On the children’s
book that’s as sad and as joyous as life itself.
Arnold
Lobel’s Uncle
Elephant (1981) is one seriously sad children’s book. It’s sad in its premise:
the young elephant narrator/protagonist’s parents are lost at sea and presumed
dead, and so he goes to live with the titular, elderly bachelor uncle. It’s sad
in its content: Uncle Elephant both senses and shares the narrator’s sadness, particularly
because his house is full of reminders such as a picture of the parents, and
the book’s stories comprise his successful but transient attempts to cheer his
nephew up. And it’s even, most unexpectedly sad in its conclusion: the narrator’s
parents are found, alive after all; and yet the concluding story, “Uncle
Elephant Closes the Door,” focuses much more on Uncle Elephant’s sadness at the
end of his time with his nephew, as when he counts the number of days they have
spent together and notes that they “passed much too quickly” (a thought
exemplified by the story’s contrast to the book’s first, “Uncle Elephant Opens
the Door”).
These multiple
layers of sadness might seem to differentiate Lobel’s book from most children’s
books, but I’m not sure that’s accurate. Think for example of the opening
situations of many of the other children’s books I’ve analyzed in this space:
the abandoned and bored brother and sister of The
Cat in the Hat; the world that has passed Mike
Mulligan and His Steam Shovel by;
the kidnapping of Curious
George from his happy jungle home; the anger and punishment that opens Where
the Wild Things Are. Or think of how many children’s book characters are
orphaned at the start of their stories: Babar;
Mary Lennox in The
Secret Garden; Anne from Anne
of Green Gables; and Harry Potter, to name only a few. Indeed, it might
be more accurate to say that children’s books have often been defined not through
the absence of such sadnesses, but through characters and stories that respond
to them, through representations of how children and the world go on in the
face of the inevitable losses and pain that living brings.
Seen in that
light, the internal stories in Uncle
Elephant are far from the transient moments of happiness I described them
as above. Instead, the stories represent life itself: the storytelling and
singing, travels and trumpetings of the dawns (a hard one to explain if you
haven’t read Lobel’s book—so pick up a copy!), sillinesses and seriousnesses of
all of our days. They come to an end, as do all stories, all days and lives.
But in between they are full of joy and celebration, of laughter and love, most
especially because of the company we keep, the role of family and friends in
enriching and illuminating our stories (there’s a reason that one of Lobel’s
stories is titled “Uncle Elephant Lights a Lamp”). And while the door may—does—eventually
close, we can of course always return to and re-tell those stories, finding
again the joy that Lobel’s book (like all great children’s books) captures so
poignantly.
July Recap this
weekend,
Ben
PS.
Thoughts on this uncle? Any other uncle/aunt connections you’d highlight?
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