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  For my dear “Boss,” Michael di Capua, who published my first verse, then encouraged me to try prose, and stuck with me for more than fifty years as muse and editor

  Introduction

  BY KATHERINE APPLEGATE

  Every now and then, if the fates are kindly disposed, you will come across a book and know, as certainly as you know your own soul, that it was written just for you.

  I have a few such cherished books on my office bookshelf. And one of them—a signed first edition, no less—just happens to be a picture book by the inimitable Natalie Zane Babbitt.

  During her remarkable career, Natalie Babbitt gave us many opportunities to fall under the spell of her storytelling magic, including Kneeknock Rise, for which she was awarded a Newbery Honor, and her beloved modern classic, Tuck Everlasting.

  But for me, it is one of her picture books—Nellie: A Cat on Her Own—that will always be first in my heart.

  I was in my thirties when I came across the title, which by then had already been released in paperback. I’d been trying to educate myself about children’s books, secretly wondering if I might be able to write one someday, secretly doubting I could ever pull it off.

  In the book’s charming cover illustration, Nellie, a wooden cat marionette, sits in a straw hat bedecked with pink ribbon, staring—contentedly, it would seem—into the distance. The interior art is equally beguiling. (A lifelong pet owner, Babbitt’s drawings of dogs and cats practically bound off the page, their expressions every bit as nuanced as those of her humans.)

  But while the art is gorgeous, it’s the story that snared me. Nellie’s life is tidily secure until the clever old woman who created her dies. How will the little toy survive, let alone dance, without someone’s help? With the encouragement of a real cat named Big Tom, Nellie learns to face her fears and embrace her independence. By the end of the tale, we see her dancing joyfully in the moonlight, reveling in her “fine view of the wide, wild world.”

  It’s a lovely fantasy, delicately told. But, as with all Natalie Babbitt’s work, it’s more, so much more, than that. In a mere handful of pages, this slender book challenges its readers to wrestle with big questions. How do we define independence? What does it mean to “belong to yourself”? How do we confront our darkest fears in order to claim the light as our own?

  When I went on to read Tuck Everlasting, there they were again: big questions, this time the most ancient and profound of all. Why must we die? Would it be better to be immortal? How do we press on with our lives, knowing that eventually, as Winnie Foster says, “we all just go out, like the flame of a candle”?

  To be honest, Nellie and Tuck left me vaguely melancholy for a while. It hurt a little to read them. They glittered too brightly with truth. And yet they were undeniably, at their hearts, resolutely hopeful stories.

  When I read this fascinating collection of Babbitt’s speeches and essays, it came as no surprise, then, that the importance of truth-telling in children’s literature is a thematic touchstone. In all these pieces, Natalie Babbitt is unfailingly generous with her own truths as well; we learn a great deal about her fears, her loves, her work, her hopes. At the same time, we’re also treated to an intriguing insider’s view of children’s literature as it evolved over four decades after she began publishing in 1966.

  We read about an era when literature for teens (not yet dubbed “Young Adult”) was still in its embryonic phase. We nod in resigned agreement as Babbitt grumbles about the advent of email. We applaud as she decries the way pleasurable childhood reading has given way to assigned drudge work.

  And we laugh. A lot.

  How I wish I’d had the pleasure of meeting Natalie Babbitt in person! The Michigander in me loves the no-nonsense, down-to-earth midwesterner’s voice that animates her prose. (Although she moved dozens of times, her family roots were in Ohio.) Her humor is abundant, dry, and delightful. She is self-deprecating, especially about her vocation: “We’re rather a motley crew, we makers of stories and pictures.” (She’s got that right.) And I loved this: “The world looks at us in a puzzled way and wonders, ‘Why devote your life to writing for a group that has no money, no experience, and can’t spell rhinoceros? Such writing can’t be serious.’”

  Babbitt can be tough on children’s books, at least the sloppy, “Pepto-Bismol pink” variety, but only because she knows children deserve the absolute best literature we can give them. She adores teachers and librarians, the true and unsung heroes, she believes, of children’s literature. But it is children themselves for whom she reserves her deepest love and respect. And because she respects her young readers, she knows their books can be hopeful without being condescending. Her stories, like all the best fantasies, are optimistic at their core. She doesn’t “deny the dark.” She “simply reaffirms the light.”

  “Facing the unfaceable,” she calls it. Perhaps that’s one of her greatest gifts to us: Natalie Babbitt is not afraid to write about being afraid. In fact, she concludes that Nellie: A Cat on Her Own—my beloved picture book—is at its essence a “mini-autobiography” about her own fears. (An epiphany that came with a nudge from her psychologist son.) Babbitt claims she was a somewhat timid child who grew into a risk-averse adult, a homebody at heart. She protests that she is not and never could be a true pathfinder, an intrepid Winnie, the kind of person who walks into the woods in search of adventure, or an adventurous Nellie, happily dancing alone while bathed in moonshine and magic.

  But of course Natalie Babbitt was a pathfinder. She took huge and daring risks with her writing. Like Maurice Sendak and E. B. White, she led children toward the dark places where other writers were afraid to venture. And with every marvelous fantasy, every “good story, well told,” she taught young readers how to name their fears, and thus become the heroes of their own stories.

  “It wasn’t my idea,” Babbitt writes in her preface about creating this collection, but we are grateful indeed it exists. And while we enjoy her wise words, she’s no doubt ensconced in the heavenly library she describes in one of her speeches, the place where “Lewis Carroll and J. M. Barrie and E. B. White and Beatrix Potter and Arnold Lobel and Arthur Rackham and Margot Zemach and all the others who have added so much to our lives meet every morning for milk and cookies and have a good time talking shop.”

  What excellent company she must be! For the rest of us, this brilliant book, with her fine view of the wide, wild world, is the next best thing.

  Preface

  There is in Rhode Island a woman who knows her way around an aphorism. She has created some wonders, from one of which the title for this collection of essays and speeches is taken. Her name is Julie Springwater, and the complete aphorism, which she gave me permission to adapt and use, says: “It came from barking with the big dogs.” I have been drawn to, and bemused by, this one since I first saw it printed on a handsome little magnet. “The big dogs”
has come at last to mean, for me professionally, the people who are out there in the adult field, writers who mostly have the real clout in the author-critic-analyst business. They are the ones in the forefront, the ones who seem to have the most to say (or bark), can say (or bark) it the loudest, and are saying (or barking) it most often.

  Not that we in the children’s field are silent when it comes to criticism and analysis. It’s just that the noise we make in the literary world at large doesn’t amount to much. Still, published writing is published writing regardless of its intended audience, so it’s fair to point out that much of what needs saying, in regard to goings-on, can be said effectively from both fields.

  However, effective is as effective does. Our noise, like that in the adult field, is made most memorably, and most objectively, not by our writers of fiction but by our well-trained, well-read teachers and editors, and if the truth be known, I feel that’s where it should stay. Nevertheless, we makers of books are endlessly asked to produce speeches and articles, and after a while they begin to pile up. Collecting them this way, one puts oneself in the path of some rather unattractive assumptions on the part of readers about the weight of one’s self-esteem. But it wasn’t my idea. A bunch of people have said to me, over the years, “You should put all that stuff into a book.” So I thought I might as well. At the very least, it gets it out of the file cabinet.

  I don’t do many speeches or articles these days. Enough is enough. But it’s interesting, quite apart from who wrote them, to look back over the contents of any collection like this one where, if things are arranged chronologically, it’s possible to see how the holding and defending of our opinions change, little by little, as we get older, and how what we choose to write about reflects what’s going on in the world around us. Thirty-four years separate the first and the last entry in this volume, and nothing much has been altered except for a comma here and there, so it’s easy to recognize the effect of the passing of time. How firmly we bark while we’re young! And this in spite of the fact that we aren’t nearly as comfortable with ourselves as we will be later on.

  There are big dogs everywhere. Still, a policeman once told me, following an encounter of mine with a Peeping Tom, that in some situations a noisy little dog can be more valuable than a noisy big one. Little dogs make harder-to-hit targets, is what he told me. Our dog at the time, a far-from-little mutt who usually gave voice even for the passing of a pigeon on the sidewalk, seemed to know this: She had huddled barkless in a corner while the Peeping Tom was around. Maybe that was wise for her, but it wasn’t very useful to me. So, wise or not, here is most of the barking I’ve done, out there with the big dogs. Maybe someone will find it useful.

  —N.B., 2014

  Black-line art for duotone illustration in Phoebe’s Revolt (1969)

  “What, in the very simplest terms, is a child, after all, but an unrepressed adult? What is maturity, that supposed nirvana we seem never fully to achieve, but total emotional control learned from confrontation with experience, which teaches us the necessity for compromise?”

  Happy Endings? Of Course, and Also Joy

  (1970)

  What in the world is a children’s story anyway? What makes it different from a story for adults? Why does one writer choose to write for children and another for adults; or, if you will, what quality makes one writer’s work appropriate for children while the work of another points in the other direction?

  P. L. Travers has said, “There is no such thing as a children’s book. There are simply books of many kinds and some of them children read. I would deny, however, that [they were] written for children.” Well, perhaps. Sometimes. But someone must have the child in mind even if the author doesn’t. Someone, editor or critic, must head a story in the right direction. As a rule, it isn’t an especially difficult direction to find. Everyone can tell a child’s book from one for adults, just as everyone knows hot water from cold. The difficulty lies in trying to define the essential nature of the difference.

  The most common assumption, at least on the part of people who have had little to do with children’s literature, is that books for adults are serious in intent while books for children are designed to amuse. But this is only an assumption and nothing more. There are indeed many serious stories for adults and truckloads of children’s stories intended only for pleasure, but the reverse is just as true. Fluff, be it trivial or memorable, predominates in both worlds. However, you would be doing both an injustice if you tried to define their separate natures on the basis of fluff. There are no answers to be had by contrasting Jeeves to Winnie-the-Pooh, Hercule Poirot to Nancy Drew, Rhett Butler to the Grinch, or even the Yankee from Connecticut to Dorothy from Kansas. Dear friends all, each in his own place and time, but all members of the same unsubtle family. This leaves in each world an armful of books that are sometimes called classics (make your own list). These are both serious in intent and entertaining, as all good stories should be; and it is only in these that any real definition can be found, if in fact it exists at all.

  Well, then, perhaps you will say that the difference is still obvious, fluff or no, because adult books deal with adult emotions: love, pride, grief, fear of death, violence, the yearning for success, and so on. But why do we so often forget that children are not emotional beggars? They understand these feelings every bit as well as we do, and are torn by them as often. There is, in point of fact, no such thing as an exclusively adult emotion, and children’s literature deals with them all. As for love, “Sleeping Beauty” and her sisters are nothing if not love stories of one kind, while The Wind in the Willows is another, and Heidi and Hans Brinker yet others. Pride? Where is pride more gleefully exposed than in Toad of Toad Hall? For grief unsurpassed, try the closing chapters of The Yearling. Fear of death begins in childhood and is dealt with supremely well in Charlotte’s Web, while its other side, the quest for immortality, is dealt with just as well in Peter Pan. When it comes to violence, Ali Baba, Jack the Giant Killer, and the brave little tailor are only three of hundreds of inventive and bloody examples. And the yearning for success is a thread so common to all stories that I wonder why I even bothered to bring it up.

  There is really no difference where emotional themes are concerned. There are only the subtleties, the nuances, the small ironies, of which adult fiction has made far more use but which are equally available to children’s fiction, where their fitness is dictated exclusively by the writer’s style and his attitude toward the perceptivity of his readers.

  No difference in emotional themes? No—I will correct myself. There is one emotion which is found only in children’s literature these years and for many years past, and that emotion is joy.

  Next you will perhaps turn to range or scope or whatever you wish to call it. But even here, only at first glance does this appear to be genuine ground for defining a difference. While there was a time when the best adult fiction was timeless in nature and dealt at the core with Everyman, that is no longer true. Decade by decade, new books for adults have become more personal, more singular. It is a long and narrowing road from Moby-Dick to Portnoy’s Complaint. More and more often we find ourselves making do with what Isaac Bashevis Singer has called “muddy streams of consciousness which often reveal nothing but a writer’s boring and selfish personality.”

  Everyman has gone out of fashion for adults. What separates us has come to seem more pertinent than what draws us together. But Everyman is present still in the best children’s stories, just as he always has been. All children can identify with and learn from characters like Peter Rabbit and Sendak’s Max, in spite of the years between their creation; but many adults have trouble finding common coin with Henry Miller’s Mona the way they could with Tolstoy’s Natasha.

  Content? Barring only graphic sex and other routine adult preoccupations (many of these dull to begin with), there is little difference. War, disability, poverty, cruelty, all the harshest aspects of life, are present in children’s literature. Daily banalities
are there, too, and the more subtle stuff of boredom, prejudice, and spite. Where did we get the idea that a children’s book is gentle and sweet? The only ones that are are those written by people who have been deluded by isolation or a faulty memory into thinking that children themselves are gentle and sweet.

  A children’s book is peopled with talking animals and other such fantastics? Sometimes, but by no means always. And anyway, adults are just as prone to attributing human characteristics to nonhuman things as children are, in life if not in their fiction. You need only mention the family dog or cat at a dinner party to find this out. And as for the dark world, children did not invent Martians, poltergeists, the séance, or the Devil, or, I might add, the id and the ego, those goblins that out-goblin anything in the Brothers Grimm. If fantasy is absent from adult fiction, it is absent only because adults are too pompous to admit they still have a taste and a need for it.

  A children’s book uses simple vocabulary geared to the untrained mind? Compare a little Kipling to a little Hemingway and think again. Opening sentence of one chapter from A Farewell to Arms: “Now in the fall the trees were all bare and the roads were muddy.” Opening sentence of “How the Rhinoceros Got His Skin”: “Once upon a time, on an uninhabited island on the shores of the Red Sea, there lived a Parsee from whose hat the rays of the sun were reflected in more-than-oriental splendour.” So much for that!

  You might in desperation do something with size of type, seeing that children’s books are usually printed in larger typeface; but this is really only because they shrewdly refuse to be bothered by anything less. Their eyes, after all, are by and large 20/20 percent better than ours. You might also be reduced to bringing up length—children’s books are usually shorter. However, I question whether, having said this, you have said much.