forgot sorrow.”

Later, I again found myself cheering for Jane when she grew busy and happy teaching school. However, I fully believed that she would have dreams, over and over again, about the one she loved — no matter how serene her day to day life, no matter how admirable her accomplishments.

And then I related to her next temptation. I thought Charlotte Bronte was brilliant that this was the next thing Jane faced: Her temptation was to give her life being a really really good Christian. She could devote herself to Christian service, and she would be good at it. But service without heart. St. John’s proposal was a true temptation. But because Jane had known real love, she could not settle for a mockery of marriage. No matter how dressed up it would be in piety, her heart sensed that it would be wrong, that love itself is sacred.

I’m not sure if I’m explaining why I related to this. I guess there’s a side of me that also thinks I can hide my pain in Christian service. Yes, God is enough. Yes, my relationship with God is incredibly comforting me. But if I keep my heart out of it, even that service will be worthless. As it says in I Corinthians 13, “If I give all I possess to feed the poor and deliver my body to the flames, but have not love, I am nothing.”

So, by the end of the book, I’m loving Jane, rooting for Jane, and relating to Jane. I’m still a romantic, so I love the part where Jane asks God for direction, and in answer she can hear Mr. Rochester’s voice across hundreds of miles. By this time, I don’t begrudge Jane her happy ending, no matter how contrived. Honestly, with Mr. Rochester crippled and blinded, the relationship seems a bit more equal. Though I do wish Jane would stop calling him “my master”!

Anyway, 30 years ago when I read Jane Eyre, I thought it a beautiful story of true love persevering despite all obstacles. I think that today I see it as a beautiful story of a young woman with true character and true faith and genuine love and forgiveness in her heart.

And a rousing read, no doubt about it!

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Source: This review is based on my own long-owned paperback copy.

Review of The Witch of Blackbird Pond

Classics, Historical, Old Favorites, Stand-outs, Starred Review, Teen Fiction Review 0

The Witch of Blackbird Pond

by Elizabeth George Speare

Laurel-Leaf Books, 1993. First published in 1958. 224 pages.
Winner of the 1959 Newbery Medal.
Starred Review.
Sonderbooks Stand-out 2010: Wonderful Rereads

When I took a class on the Newbery Medal, some of my classmates got to talking about The Witch of Blackbird Pond, and I found I simply couldn’t resist rereading it, even though for the class I was reading winners that I’d never read before.

Kit grew up in the West Indies, on her grandfather’s plantation. She wore fashionable clothes in bright colors, went swimming in the warm water, and took slaves for granted.

Her grandfather dies, leaving debts that an old widower will help her clear up, if she marries him. So Kit flees to the Massachusetts colony, to her mother’s sister, who married a Puritan long ago.

To say that Kit doesn’t fit in among the Puritans is an understatement. She tries to help in her aunt’s household, but it takes her time to get used to the tasks. She finds a friend in Hannah, an old woman living out by Blackbird Pond, a Quaker who’s rumored to be a witch, but whom Kit finds to be loving and kind.

There’s all kinds of drama in this story. It’s a testament to its power that most of us in the Newbery class were most enthusiastic about the romance, but one participant, who had read the book when she was younger, in elementary school, hadn’t even noticed the romance. She loved the book because of the drama of Kit trying to fit in and being accused of witchcraft.

The book takes place shortly before the American Revolution, so you also have good historical background. Of course, that’s more conflict for Kit, since she and her grandfather were Royalists, but the Massachusetts colony is talking about rebellion.

This is truly a wonderful book worth reading over and over again. It stands the test of time and spans almost all age levels.

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Review of A Wrinkle in Time Audiobook, Performed by Madeleine L’Engle

Audiobooks, Children's Fiction Review, Fantasy, Old Favorites, Science Fiction, Stand-outs, Starred Review 0

wrinkle_in_time_audioA Wrinkle in Time

by Madeleine L’Engle

Performance by the Author

Listening Library (Random House), An Unabridged Production on 5 compact discs, 5 hours, 17 minutes.
Text copyright 1962, performance copyright 1993 Tesser Tracks, Inc.
Newbery Medal Winner 1963.
Starred Review
Sonderbooks Stand-out 2010: Wonderful Rereads

In the online Newbery Medal class I took, we were all asked what was our favorite Newbery Medal winner, and no book was mentioned more than Madeleine L’Engle’s A Wrinkle in Time. (For me, it’s second only to The Hero and the Crown.) Imagine my delight as I was taking the class when I discovered that our library had a version of the book on CD read by the author herself!

Madeleine L’Engle spent some time in the theater, and she’s not a bad reader at all, besides knowing how she meant certain things to be pronounced. I wrote a review of A Wrinkle in Time way back when I first started writing Sonderbooks, in August 2001, in only my third “issue.” I find it amusing that I complained that it was hard to read it aloud because I couldn’t figure out how to read Mrs Which. Because when I listened to this production, and Mrs Which’s voice was done with a reverberating echo, I immediately thought, “Oh! That’s how she meant it to be read!” (I also thought it was a little unfair, because you can’t add that when you read it aloud to your own kids without special equipment!)

Listening to Madeleine L’Engle read the book herself was like hearing a friend coming back from the grave to tell a story, and a warm and loving story. Madeleine expresses all Meg’s peevishness in her voice. She’s an imperfect, flawed kid — but she saves the day.

Listening to A Wrinkle in Time inspired me afresh. I may have to purchase my own copy and make a new tradition of not only reading A Wrinkle in Time every few years, as I used to do, but now listening to it every few years, read to me by Madeleine L’Engle herself.

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Review of The Hero and the Crown, by Robin McKinley

Fantasy, Old Favorites, Stand-outs, Starred Review, Teen Fiction Review 1

hero_and_the_crownThe Hero and the Crown

by Robin McKinley

Greenwillow Books, New York, 1984. 246 pages.
1985 Newbery Medal Winner
Starred Review
Sonderbooks Stand-out 2010: Wonderful Rereads

Naturally, taking a class on the Newbery Medal was the perfect excuse to reread my all-time favorite Newbery Medal winner, The Hero and the Crown. I’ve already posted a review of my favorite Newbery Honor Book, The Blue Sword, which, no coincidence, is also by Robin McKinley.

I was a college student when The Hero and the Crown was written, and I’m not sure when I first discovered it, but now it’s one of those books I simply have to revisit every few years. Reading it again this time, I happened to have a persistent headache, but, my goodness, this book makes me feel ready to go out and slay my own dragons.

Technically, The Hero and the Crown is a prequel to The Blue Sword, since it was written second but the events in the story take place before those of The Blue Sword. Nowadays, they would call it a “Companion Novel,” because really the order doesn’t matter. I happened to read The Hero and the Crown first myself, and that worked fine. All I know is this: It doesn’t matter in which order you read them, just be sure that you read them!

If you like fantasy novels even the slightest bit, with these two books Robin McKinley established herself as the queen of the adventure heroine fantasy genre.

Aerin has always known she’s a misfit of a princess. Her mother was a witchwoman who enchanted the king, and Aerin has never shown any sign of manifesting the Gift for magic that all proper royals have.

Alas, the kingdom of Damar is having plenty of trouble, which is only to be expected since the loss of the Hero’s Crown.

Then her cousin Galanna goads Aerin into eating a Surka leaf — a plant that should manifest her Gift, if she had any. Aerin, instead, gets horribly ill. While recovering and trying to stay out of everyone’s way, she befriends her father’s old wounded warhorse, Talat. In her reading, she learns about an old potion that protects against dragonfire. Through persistent experiments, she perfects the formula for the ointment.

Now Aerin the witchwoman’s daughter is ready to make herself useful. With old broken-down Talat she begins fighting off the nasty vermin dragons that were out plaguing the villages.

But then, as her father is leaving to settle an uprising, a messenger comes bearing dread news.

“The Black Dragon has come…. Maur, who has not been seen for generations, the last of the great dragons, great as a mountain. Maur has awakened.”

This is the first tremendous challenge Aerin attempts and conquers, armed with her persistence and sheer determination.

The Hero and the Crown is one of the great girl-power novels of all time, along with magic and dragons and saving a kingdom and changing from a misfit to a true heroine. Fantasy lovers, like me, will come back to it again and again.

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Review of All Creatures Great and Small, by James Herriot

Biography, Humorous, Nonfiction Review, Old Favorites, Starred Review, True Stories 0

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All Creatures Great and Small

by James Herriot

St. Martin’s Paperbacks, 1998.  First published in 1972.  437 pages.

Starred review.

I doubt I need to say much about this classic story of James Herriot’s tales of starting out as a young veterinarian in the Yorkshire Dales.  I’m quite sure I first read it sometime when I was in elementary school.  They’re wholesome stories, and I enjoyed them as much then as I did delighting over them as an adult.

I thought I’d reread All Creatures Great and Small to give myself some good laughs in between other books.  Since the book is mostly episodic — with mainly separate, funny stories — it works well to read it in bits and pieces.

There are overarching threads, like the memorable characters of his employer Siegfried and his brother Tristan.  But mainly the book tells delightful, funny, and heartwarming tales of his work with animals and the farmers of the Dales.

This book is definitely the sort worth coming back to every few years to enjoy all over again.

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Review of Codependent No More, by Melody Beattie

Nonfiction Review, Old Favorites, Personal Growth, Relationships, Stand-outs, Starred Review 0

codependent_no_more.jpg

Codependent No More, by Melody Beattie

Hazelden, 1987.  231 pages.

Sonderbooks Stand-out 2008:  #5, Personal Growth

Starred Review

Codependent No More is by now a classic work on codependency.  If you want to understand what people are talking about when they mention “struggling with codependency,” this book is a good place to turn.

My friend Doris Rauseo gave me this copy of the book when I was a newlywed.  Interesting.  I have a feeling she saw many codependent traits in me which I was oblivious to.  Though I did read it and thought it had some good ideas.  However, 20 years later, I found the book in my moving boxes, and reading it now as an abandoned wife, I could suddenly see myself clearly.

Who is a Codependent?  The author describes in the introduction how as she became a codependent she began to understand them better:

“I saw people who were hostile; they had felt so much hurt that hostility was their only defense against being crushed again.  They were that angry because anyone who had tolerated what they had would be that angry.

“They were controlling because everything around and inside them was out of control.  Always, the dam of their lives and the lives of those around them threatened to burst and spew harmful consequences on everyone.  And nobody but them seemed to notice or care.

“I saw people who manipulated because manipulation appeared to be the only way to get anything done.  I worked with people who were indirect because the systems they lived in seemed incapable of tolerating honesty.

“I worked with people who thought they were going crazy because they had believed so many lies they didn’t know what reality was.

“I saw people who had gotten so absorbed in other people’s problems they didn’t have time to identify or solve their own.  These were people who had cared so deeply, and often destructively, about other people that they had forgotten how to care about themselves.  The codependents felt responsible for so much because the people around them felt responsible for so little; they were just taking up the slack.

“I saw hurting, confused people who needed comfort, understanding, and information.”

In this book, Melody Beattie manages to convey comfort, understanding, and information.  She helps you understand what codependency is, and helps you understand why sometimes being helpful ends up being hurtful.

Best of all, she offers hope of recovery:

“Codependency is many things.  It is a dependency on people — on their moods, behaviors, sickness or well-being, and their love.  It is a paradoxical dependency.  Codependents appear to be depended upon, but they are dependent.  They look strong but feel helpless.  They appear controlling but in reality are controlled themselves, sometimes by an illness such as alcoholism.

“These are the issues that dictate recovery.  It is solving these problems that makes recovery fun.  Many recoveries from problems that involve a person’s mind, emotions, and spirit are long and grueling.  Not so, here.  Except for normal human emotions we would be feeling anyway, and twinges of discomfort as we begin to behave differently, recovery from codependency is exciting.  It is liberating.  It lets us be who we are.  It lets other people be who they are.  It helps us own our God-given power to think, feel, and act.  It feels good.  It brings peace.  It enables us to love ourselves and others.  It allows us to receive love — some of the good stuff we’ve all been looking for.  It provides an optimum environment for the people around us to get and stay healthy.  And recovery helps stop the unbearable pain many of us have been living with.

“Recovery is not only fun, it is simple.  It is not always easy, but it is simple.  It is based on a premise many of us have forgotten or never learned:  Each person is responsible for him- or herself.  It involves learning one new behavior that we will devote ourselves to:  taking care of ourselves.  In the second half of this book, we’ll discuss specific ideas for doing that.”

This is a helpful, encouraging, and liberating book.

Here are more quotations that struck me as I read it:

http://sonderbooks.com/sonderquotes/?s=Codependent+No+more

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Review of Raising Demons, by Shirley Jackson

Humorous, Nonfiction Review, Old Favorites, True Stories 0
Raising Demons

by Shirley Jackson


Reviewed July 16, 2007.
Academy Chicago Publishers, Chicago, 1985. Originally written in 1956. 310 pages.
Starred Review.

Few true stories are as hilarious as those told by Shirley Jackson about bringing up her four children. This book continues the fun begun in Life Among the Savages. I guarantee that any parent or anyone who knows some kids will get some good laughs and hearty chuckles out of this book.

Part of her brilliance is how she reproduces the voices of her children, each one distinct. Sally is probably the most entertaining, with her habit of repeating words and the outrageous stories she tells, like telling the milkman, “Mommy has gone away to Fornicalia. Where my grandma lives, grandma. Would you please like some breakfast?”

I love the following scene, which beautifully conveys a mother’s feelings of irritation and desperation when a neighbor girl, Amy, comes over:

If Sally’s refrain conversation is difficult to bear, Amy’s repetitive conversation is worse; where Sally repeats the vital word, Amy repeats the whole sentence; Sally is the only one in our family who can talk to Amy at all. “May I please play with Sally?” Amy was saying through the back door screen, “is Sally here so she can play with me?” 

Sally slid off her chair and made for the cookie jar. “Amy,” she shouted, “Daddy is going to take us swimming, swimming, and ask your mommy if you can come, your mommy.”

“My mommy,” said Amy solemnly, opening the screen door and joining Sally at the cookie jar, “doesn’t let me go swimming right now, because I have a cold. I have a cold, so my mommy doesn’t want me to go swimming, because I have a cold. I have a cold,” she told me, “so my mommy won’t let me go swimming.”

“Because she has a cold,” Laurie said helpfully. “See, she has a cold and so—”

“Laurie,” I said feverishly. “Sally and Amy, please take those cookies outdoors.”

Their little “Beekman” is another great character. Here’s how he got his name:

Nothing is stable in this world. As soon as Barry was old enough to be regarded as a recognizable human being, with ideas and opinions, it became necessary for the other children to change him around. Since he was now too big to fit into a doll carriage, Jannie amused herself by dressing him in costume jewelry and ribbons. Sally sat on the floor next to the playpen and sang to him because, she said, it made him dance. Barry was clearly too formal a name, and we took to calling him B. B was too short, however, and he became Mr. B, then Mr. Beetle, and finally Mr. Beekman. he stayed Mr. Beekman until he was almost ready for nursery school, and then came around full circle, moving back to Mr. B, then B, and, at last, to Barry again. At one point he developed a disconcerting habit of answering no matter who was being called. Thus, dancing, and decked in ribbons, Beekman walked instead of creeping, and learned to drink from a cup.

Shirley Jackson has a beautiful ability to find the ludicrous in everyday family life. When they got a new car,

I went out and bought a new car-chair for Beekman, one that had a small steering wheel and gear-shift lever attached; when I put Beekman into his new car-chair he turned the steering wheel and said “Beep beep?” experimentally, and we all laughedd and told him he was a brave smart boy. by the end of a week I was no longer fumbling wildly for the brake pedal on the new car, and Beekman was manipulating his steering wheel and gearshift with such wild abandon and skillful maneuvering as to earn himself the title of Mad-Dog Beekman; I could not, at any time of the day or night, attempt to sneak the car out of the driveway without attracting Beekman’s attention, and he would hurl himself wildly at the doors and windows, calling out to wait a minute, he would be right there, and subsiding at last into hysterical terrors at my trying to drive without him.  

For my part, I found it extremely difficult to drive with dual controls, trying to ease around a tight corner with Beekman beside me shifting rapidly from high to reverse to second, swinging his wheel around sharply and yelling “Beep beep.” I used to try letting the car roll backward out of the driveway without starting the motor, but Beekman’s room was in the front and as soon as I got as far as the gateposts he would apparently catch some reflection of light and I would see his small infuriated face pressed against the window and hear the crash as Dikidiki hit the wall, and after a minute my husband or Laurie or Jannie or Sally would open the front door and call that I was to wait, they were just putting on Beekman’s jacket.

Usually, whenever Beekman drove, Sally wanted to come too. And whenever Sally came, Jannie thought she had better come along. And when Beekman and Sally and Jannie came, Laurie figured that we might just stop in at a movie or some such, and if we did he wanted to be along. As a result, whenever I went shopping in the new car, everyone came except my husband, who could not, for a long time, look at the new car without telling me how we were going bankrupt in style. One Saturday morning I almost got off without Beekman, who was learning from Sally how to cut out paper dolls, but before I was out of the driveway they were calling to me to wait a minute, and by the time I finally turned the car and headed off toward the big supermarkets I had all four of them with me, Sally accompanied by her dolls Susan and David and Patpuss, all dressed entirely in cleansing tissue, and carrying—although I did not know it when she got into the car—a pocketbook containing four pennies and a shilling stolen from her father’s coin collection.

I suppose I should have known that all was not going to go well when I found a parking space on main Street on Saturday at noon, with seventeen minutes paid for on the parking meter. Finding a parking space at all was so exceptional an occurrence that I wisely determined to disregard the fact that the car on my left—an out-of-state car, by the way, from some state where land is not so jealously parceled out as here in Vermont—was straddling the line. I eased my car in with only the faintest grazing sound, although it was immediately plain that if we were going to get out of the car at all, we were going to have to do it by sliding out the doors on the right-hand side.

“Jeepers,” Laurie remarked, gazing from his window at the car next to us, “cut it a little close, didn’t you?”

“It was Beekman,” I said nervously. “He kept pulling to the left.”

“Jeepers,” Laurie said to Beekman, “you want to watch where you’re going, kid.”

“Dewey, dewey,” said Beekman, this being a combination word he used for a series of connected ideas, roughly translatable as: Observe my latest achievement, far surpassing all my previous works in this line, a great and personal triumph representing perhaps the most intelligent progress ever accomplished by a child of my years. “Dewey,” said Beekman pleasurably.

Later, when Barry was a bit older and Sally had learned to read,

With three reading children in the house, competition over Barry, who could be read to, was very heavy. I still retained my post as bedtime reader—I began again with The Wizard of Oz—but Laurie and Jannie and Sally found themselves sometimes all reading aloud from different enticing works, each hoping to lure Barry who moved, basking, from one to another. For a little while, Jannie forged ahead through a brilliant imaginative stroke; she refused to read aloud, and offered, instead, to tell stories made up out of her own head. This began the Jefry stories, which were about a little boy named Jefry who had an elephant who was called Peanuts becaue he ate so many . . . “What?” said Barry. “Cabbages,” said Jannie firmly. Jefry had a bear named Dikidiki, just like Barry, and Jefry irked Sally so considerably that she brought out her boy doll Patpuss, renamed him Jefry, announced that he was her little brother, and commenced telling him stories about a little imaginary boy named Barry, who had a bear named Dikidiki just like Jefry. This became the competing Barry series. One evening Laurie came staggering in from the Story Hour in the kitchen, and announced to his father that he had just made up a story about a little boy named Dikidiki who had two imaginary bears, Barry and Jefry, and we had to make a rule that stories must be told one at a time, and last no more than two minutes by the kitchen clock.

I like to read this book when I need to lighten up and laugh. Even though it was written when you could put a penny in a parking meter, life with kids is still pretty much the same. But Shirley Jackson makes you laugh about it, which is a lot more fun than screaming in frustration.