The Opacity of Death

I’ve noticed that many of the translated books I’ve come across have this feeling about them.  I’ve struggled to put it into words, but Dutch children’s author Isabel Hoving came to my rescue.  She describes reading translated literature as a child as “the curious rubbing against each of language” and compares it to having double vision.  As an adult she recognizes this as style which she calls “the untranslatability, the opacity of other cultures.”

(Don’t worry, I had to look up opacity for clarification, too.  I’ll give you a minute.)

In all my categories, Controversy is the one where this “haziness” seems the strongest at times.  I think it is largely due in part to what I mentioned the other day about being aware that what and how other cultures share information differs greatly around the world.  And often it’s not that cultures are on completely opposite ends of the spectrum, but that it’s just different enough that it catches our attention.

(Kristi’s Note:  I recognize that the books I’ve included here have a decidedly European slant and that is worth noting in my analysis.  There are many books that I could have included from other places, a few of which will be in other Controversy subcategories and in at least one of my other categories.)

This had been on my mind quite a bit as I began to dive into my research for this first post on death.  I had long ago chosen the books I wanted to include in the post but I was struggling for a way to tie them all together cohesively.  While I could make broad sweeping generalizations which much of my research noted about the more bold, matter-of-fact way death is often presented in many European children’s books as opposed to the softer more emotional approach of many American books on the subject, I couldn’t find any solid conclusive reason as to why or even any real proof this was the case.

I did however, find a statement that gave me pause.  I was reading this article, which cited a podcast about Death in Children’s Literature.  As I was reading the notes, the statement “In fact, most children’s books are not tackling death; they tackle mourning” struck a chord.  It too was a rather broad sweeping generalization, but the more I thought about it the more I recognized the truth behind it, especially if you narrow the scope to picture books.

A little more research turned up the topic of bibliotherapy, which in short is reading books on a specific topic that impacts you directly to promote healing.  I think, to some extent, most readers do this to some means.  I know I do.  And I know I do for my kids.  With this in mind, it then makes sense that picture books, geared (mostly) at young readers would focus on how to handle death after it happens.  The Horn Book’s article on what makes a good picture book on loss succinctly put it that they are most often used “when events in a child’s life precipitate an immediate need.”

But looking at my translated choices I realized what struck me as to the “opacity of other cultures” as it related to death; these books really were about death.  With the exception of one of the four that I had chosen, the books weren’t about mourning or how to cope with death.  These books personified death.  They made it a part of life.  They asked questions about it.  They didn’t offer answers or comfort, they served a means of beginning a conversation at any time, not only after the fact.

While I’m sure there are other examples out there, I don’t think this is the case for most picture books.  Sadly, because picture books are often only shared with younger readers, their ability to tackle some more controversial topics is often shied away from.  There is a missed opportunity here as picture books can be so beneficial to any age reader.  They can appeal to different styles of learning and touch each of us in different ways.

I’m not suggesting that there isn’t value in the way the majority of picture books present death.  Rather, I think there is much potential in reaching outside of that to explore the topic on another level, which these translated texts do.

Death, Duck and the Tulip

By: Wolf Erlbruch

Translated by: Catherine Chidgey

Consider Wolf Erlbruch’s book Death, Duck and the Tulip.  Erlburch, (who will show up again in my favorites category) winner of the 2016 Hans Christian Andersen Award and the 2017 Astrid Lindgren award, is known for taking on adult topics in his books.  Death, Duck and the Tulip, with its skeleton like Grim Reaper figure, implies that Death is part of life as he interacts with Duck throughout the story as a companion, almost a friend. 

I found literary articles, philosophy articles, and even a review of the stage play adaptation that praised it for its abilities to allow discussion.  The book doesn’t provide answers as to what exactly death is, but it allows the reader to consider it from a different perspective. 

Jellybeans

By: Sylvia Van Ommen

Translated By: Nancy Forest-Flier

Similarly, Jellybeans by Sylvia Van Ommen offers no answers.  At first glance, the black and white line drawings of the Cat and Bunny (who communicate via text message!) may seem simple.  But as the two friends meet up to share jelly beans and hot chocolate their conversation turns to their beliefs in death, heaven, hell and how they will find each other again wherever they end up.  When I was looking back through my first read through notes, I noted my favorite lines of the book being “But if we bump into each other and we don’t recognize each other….”  “Then we can just become friends all over again.”  

 Like Death, Duck and the Tulip, Van Ommen’s story opens a door to potential dialogue because it doesn’t tell the reader what to think or how to feel when tackling a big topic. (If you get a few minutes, I highly suggest this podcast from NPR where they discuss how “deceptively simple” the book is.)

Grandpa’s Angel

By: Jutta Bauer

Translated By: (Walker Books owns the copyright, there is no translator given credit.  We’ll look at this again when we get to “Lost in Translation”)

I chose to include Grandpa’s Angel by German author Jutta Bauer (winner of a Hans Christian Andersen Medal in 2010) because similar to Death, Duck and the Tulip, it reminds the reader how close by death often is perhaps without our ever realizing it.  The story is one of a grandfather telling his grandson the story of his life.  What the words don’t say but the pictures make clear is that the grandfather avoided quite a few run-ins with death with some unseen angelic assistance.  Bauer tackles not just death, but bullying, war and poverty.  Death is never directly mentioned, rather just inferred at the end of the story as the boy leaves the hospital with an angel trailing in his wake. 

Similar to the first two books, there are no answers, no grand explanation as to what it all means.  I did come across quite a few heated suggestions that this book was not meant for children as they would not comprehend some of the references (one character wears a Star of David, there is an officer in a Nazi uniform).  I would counter that argument with a reminder that while some kids will skip over or not understand the reference, it does not change the overall story.  For those that do understand it, the inclusion of those elements makes the story even more powerful.

My Father’s Arms Are A Boat

Written By: Stein Erik Lunde

Illustrated by: Oyvind Torseter

Translated By: Kari Dickson

My last choice to share seems to follow the more traditional picture book mold that suggests most books on death are more about mourning.  Be that as it may, there was no way that I could not share this book.  There is something haunting yet uplifting in the combination of grief that seems emanates off the page but is off-set by the hope that if they continue to lean on each other (the physicality of which can be seen on multiple pages) the boy and his father will survive.  

The artwork alone sets this book apart.  (We’ll see Torseter again in my favorites category, I’m mesmerized by his work.)  Torseter uses cut out shapes that appear to stand up off the page, giving the illusion of being three dimensional.  There are even instances of the text appearing on those cut-outs, suggesting collaboration between the writer and illustrator to fuse the two elements together.  In a 2016 interview, Torseter confirmed that he and Lunde had worked together from early stages of the manuscript, which gave him more creative input as to the finished book.

In the interview, Torseter mentions that it was this relationship that led to the inclusion of the red fox stating “I thought it could be interesting to make a visual story inside the story. So I made a red fox wandering around outside in the snowy winter night while the two are talking. I thought this would be more interesting than showing the two of them speaking. Later in the book the visual story about the fox and the text meets, where the father takes his son out to look at the stars in the night.”

I found this fascinating given that when I mentioned to one of my professors that I was intending to include this book in my project, she told me that on the few instances she has shared this book with younger audiences, they often miss the references to death but instead focus on the role of the fox in the story (It is never directly stated that the mother is dead, but the text alludes to it several times as does the final illustration).  Like the other three, I think this is on another level than what we would normally conjure up mentally when the phrase “picture book” is spoken.  There are layers to this story depending on how deep the reader wants to explore and what they hope to take away.

One more morsel of food for thought before I wrap up our conversation on death.  In 2017 the winner of the Batchelder award, was a picture book about death (Cry, Heart, But Never Break  One of the 2016 Batchelder Honor Books (Grandma Lives in a Perfume Village) was also about death.  Remember that the Batchelder goes to any translated children’s title, not just picture books.  We will be getting back to Perfume Village in another category, but I admittedly haven’t read Cry, Heart, But Never Break yet.  Even though both are award winners, neither was available at my library or Eastern’s library, something I found a touch disturbing.  Only 36 libraries in Michigan have Village and 59 Cry, Heart.  American Library Association award winning books, and that’s it.  Controversy, right?  Just sayin’…

I’ll be back Friday taking a deeper look at our next controversy subcategory with some titles that focus on the atrocities of war.  From death to war, aren’t picture books great?