Brian Jacques died on Saturday and I (who found out on Tuesday) haven't been able to get him out of my head since I was talking about Redwall with a friend on Sunday. This grief I find at the death of a man I didn't even know... I have been trying all day to find a way to explain it.
It happened when Lloyd Alexander died. When Alexander died, I wrote in my journal for psychology class that I was illogically sad, since the characters I loved were still alive and well. My teacher wrote back that the man himself was a role model through the characters he created and that I had a right to grieve. That is true, I suppose.
But as I think about Mr. Jacques now, I think it was more than his characters. He is also the first in a long line of authors who taught me to read. The ripples of that accomplishment are quite far reaching, in my life at least. On top of that he is part of a large crowd of authors who taught me to write. Every time I learn something new about what makes good writing, I see it in my favorite authors. "Show don't tell" my teachers say over and over. I think of Brian Jacques sitting (as I always imagine him) in an orchard not unlike the one inside the walls of Redwall abby, with a small crowd of blind children sitting around him. He tells them stories and makes them see what is happening. His writing is full of images, not just visual ones, although those are certainly memorable, but sounds, in the way the different creatures spoke, and tastes and smells (oh those Redwall feasts).
These beloved heros of mine, so few of them are alive now. There is a mighty generation of writers for children (most of them born in the 20s and 30s) who have been important to me. I think Susan Cooper is one of the only ones still alive.
My intellectual and imaginative grandparents have passed on, and the world seems a little less colorful.
Is it pretentious for me to want to paint it again? I just want to be one of them.
1 comment:
Love is not pretentious.
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