Zohar Shavit,
Poetics of Children's Literature,
The University of Georgia Press,
Athens and London, 1986 ©
Chapter Two
The Self-Image
of Children's Literature
In the previous discussion of the emergence of children's
culture, I concluded that its status within culture as a
whole and in the literary polysystem in particular is in-
ferior. In a way this status is similar to that of non-can-
onized adult literature, mainly in some of its patterns of behavior
such as its tendency to secondary models, to self-perpetuation, and
so forth (see Even-Zohar 1979). A further similarity between the two
systems can be seen in the fact that both are stratified not only by
genre but also by subject and readership. The latter stratification
manifests itself through a division by gender (men and women in
adult literature; boys and girls in children's literature); and the for-
mer by a variance of subject matter -- adventure, detective, school
stories, and so on (see Toury 1974).
Yet, the position of the children's system should not be discussed,
as is sometimes suggested, in terms of the non-canonized system.
Such an identification is deceiving in that it belies the special status
children's literature maintains in regard to the educational system
and the literary system. It can also lead to a disregard for the distinc-
tion between non-canonized adult literature and the children's sys-
tem, which by itself, is stratified as a whole into canonized and non-
canonized systems. Another approach, which seems more helpful for
my purposes of examining the status of children's literature in
culture, is to focus on what might be described as its "self-image."
Social psychology has largely been concerned with the connection
between social status and self-image -- the way a certain group re-
gards itself as a result of both internal and external points of view. It
has shown that different social groups have different self-images
33
(Goffman 1959) which, to a large extent, determine their norms, mo-
tivations, and major patterns of behavior. This is why I have chosen
to discuss the status of children's literature as it relates to the self-
image of children's writers and to apply my conclusions meta-
phorically to the whole system of children's literature, whose poor
self-image seems to result from the attitudes of various literary and
social factors in culture.
The self-image of the children's system is determined, like any
other self-image, by mutually dependent external and internal points
of view of social factors in culture. The external point of view is
associated with how other systems regard the children's system,
while the internal is connected with the system's view of itself. These
internal and external views are formulated in adjustment to one an-
other and thus reinforce each other, in spite of the fact that they
represent contradicting interests at times. The inability of a system to
extricate itself from this "catch" is most evident when one tries to
violate expectations resulting from those views. Even then one is
forced to behave in accordance with them, or at least cannot avoid
taking them into account.
Hence, a discussion of the self-image of children's literature can
explore both society's expectations of the children's system, as well as
the system's response to them. The discussion of self-image can
serve as a good point of departure for studying characteristic patterns
of behavior of the children's system, especially as far as norms of
writing for children are concerned. The following two questions will
be raised in discussion of these issues: How is self-image created and
what are its main features? (How does the system see itself? How is
the system seen by other systems?); In what way does self-image
determine the character of the texts for children, or in other words,
what sort of constraints are imposed on the texts for children as a
result of its self-image?
Other Systems' Views of the Children's System
From the beginning, children's literature was regarded by other sys-
tems as inferior. The general attitude toward children's literature can
be best exposed by viewing the means by which society attributed a
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high status to literary systems and their writers. These means, which
have become status symbols, are beyond the reach of children's liter-
ature, as the following cases indicate.
Most children's books are not considered part of the cultural
heritage, and hence national histories of literature barely mention
children's books, if at all. Children's writers and books rarely appear
as items in encyclopedias or lexicons, unless the latter are specifically
devoted to children's literature. In such a way, a distinction is made
between "real" literature and children's literature.
Children's literature has not been regarded as a subject of study at
universities, because it was not considered a subject of importance in
culture. Moreover, the recent change that took place in the attitude
toward children's literature in curriculum only reinforces its inferior
position; that is, although children's literature is taught in courses in
many universities, it has not gained recognition as a subject for de-
partments of literature (with a few exceptions). If anyone at all con-
siders it as a legitimate field of research, then mostly departments of
education do. Again, this is true because children's literature is not
regarded as part of literature, but more as part of the educational
apparatus -- a vehicle for education, a major means of teaching and
indoctrinating the child. In past centuries, adult literature was
thought of in terms of its educational function in society, but here,
this is not a case of adult literature's norms being perpetuated
through the children's system, even though it may seem so. The link-
age to the educational system is not the result of a transition of liter-
ary norms, but rather the result of social legitimations and moti-
vations that have played an important role in the development of
children's literature (see chapters 6-7) and since then have fixed the
educational system as a major frame of reference for children's liter-
ature. A critical view of this linkage between children's literature and
the educational system is sharply expressed by the writer Jill Paton
Walsh: "Many teachers see the children's writer, like the children's
doctor, the children's psychiatrist, the children's teacher, the chil-
dren's home, as part of the apparatus of society for dealing with and
helping children, as a sort of extracurricular psychiatric social work-
er" (Walsh 1973, 32).
Awarding prizes is one of the major means by which "people in
culture" attribute high status to writers. So far, the policy of awarding
35
prizes has almost always excluded children's writers from the list.
Not even one Nobel Prize, nor any other less prestigious prize, has
ever been awarded to a children's writer. In order to fight this blatant
disregard for children's literature, special prizes for children's writers
were established, as Lucia Binder observed: "When the Interna-
tional Board on Books for Young People under the initiative of its
founder Jella Lepman decided to establish an international award for
children's literature, it did so with the intention of creating a symbol
of international cooperation, but also of finally giving the profession
of writing for children the proper recognition which it had not hither-
to received from the general public" (Binder 1977, 123). The estab-
lishment of special prizes for children's writers might have improved
their position in society, but on the other hand, it also reinforced their
lower status. What is actually implied by such a phenomenon is the
belief that children's literature is something "different" that cannot
be judged by "normal" literary criteria and thus needs special criteria
of its own. A prominent example of the "non-literary" evaluation of
children's literature is patently clear in the composition of juries
awarding prizes to children's writers. These judges mostly come
from the field of education (see, for instance, the News of the Ameri-
can Library Association and the description of the procedure for
awarding prizes, Dohm 1957); what is even more telling, perhaps,
are their reasons for making the award. Children's books deserving
prizes are those which "deal with the real problems of children and
which help them to understand themselves as well as other people
and the world in which they live" (Binder 1978, 32). That is, it is the
educational and not the literary value of the book which merits
praise.
Thus, a writer for children is chosen to receive the most pres-
tigious prize primarily because his work has such educational value.
The jury decision for awarding the Hans Christian Andersen Medal
to Paula Fox claimed:
Children's books such as those by the American author Paula Fox, who
was this year awarded the Hans Christian Andersen Medal, can help
children to develop understanding for one another and also help the many
adults who are having their own "Year of the Child" during the "Cen-
tury of the Child" to find a way of teaching the child and the adolescent.
36
In her movingly told stories Paula Fox has succeeded in capturing
moments in the lives of children which can be of decisive importance in
their personal development. (Binder 1978, 32; my italics)
The jury decisions reflect not only criteria for judging children's
books, but also society's expectations of children's literature, as Wal-
ter Scherf notes in an introduction to a list of prize winners: "Awards
reflect the views of an era. The lists of prize-winning titles give evi-
dence of our period's ideas on education more forcefully and authen-
tically than it could be found anywhere else" (Scherf 1969, vii). As
most protocols reveal, the jury expresses the view that a children's
writer should respond to the child's needs, a demand which some
writers find hard to accept, as Jill Paton Walsh states: "A teacher once
asked me why I didn't write a book about trade unions, for surely I
would agree there was a need for one. Another teacher . . . asked
'But don't you feel any responsibility to your audience?' Now this is
like being asked 'have you stopped beating your wife?' It contains an
accusation" (Walsh 1973, 30).
This poor self-image of a children's writer is most evident when
compared to the self-image of the canonized writer for adults. Writ-
ers for adults serve not only as the frame of reference of the literary
establishment but also enjoy the status of "serious" members of soci-
ety. Their views on societal issues are warmly welcomed and even
encouraged, while a writer for children is seldom asked for his view
and rarely finds himself considered part of the literary establishment.
This social position forces him to constantly protect his status in
society, which consequently remains peripheral and apologetic.
The demand to respond to the child's needs, however, is neither
simple nor unequivocal. The children's writer is perhaps the only
one who is asked to address one particular audience and at the same
time to appeal to another. Society expects the children's writer to be
appreciated by both adults (and especially by "the people in culture")
and children. Yet this demand is both complex and even contradicto-
ry by nature because of the different and even incompatible tastes of
children and adults. But one thing is clear: in order for a children's
book to be accepted by adults, it is not enough for it to be accepted by
children. "Good literature is good literature; it satisfies both children
and critics," claims the critic Rebecca Lukens (1978, 452-53).
37
This assumption about children's literature is oversimplified and
even untrue most of the time. The criteria for a positive evaluation of
a children's book, if it is not an educational one, is its success in
appealing to adults. As Jos‚ Miguel de Azaaola, president of the
prestigious Hans Christian Andersen Award confessed when award-
ing the prize to Meindert DeJong, "I do this because his books have
deeply moved me, because their impressions will not soon be forgot-
ten by me" (International Youth Library, Hektograph no. 697, p. 3).
Whether or not the book "deeply moved" a child seems not to be
taken into account at all. This, strangely enough, happens in spite of
the increasing awareness of adults of the differences between them-
selves and children -- a distinction that adults are keenly aware of and
even endeavor to make sharper. Nevertheless, when it comes to eval-
uating children's culture, they ignore the child's opinion and focus on
the adult's.
In such a way, external attitudes toward children's literature both
contribute to its poor self-image and concurrently create it. Chil-
dren's literature is thus deprived of all status symbols. At the same
time, it must cope with contradictory criteria imposed on it by the
need to satisfy both adults and children and by the need to respond
to what society believes to be "good" and appropriate for the child.
The fact that children's literature is not recognized as literature per
se and the criteria for its evaluation are not determined by its official
addressee influences, of course, the view children's writers have of
themselves. Consequently, it plays an important role in determining
the self-image of the system from the internal point of view.
The Internal Point of View
Historically speaking, the status of the writer for children has always
been inferior to that of the writer for adults, which probably explains
the following two phenomena.
For quite a long time (long after adult writers had ceased the prac-
tice, see Charvat 1968a), writers for children (especially men) would
not sign their work. Most likely, they were interested in writing for
children because of the chances for commercial success or because
of ideological motivations. Nevertheless, they tended to publish
38
anonymously or under a pseudonym, probably because writing for
children was not respected by society, as Peter and Iona Opie noted
when describing their work on their anthology:
At the beginning of the nineteenth century moralists and educators
customarily had their names on the title pages of their work; but those
who sought to entertain the public remained discreet about it. They
were not held to be advancing man's spiritual and intellectual welfare
like their calf-bound contemporaries, and could not therefore expect to
be admired. In only one of the frolics we chose, for instance, was the
full name given of its author. (Opie and Opie 1980)
With women, however, the case was different. Having a subordinate
position in society, women writers had nothing to lose. On the con-
trary, by writing they could only improve their status, especially be-
cause writing for children was considered more appropriate for
women, who were "closer" to children. As a result, most of the offi-
cial writers for children during the eighteenth century and the begin-
ning of the nineteenth century were women.
Today, however, this is no longer true: children's writers do sign
their works. Men and women in equal numbers write for children
and are equally respected. Yet, most writers seem to be unhappy with
their position in society as children's writers. It could be almost a rule
that when highly praised and unquestionably recognized writers for
children are asked about being such, they are usually reluctant to
"admit" it. The following extracts may serve as evidence for writers'
feelings about being children's writers and the profession of writing
for children.
Not long ago, I spoke at a girls' boarding school where I was asked over
and over again, "Why do you write for children?" My immediate re-
sponse was, "I don't." Of course I don't. I don't suppose most chil-
dren's writers do. (Madeleine L'Engle, in Townsend 1971, 127)
I have never written for any age-group at all, but merely for myself.
. . . The themes of my children's books are mostly quite adult, and
in fact the difference between writing for children and for adults is, to
me at any rate, only a quite small gear change. (Rosemary Sutcliff, in
Townsend 1971, 201)
39
Books of mine which are classified officially as books for children were
not written for children. (Scott O'Dell, in Townsend 1971, 160)
Is there a conscious difference in the way I write for grown ups and
children? No, there is no difference of approach, style, vocabulary or
standard. I could pick out passages from any of the books and you
would not be able to tell what age it was aimed at. (L. M. Boston, in
Townsend 1971, 36)
Each book I have written I have desperately wanted to write. Whether
or not they had anything to do with children has never occurred to me.
I have never liked children's books very much, I don't read very many.
(Jane Gardam 1978, 489)
Patricia Wrightson "admits" that she writes for children but de-
scribes her writing for children as a stage toward her writing for
adults: "So I ventured to try my hand at a novel for children, very
deliberately making my work into a course of training; requiring that
in each book I should break new and (for me) difficult ground, and
hoping to graduate to adult novels some day" (Townsend 1971, 212).
How can we account for this phenomenon? What is the explanation
for the fact that well-known writers for children who attained their
status as children's writers are reluctant to view themselves as such?
In fact, the only writer to admit openly that there is a difference in
writing for children and for adults is someone well known as an adult
writer like Bashevis-Singer (1977), who, when interviewed on the
issue of writing for children, confirmed: "If I have to torture some-
one, I would rather torture an adult than a child" (1977, 12). Pamela
Travers, Maurice Sendak, and Jill Paton Walsh seem to hint at the
roots of the problem. Pamela Travers explains why she rejects the
title of a children's writer in the following manner: "Nor have they
[my books] anything to do with that other label: 'Literature for chil-
dren,' which suggests that this is something different from literature
in general, something that pens off both child and author from the
main stream of writing" (1975, 21). Jill Paton Walsh makes these
insightful observations: "Very often the decision that they are chil-
dren's writers was made in the first instance by a publisher. Once
made it is difficult to alter.... We live in an age of shrinking literacy
and it seems we must accept that books which give us pleasure to
write and our own adult friends pleasure to read, will appeal in the
40
world outside only to the unsophisticated and the young" (1973, 32).
Maurice Sendak adds: "We who work on children's books inhabit a
sort of literary shtetl. When I won a prize for Wild Things, my father
spoke for a great many critics when he asked whether I would now be
allowed to work on 'real' books" (Kanfer 1980, 41). What is common
to all these writers is the feeling that writing for children means
something inferior, something different from "literature" as under-
stood by highbrows. They feel that as writers for children they are
doomed to an inferior status as writers and are unduly restricted in
their writing because of society's attitude toward children's literature.
Thus, because of the poor self-image of children's literature, writers
attempt to liberate themselves from the children's system and wish to
be considered simply as writers (or potential writers) for adults in
order to better their position and to gain more freedom in their writ-
ing. This wish is manifested first in the writer's denial of a particular
addressee (the child) and the denial of any distinction between writ-
ing for adults and writing for children. As a result, children's writers
claim that children's and adult literature deserve the same respect.
The second manifestation of the desire to be "liberated" lies in the
assertion that children's books should be judged by the same criteria
as adults', or in C. S. Lewis's words: "I am almost inclined to set it up
as a canon that a children's story which is enjoyed only by children is
a bad children's story" ([1952] 1969, 210). These claims of children's
writers indicate the pervasiveness of the poor self-image of children's
literature. Not only does the outside world regard children's liter-
ature as inferior, but also the children's writers themselves do so,
thus reinforcing and perpetuating this self-image. However, despite
the explicit denial of the special status of children's literature, it can-
not be denied that writers for children do write within the framework
of constraints imposed on the system due to the specific addressee.
But this specific addressee turns out to be problematical, because of
the contradictory necessity of appealing to both adults and children
at the same time. Writers find various solutions to this problem, the
most extreme being the ignoring of one of the addressees. Either the
child is used as an excuse only (see the case of ambivalent texts in
chapter 3) or the adult reader is ignored, which entails risking his
rejection. The first case is described by Astrid Lindgren as follows:
"Many who write for children wink slyly over the heads of their
41
child-readers to an imaginary reader; they wink agreeingly to the
adults and ignore the child" (1978, 12). The opposite extreme is
characteristic of writers of popular literature, who are mainly in-
terested in the commercial success of their books and do not expect
any prestigious standing in society. They are concerned not with
whether their books will be able to appeal to adults, but with whether
they will sell well. This is why they are ready to pay almost any price,
including a total rejection by adults, in order to enlarge their reading
public and increase the popularity of their books. This readiness is
evident not only in the fact that they totally ignore adults as potential
readers, but more so in their presentation of adults in the texts. Typ-
ical in these texts is the creation of a world where a strong opposition
between children and adults is presented -- a world in which children
can do anything without adult help and even manage to do it better.
Adults seldom take part in their adventures, and if they do, they are
either fought against or mocked at, or both (for an analysis of such a
case, see chapter 4 on Enid Blyton). Yet these two ways for challeng-
ing constraints imposed on children's literature are rather extraordi-
nary. Most writers for children do not endeavor to bypass these con-
straints, but accept them as a framework for handling the problem of
their specific addressee. The need to take the addressee into consid-
eration is primarily evident in the assumptions the writer maintains
about the possible understanding of the text by its reader -- the
child -- or, in other words, the writer's assumptions about the possi-
ble realization of the text by its implied reader. Following Hrushovski
(1979) and Vodicka (1976), I do not refer here to a specific realization
of the text by an individual reader, but to the construction of the
reading process, which is the intersubjective result of the realization
of the text as assumed by the writer, consciously or unconsciously.
Writers are well aware of the potential realization of the text by its
implied reader, especially in regard to the following aspects (which,
of course, are mutually dependent): the text's complexity, the struc-
ture of the narration, the stylistic level, and the subject matter. The
last two seem to bother writers most because they are the aspects
that, in their eyes, make children's literature distinct or, in the words
of Nina Bawden: "But you can, and should, leave out things that are
beyond their comprehension" (1974, 9). Or, as Astrid Lindgren ob-
serves: "First of all, the language. I think this is almost the most
42
. . if you are writing for five-year-olds . . . then you
shouldn't use words and expressions which you must be at least 10
years old to understand....
Write things which are funny for children and adults; but never
write something which you know for sure is funny only for adults"
(1978, 10-11). Writers are also well aware of the structure of narra-
tion and the text's complexity. Nina Bawden referred to the structure
and nature of narration in the following manner: "The only real dif-
ference between writing for adults or for children is whose eyes I am
looking through" (1974, 13). Moreover, Gillian Avery, when being
interviewed by Naomi Bowen, explained why her book addressed
children, in relation to complexity: "I realised it couldn't possibly be
an adult book, everything is far too simplified, all the emotions are far
too direct for it to be considered as an adult book" (Bowen 1975,
207).
A Test Case: Roald Dahl's Danny the Champion of the World
THE TEXT AND THE IMPLIED READER
Writers' descriptions of their work and their attitudes toward it can
serve as a very good source for analyzing their self-image, but cannot
serve as the ultimate evidence for manifestations of the self-image on
the text. Once the question of the text arises, the texts themselves
must be studied to inquire into their specific addressee. The struc-
ture of the specific addressee is, of course, best revealed when com-
pared to that of the adult as implied reader. One can see the virtue of
comparative analysis of texts transferred from the adult to the chil-
dren's system (Gulliver's Travels and Robinson Crusoe, for instance),
where the systematic constraints of the implied reader are respon-
sible to a large extend for the transfer procedure (see Chapter 5 on
translations for children). But comparison as such demands the elim-
ination of other issues involved with the translation procedure before
the question of the implied reader can be discussed (especially when
a text is not only "translated" from adult to children's system, but
also from one national literary system to another). Hence the best
possible example for illustrating the point is a text that was written by
43
the same writer for children and then for adults and exists at the
same time within the literary polysystem.
This text, despite being a rare phenomenon, can serve as a good
example to reveal the writer's constraints (regarding the child as an
implied reader) because all the methodological eliminations required
for such a comparative study preceded the text processing. In such a
case, it is undoubtedly the writer's recognition of different implied
readers that is responsible for the text's differences, and not the dif-
ferences between two literary polysystems and their norms or differ-
ent poetics of different writers. The trouble is, of course, the rarity of
such cases. First of all, not many writers write for both children and
adults. Secondly, if they do, as a result of being aware of the dif-
ferences between the two readers, they write very different "stories."
Such a unique case does exist in Roald Dahl's "The Champion of
the World," a story originally written for adults and published in his
book Kiss Kiss (Dahl [1959] 1980). Later, Dahl rewrote the story as a
novel for children entitled Danny the Champion of the World (Dahl
[1975] 1977). Another good reason for choosing this text as a test
case lies in its nonconventionality. In terms of the children's system,
the text is not a standard text at all. Both its subject (poaching) and
the relations described between father ("thief") and son are excep-
tional (In a private conversation with Mrs. Kay Webb, a former editor
of Puffin Books, I was told that she questioned whether the book
should be published at all, due to its "inappropriate" subject). Yet,
this is exactly why Dahl's texts are interesting; when the non-conven-
tional children's text is compared to the adult text, fundamental dif-
ferences, which are undoubtedly the result of different implied read-
ers, are revealed.
It is true that at first glance the two texts might seem very similar:
both tell the story of fantastic poaching of pheasants and fantastic
tricks that make the hero the champion of the world in poaching.
Moreover, both are narrated in the first person. When analyzed,
however, the two texts turn out to be quite distinct because one is
much more complicated than the other. By saying that a text for
adults is more complicated than one for children, I refer both to the
organization of the various levels of the text, as well as to the in-
terlevel relations. Hence in the text for adults, various levels are not
organized according to the simplest (or most immediate) principle.
44
For instance, the distribution of material is not chronological but is
organized by the narrator's consciousness. On the other hand, the
interlevel relations of the adult text are aimed at carrying more func-
tions by fewer elements (for instance, the relations between the order
of information and the narrator carry both the function of irony, the
characterization of main characters, evaluation of poaching, and
more).
The most obvious differences between the adult and children's
versions are in the following aspects: genre (short story versus novel);
characters and characterization (two friends versus father and son);
attitudes (ambiguous attitudes versus unequivocal attitudes); and
endings ("open" ending versus "happy" ending). These differences
cannot be simply explained as the result of differences between the
main characters, nor can they be accounted for simply as a difference
between a short story and a novel. Both decisions concerning genre
and characters (and consequently, attitudes and endings) were di-
rectly related to Dahl's original decision to "translate" the adult short
story into a text for children. As a famous writer, Dahl could afford to
write on "inappropriate" subjects and describe unusual relations be-
tween father and son. If he still wished to ensure the acceptance of
the text by the children's system, however, he had to offer compensa-
tion for violating the rules by adapting both subject and characters to
the children's code. Therefore, a certain change in direction was not
a matter of free will but was imposed on the text due to its transfer to
the children's system.
The most obvious step Dahl had to take was to "neutralize" the
subject by legitimizing both the subject and the attitudes presented in
the text. To do so, he had to enlarge the text to permit a different
presentation. Therefore the first decision -- that of a generic
change -- was made because of the need to have much more scope
than the ambiguous and undetermined attitudes the adult short story
required. Of course, the decision to turn it into a novel might have
had commercial ground as well -- novels sell better. But even if this
were not the case, Dahl would still have had to make it into a novel if
he desired to integrate different attitudes into the text. This point can
be best illustrated by analyzing the narrator and the structure of the
narration, the attitudes toward poaching, and the endings of each of
the texts.
45
THE NARRATOR AND THE STRUCTURE OF NARRATION
Despite the fact that the two texts are narrated in the first person
(and thus can be described as formally having the same point of
view), they are totally different in the nature of the narrator, in his
tone and attitude toward the story related, and in the distribution of
material and order of information.
In both texts, almost the same information is related. Yet, the dis-
tribution of the information and its interpretation vary, aiming to
achieve a different characterization of the narrator and to determine
different value judgments. Hence, in the children's version, the nar-
ration is motivated by a realistic model, whereas in the adult version,
the motivation is the narrator's own consciousness. Of course, both
texts are reconstructions of events that happened to the narrator, or
in Perry's words: "The narrating 'I' transmits the information to the
reader 'now,' while following the sequence in which it had 'once'
come to his knowledge as the experiencing 'I"' (1981, 38). Still, the
adult version tries to mask the reconstruction (as opposed to the chil-
dren's version, which emphasizes it) because it contributes to the
retrospective judgment of the narrator. The narrator of the children's
version tries to reconstruct his understanding as a child -- not in
order to question it -- but rather to reinforce and justify it. In spite of
the many years that have passed, he still identifies with the child's
attitude toward his father. He still admires him and hardly criticizes
him at all:
Because what I am trying to tell you . . .
What I have been trying so hard to tell you all along is simply that my
father, without the slightest doubt, was the most marvelous and exciting
father any boy ever had. (Danny the Champion, 173)
The adult version, in attempting to mask the reconstruction, em-
phasizes the limited consciousness of the narrator by creating the
impression that the information is given in the very same order it
occurred, without judging it in retrospect. This is done by opening
"in medias res," by motivating the order of information purely on the
narrator's consciousness and by emphasizing the narrator's lack of
information. Thus, the story opens just before the two friends are
46
about to leave for their night adventure: "All day, in between serving
customers, we had been crouching over the table in the office of the
filling station, preparing the raisins" (Kiss Kiss, 206). From this point
on, the night's events unfold, as seen through the eyes of one of the
two friends -- Gordon. The children's version, on the other hand,
opens in the earliest possible point of time, mainly in order to create
an all-knowing narrator: "When I was four months old, my mother
died suddenly and my father was left to look after me all by himself)'
(Danny the Champion, 7). The narrator of the children's version pos-
sesses all the information and the ability to understand and evaluate
not only the story told, but also the behavior of the world. He is not
only authoritative, but patronizing as well. When he is not sure his
reader can follow him, he bothers to explain what life is all about, as
indicated in the following examples:
So watch out, I say, when someone smiles at you with his mouth but his
eyes stay the same. It's sure to be a phony. (Danny the Champion, 13)
Most of the really exciting things we do in our lives scare us to death.
They wouldn't be exciting if they didn't. (Danny the Champion, 51)
In the adult version, however, the narrator sometimes lacks the
information and sometimes even the ability to comprehend it. Fre-
quently, the text emphasizes his lack of information by leaving events
unexplained, at least until the narrator comes to understand them.
For instance, Gordon knows that Claud comes back empty-handed
and that the next day there will be something like pheasant to eat.
Only very late does he understand the connection between the two
poaching pheasants and fooling the keepers), and only later is this
mystery solved in the text: "He seldom came back until very late, and
never, absolutely never, did he bring any of the spoils with him per-
sonally on his return. But the following afternoon -- and I couldn't
imagine how he did it -- there would always be a pheasant or a hare
or a brace of partridges hanging up in the shed behind the filling
station for us to eat" (Kiss Kiss, 208-9).
The authoritative narrator of the children's version never reveals
such ignorance. He never leaves events unexplained only to have
them explained later. Almost everything is explained, and usually in
unequivocal terms. Moreover, the narrator always puts himself in
47
position to rightfully judge whatever is told. This characterization of
the narrator might have contradicted the other effect the text creates,
that of reconstructing the child's point of view. In quite a few places,
the text stresses the narrator's understanding as a child. For instance,
when Danny first finds out about poaching, the text reconstructs his
astonishment at the time: "I was shocked. My own father a thief!
This gentle, lovely man! I couldn't believe he would go creeping into
the woods at night to pinch valuable birds belonging to somebody
else" (Danny the Champion, 30). Another example is his fear when he
does not find his father at home:
I looked in the office. I went around and searched behind the office and
behind the workshop.
I ran down the field to the lavatory. It was empty.
"Dad!" I shouted into the darkness. "Dad! Where are you?" . . .
I stood in the dark caravan and for the first time in my life I felt a
touch of panic. (Danny the Champion, 27-28)
However, this potential contradiction is not used by the text for
creating complex attitudes because the adult narrator practically ac-
cepts all of the child's view. The whole idea of introducing two points
of view was not aimed at creating clashes; on the contrary, it was
brought up for the sake of reinforcing and justifying the narrator's
attitude toward his father. In the whole text there is not even a single
phrase where the distance in time is used to illuminate a different
view that he held as a child, nor even to contradict an earlier view.
The distance in time between the narrator and the narrated story
only emphasizes the fact that time has not changed his attitude to-
ward whatever happened. Only when it is compared to the adult ver-
sion does the function of the distance in time become clear. In the
latter, it is of a different nature: the narrator does not identify with
the story told, and the clash of attitudes between Gordon and Claud
creates the ironical tone of the text.
Hence, what constitutes the basis for any literary work -- the re-
construction of events -- is used by both adult and children's versions
to achieve different evaluations of the narration and consequently
different tones. This is best reflected in an examination of the han-
dling of the main issue, poaching, in both texts.
48
ATTITUDES TOWARD POACHING
In the adult version the two friends do not share the same attitude
toward poaching. While Claud is very enthusiastic about poaching
and regards it as a prime symbol of wit and cleverness, Gordon is, at
best, indifferent. Thus, for instance, Claud is very proud of his meth-
ods of poaching, while Gordon does not hesitate to remark that he
suspects their originality and effectiveness (remarks which Claud ig-
nores either because he is too dumb to understand or because he
deliberately wishes to avoid them):
"You pay out the line about fifty yards and you lie there on your stom-
ach in the bushes waiting till you get a bite. Then you haul him in."
"I don't think your father invented that one."
"It's very popular with fishermen," he said, choosing not to hear me.
"What is Method Number Three?" I asked.
"Ah," he said. "Number Three's a real beauty. It was the last one my
dad ever invented before he passed away."
"His final great work?"
"Exactly, Gordon." (Kiss Kiss, 212)
The clashes between the two friends -- Gordon understands iron-
ically, or he is, at least, very skeptical of that which Claud takes se-
riously -- contributes to the ironical tone of the text (which is also the
result of the distance between the narrator and the narrated story).
Such an ambiguous attitude is inconceivable in terms of the chil-
dren's system, which assumes that children cannot comprehend such
complex relations and therefore require unequivocal ones. Hence, in
the children's version, Danny and his father share a single attitude --
both are excited and enthusiastic. When they leave for poaching, his
father asks:
"How do you feel, Danny?"
"Terrific," I said. And I meant it. For although the snakes were still
wiggling in my stomach, I wouldn't have swapped places with the King
of Arabia at that moment.
Moreover, Danny remarks on his father as follows: "I could see my
father becoming more and more twitchy -- excitement began to
49
build up in him" (anny the Champion, 111-12). The need to deter-
mine unequivocal attitudes on the one hand and to set father on the
"good side," to present him in positive terms on the other, leads to a
long series of legitimations of poaching in the children's version.
While the adult version encourages ambiguous values and evaluates
poaching ambigehärig
, the children's version presents it unequivo-
cally in black and white. The opposition between good and bad (par-
ticularly in the evaluation of poaching), deliberately blurred in the
adult version, becomes delineated in the children's version.
In the adult version, poaching moves along on an axis that has two
poles -- from crime to sport. At first the information presented by the
narrator creates the impression that the two friends, Gordon and
Claud, are about to do something sinister, very close to crime. But
nothing is really determined yet. If the reader builds the hints scat-
tered in the text into a definite structure, he might as well have ex-
pected a gun. But, surprisingly enough these hints end up dissolving
in the relatively harmless sequence of "poaching with the help of
raisins." However, this quite harmless structure appears in the text as
a better organizing structure only after the "criminal" option is built
into the text:
"What's under there?" I asked.
. . . "To carry the stuff" he said darkly.
"I see."
"Let's go," he said.
"I still think we ought to take the car."
"It's too risky. They'll see it parked."
"But it's three miles up the wood."
"Yes," he said. "And I suppose you realize we can get six months in
the clink if they catch us. " (Kiss Kiss, 207, my italics)
By the time the reader eventually finds out that it is nothing really
criminal and that the story refers to poaching only, the sense of some-
thing criminal has already been built into the text, and despite its
negation, it still attributes a negative value to poaching.
In the children's version, the very device of constructing options to
be cancelled later is impossible, because the text, by its very nature,
cannot permit multifaceted opinions. Yet, it should be noted that the
50
option to consider poaching in terms of a crime is not avoided; on the
contrary, it is presented in the text mainly in order to reject it and to
give way to the other ultimate option, namely, the legitimation of
poaching. At first the text does not avoid the possibility that poaching
constitutes stealing, and Danny is even shocked by the discovery
about his father:
"You mean stealing them?" I said, aghast.
"We don't look at it that way," my father said. "Poaching is an art."
(Danny the Champion, 30)
However, quite soon after, Danny accepts his father's view in the
same way he accepts anything else: "Yes, I believe you" (Danny the
Champion, 32). This acceptance becomes possible thanks to the
buildup of Danny's father, as well as to the order of the narration.
The story does not begin with the mysterious preparations for
poaching as does the adult version; rather, the first chapters give a
very positive buildup of the father. He is portrayed as an honest man,
universally liked and adored by his son as the best possible father,
even when his son examines him in retrospect:
During my early years, I never had a moment's unhappiness or illness.
(Danny the Champion, 8)
My father without the slightest doubt was the most marvelous and ex-
citing father any boy ever had. (12)
He was a marvelous story teller. (13)
My father was a fine mechanic. People who lived miles away used to
bring their cars to him for repair rather than take them to the nearest
garage. (17)
It was impossible to be bored in my father's company. (19)
So you can see that being eight years old and living with my father was a
lot of fun! (25)
Only after the best possible buildup of the father is fabricated does
the narrator bring up the subject of poaching as his father's "deep
dark secret." But the option to regard it as "dark" and criminal is
almost immediately rejected, because such a wonderful father could
not possibly be involved in something dark or criminal. From this
point on, until the end of the story, poaching is justified in various
51
ways. Hence, once the alternative of viewing poaching as stealing is
rejected, the other option is accepted; this, of course, stands in con-
trast to the adult version in which an ambiguous evaluation of poach-
ing, either as a game or as stealing, is maintained continuously and
simultaneously.
How is the legitimation of poaching achieved? Undoubtedly,
Dahl's decision to legitimize poaching meant that he had to strive for
a sound justification of poaching in order to alter its normal reputa-
tion, which usually is very close to crime. This can perhaps explain
why he chose to justify poaching on the basis of at least three alter-
native and mutually reinforcing value systems. Poaching is presented
in the children's version both as a local game that has its own code of
conduct as well as an act of social justice. And, if that is not enough,
it is also motivated by the legitimate desire for revenge by the father.
Dahl's efforts to justify poaching in all possible ways is made clear
when compared to the attitudes toward poaching in the adult version.
Here, poaching has almost no justification and is presented as a sort
of obsession: "He was more purposeful about it now, more tight-
lipped and intense than before, and I had the impression that this
was not so much a game any longer as a crusade, a sort of private war
that Claud was waging single-handed against an invisible and hated
enemy" (Kiss Kiss, 209). Its possible social justification is only hinted
at, but this option (as with any other option in the adult version) is not
developed. For example, Claud remarks in one passage: "I had heard
it said that the cost of rearing and keeping each pheasant up to the
time when it was ready to be shot was well over five pounds (which is
approximately the price of two hundred loaves of bread)" (Kiss Kiss,
216). The possibility of regarding poaching as a local game is limited
to Claud's point of view and is not reinforced by anyone else. In fact,
Claud does claim that everybody is involved with poaching, thus en-
couraging the idea of poaching as a game. Nevertheless, even his best
friend, Gordon, is involved only for the first time, and the only one
proven to have been involved was Claud's good-for-nothing father, a
fact that only reinforces Gordon's skeptical view, who remarks:
"I thought you said your dad was a drunk."
"Maybe he was. But he was also a great poacher, Gordon. Possibly
the greatest there's ever been in the history of England. My dad studied
poaching like a scientist."
52
"Is that so?"
"I mean it. I really mean it." (Kiss Kiss, 210-11)
In the children's version, all three justifications -- social justice, re-
venge, and local game, which were only hinted at in the adult ver-
sion -- become definite and terminal. The element of social justice
appears in the following sequence: when explaining to Danny what
poaching is all about, his father claims that historically poaching was
the way hungry people managed to feed their families and hence was
socially justified. Poaching is thus represented as part of a conflict
between social classes: " 'Let me tell you about this phony pheasant-
shooting business,' he said. 'First of all, it is practiced only by the
rich. Only the very rich can afford to rear pheasants just for the fun of
shooting them down when they grow up. These wealthy idiots spend
huge sums of money every year buying baby pheasants from pheasant
farms and rearing them in pens until they are big enough to be put
out into the woods" (Danny the Champion, 32-33). Poaching also rep-
resents the only honorable way for poor people to feed their families:
Mind you, in those days, just about every man in our village was out in
the woods at night poaching pheasants. And they did it not only be-
cause they loved the sport but because they needed food for their fami-
lies. When I was a boy, times were bad for a lot of people in England.
There was very little work to be had anywhere, and some families were
literally starving. Yet a few miles away in the rich man's wood, thou-
sands of pheasants were being fed like kings twice a day. (Danny the
Champion, 30-31)
The element of revenge also surfaces in the children's text. But
unlike the obsessive Claud of the adult version whose crusade is not
really justified by the text, both father and son are enthusiastic (but
not obsessively so) and seem to have good reason for their crusade.
Danny's father declares war on Mr. Hazel (spelled Hazel in the adult
text and Hazell in the children's) only after Mr. Hazel breaks the
code of the game and humiliates Danny's father by making him fall
into the pit, which was "the kind of trap hunters in Africa dig to catch
wild animals" (Danny the Champion, 61). After the father manages to
escape from the pit, Mr. Hazel continues to humiliate him daily:
53
"You know what makes me so hopping mad," he said to me all of a
sudden. "I get up in the mornings feeling pretty good. Then around
nine o'clock every single day of the week, that huge silver Rolls-Royce
comes swishing past the filling station and I see the great big bloated
face of Mr. Victor Hazell behind the wheel. I always see it. I can't help
it. And as he passes by, he always turns his head in my direction and
looks at me. But it's the way he looks at me that is so infuriating. There
is a sneer under his nose and a smug little smirk around his mouth, and
although I only see him for three seconds, it makes me madder than
mackerel." (Danny the Champion, 78-79)
The desire for revenge is strengthened both by the negative char-
acterization of Mr. Hazel and by other people's disgust at Hazel's
attempt to break the rules of the game. Thus, it is not only Danny's
father who regards Mr. Hazel's pit as wrong; indeed, it is the re-
spected doctor who describes it as "diabolical": "It's worse than that,
William! It's diabolical! Do you know what this means? It means that
decent folk like you and me can't even go out and have a little fun at
night without risking a broken leg or arm" (Danny the Champion, 72).
Even if Mr. Hazel had not broken the traditional rules of the game,
he would have deserved revenge. The black-and-white characteriza-
tion of the text leaves no doubt as to where he belongs. It is true that,
in both texts, Mr. Hazel is characterized as snobbish and the worst
kind of "nouveau riche." But, the source for this description in the
adult version is the limited consciousness of the narrator, while the
children's version deliberately reinforces the narrator's view of Mr.
Hazel by other respectable views, such as the doctor's. There is no
doubt that Mr. Hazel is nasty to everybody, boys and dogs included:
"No," my father said, "I do not like Mr. Victor Hazell one little bit. I
haven't forgotten the way he spoke to you last year when he came in for
a fill-up."
I hadn't forgotten it either.... "Fill her up and look sharp about
it.... And keep your filthy little hands to yourself...."
". . . If you make any dirty fingermarks on my paintwork," he said
"I'll step right out of this car and give you a good hiding." (Danny the
Champion, 42)
Moreover, Mr. Hazel was also nasty to the doctor's dog: "I saw him
get out, and I also saw my old dog Bertie dozing on the doorstep. And
54
do you know what this loathsome Victor Hazell did? Instead of step-
ping over old Bertie, he actually kicked him out of the way with his
riding boot" (Danny the Champion, 72-73). Apparently, he did not
hesitate to cause troubles and make life difficult for Danny and his
father: "There was little doubt, my father said, that the long and
powerful arm of Mr. Hazell was reaching out behind the scenes and
trying to run us off our land" (Danny the Champion, 44).
Furthermore, Mr. Hazel did not hesitate to break the traditional
game, which had risks, rewards, and rigid rules known to all the
village people (whose view the text ultimately adopts). Unlike the
adult version, in the children's version practically everybody partici-
pates in poaching and therefore approves of it. Dahl is careful to pick
up representatives of different classes so that no one (except for the
"nouveau riche" Hazel) escapes poaching, not the doctor, not the
vicar's wife, nor even the school headmaster. The following passage
reveals the wide spread of "culpability," even of respected figures:
"Dad," I said, "What on earth are you going to do with all these
pheasants?"
"Share them out among our friends," my father said. "There's a
dozen of them for Charlie [the driver] here to start with...."
"Then there'll be a dozen for Doc Spencer. And another dozen for
Enoch Samways "
"You don't mean Sergeant Samways?" I gasped....
Sergeant Enoch Samways, as I knew very well, was the village po-
liceman. (Danny the Champion, 138)
Hence, even the respected representative of the law -- Sergeant
Samways -- is involved. To Danny's even greater astonishment, the
vicar's wife also participates in the village activity:
"Mrs. Clipstone delivers everyone's pheasants," my father said.
"Haven't I told you that?"
"No, Dad, you haven't," I said, aghast. I was now more stunned than
ever. (Danny the Champion, 139)
In fact, he ultimately spurns the possibility that poaching be regarded
as a crime. Moreover, Mrs. Clipstone's involvement almost makes it
into a social must. Again, what has been only hinted at in the adult
55
version -- the option of regarding poaching as a local game with its
own code -- becomes in the children's version definite and terminal.
Attitudes toward poaching are at the core of both texts, though in
each they are used for different purposes. In the adult version, they
illustrate the relationship between two friends -- one stupid and ob-
sessive, and the other one (from whose point of view the narration
takes place) smart and ironical. In the children's version, attitudes
toward poaching are used to expose unusual relations between father
and son. However, the children's version strives to legitimize what-
ever the father does and endeavors to leave no open questions --
hence, the multiple motivations and justifications of poaching in the
children's version. This opposition between a text with strongly justi-
fied motivations and a text without such is best illustrated when the
two endings are compared.
THE TWO ENDINGS
At first glance, the ending of the children's version might look un-
conventional -- it is not the traditional "good ending" of a children's
story. Perhaps Bashevis-Singer's words best reflect that traditional
approach: "I try to give a happy ending to a story for a child because I
know how sensitive a child is. If you tell a child that a murderer or a
thief was never punished or never caught, the child feels that there is
no justice in the world altogether" (1977, 12-13). In the children's
version, Dahl's ending appears to break with conventional endings as
the father's beneficent plans are not fully accomplished. Thus, a
whole year's supply of pheasants is lost as Danny's and his father's
methods fail -- the sleeping pills dissolve and Mrs. Clipstone's poor
baby is beaten terribly by the awakening pheasants, a scene which is
both comic and frightening at the same time.
Danny's father is also mocked for the first time at the story's end,
his "ingenious" idea to carry the pheasants during the daytime
through the village turns out to be a catastrophe:
"There's only one way of delivering pheasants safely," he said, "and
that's under a baby...."
"Fantastic!" the doctor said....
"It's brilliant," Doc Spencer said. "Only a brilliant mind could think
of a thing like that." . . .
56
"There's more than one hundred pheasants under that little nipper,"
my father said happily. (Danny the Champion, 147)
"He'll be having a very comfortable ride today, young Christopher,"
my father said. (148)
"She seems in an awful hurry, Dad," I said. "She's sort of half
running." . . .
"Perhaps she doesn't want to be caught in the rain," he said. "I'll bet
that's exactly what it is." . . .
"She could put the hood up," I said.
He didn't answer this....
My father stood very still, staring at her....
"What's up, Dad?"
He didn't reply. (149)
My father let out a cry of horror....
"Great Scott!" Doc Spencer said. I know what's happened!
It's the sleeping pills! They're wearing off"
My father didn't say a word. (151)
"They nearly pecked him to pieces!" she was crying, clasping the
screaming baby to her bosom. (153)
While the ending might appear unconventional in terms of the chil-
dren's system, when compared to the adult version, it is clear that
Dahl deliberately tried to transform it into a "good" ending. The
constraints of the implied reader in the children's version are partic-
ularly evident as opposed to the open endings of the adult version. In
the former, the narrator pulls together all the threads; poetic justice
is done, no issue remains open. In the adult version, however, the
story opens and ends "in medias res." It ends when the two friends,
with a bitter sense of failure, close the filling station and leave the
place, only hinting that Mr. Hazel's shooting party was ruined. But
except for that subtle suggestion, they get nothing. They do not have
a chance to see that their revenge was successful, nor do they even
get any pheasants to eat. In contrast stands the children's version, in
which the shooting party was ruined with "all those fancy folk . . .
driving in from miles around in their big shiny cars and there won't
be a blinking bird anywhere for them to shoot" (Danny the Champion,
138). In addition, Mr. Hazel is publicly mocked and his precious car
is damaged. The justice of revenge is thus fully accomplished:
57
They were all over the roof and the bonnet, sliding and slithering and
trying to keep a grip on that beautifully polished surface. I could hear
their sharp claws scraping into the paintwork as they struggled to hang
on, and already they were depositing their dirty droppings all over the
roof....
In less than a minute, the Rolls was literally festooned with pheas-
ants, all scratching and scrabbling and making their disgusting runny
messes over the shiny silver paint. What is more, I saw at least a dozen
of them fly right inside the car through the open door by the driver's
seat. Whether or not Sergeant Samways had cunningly steered them in
there himself, I didn't know. (Danny the Champion, 160-61)
It also seems that Dahl did not wish to leave the beloved characters
with the slightest sense of failure, only to laugh at them a little.
Hence, unlike the adult version, where the ingenious device totally
fails and all the pheasants fly away, in the children's version, Dahl
finds a way to leave some pheasants for a good feast. The dear doctor
manages to find a way to hide some and everybody gets his share:
"'Two for you, Grace, to keep the vicar in a good mood,' Doc
Spencer said. 'Two for Enoch for all the fine work he did this morn-
ing. And two for William and Danny, who deserve them most of all."'
(Danny the Champion, 167). Moreover, Dahl ends the adult version
with an ominous phrase:
"You go on home, Bessie," Claud said, white in the face.
"Lock up," I said. "Put out the sign. We've gone for the day." (Kiss
Kiss, 233)
But the narrator of the children's version concludes the story as fol-
lows: "What I have been trying so hard to tell you all along is simply
that my father, without the slightest doubt, was the most marvelous
and exciting father any boy ever had" (Danny the Champion, 173).
The differences described above between the two versions result
from Dahl's preliminary assumptions about different implied readers
in each of the texts. These assumptions led to the most fundamental
differentiation between the two -- the generic. The decision to adapt
the short story into a novel was imposed on the text because of the
need to present poaching in the children's version as a well-justified
58
and properly motivated activity. This decision resulted in both central
and peripheral structural differences between the adult and the chil-
dren's versions, which were all rooted in the assumptions about a
different potential realization of the text. This difference in potential
realization encouraged each text to differentiate in the following as-
pects: the narrator (limited and ironical versus authoritative and
identifying); and the structure of narration (different distribution of
material resulting in different structuring of the texts; complex pro-
cess of filling gaps versus a simple one). The need to change the
value judgment of the adult version was another outcome of Dahl's
assumptions about potential realization. Dahl could not afford to
leave the ambiguous values and characterizations present in the adult
version; such a presentation would be inconceivable in terms of the
children's system, as children are supposed to understand only un-
equivocal attitudes. Hence, the text for children offers a clear opposi-
tion between "bad" and "good," and the characterization is of a
black-and-white nature.
The analysis of Dahl's texts was presented in order to illustrate
how assumptions about the formal addressee impose constraints on a
text, even when the text is not conventional within the children's
system. No doubt these constraints, so powerful and demanding, are
the prime reasons for the reluctance of writers to admit to being
children's writers and thus contribute, in large measure, to the rein-
forcement of the poor self-image of the children's system.
Texts
Dahl, Roald. [1959] 1980. "The Champion of the World." In Kiss Kiss. Lon-
don: Penguin, 206-33.
____. [1975] 1977. Danny the Champion of the World. Harmondsworth,
Middlesex: Puffin Book.
59
Contents