Dream come true

I got a very flattering comment from a student on my previous blog post, pointing out that I had toned down my major role in the creation and development of the Children's Literature Centre. I take it as an encouragement to brag a bit, but also reflect on why it has been such an important endeavour for me.

Children's literature centres throughout the world are diverse. Some are independent foundations, others are affiliated with a university or a national library. Some primarily serve professionals and academics, others also have activities for children. Some conduct research, some don't. Some also run courses. The Swedish Institute for Children's Books is a most amazing institution. It has every single children's book published in Sweden since 1592; it has all Swedish children's books translated and published in other countries; it has a reference collection of 10,000 volumes in every imaginable language and a current subcsription to over a hundred professional journals. A paradise for a children's literature scholar. However, they don't do research. They publish a scholarly journal and a book series, but research itself is done in universities.

When I applied for a Chair in children's literature in Stockholm, many years ago, I had two visions in my personal statement: a masters programme and a research centre. I don't know what the other candidate's visions were, but apparently their arguments for not having a masters course and a research centre were stronger than mine. Some year later, when I was teaching at San Diego State, the idea of a centre surfaced again. My argument was that the children's literature team was already doing most of the things a centre is supposed to do, so it was a matter of consolidation. And hiring me as Director (I was already a Full Professor by then which would be an added value). The university development officer said, as admin people say: “I'll see what I can do”. But he didn't. The SDSU centre came to being some years after I had left and is doing great things.

When I came to Cambridge five years ago, a centre was high on my agenda, but I didn't mention it in my personal statement or job interview. I bid my time, looking around for support. Again, the wonderful child lit team was already doing all kinds of fabulous things, including a masters course; there were two excellent libraries; and there was a world-wide reputation. All that remained was a name and a logo. We ran a logo competition. There was one submission that, rather unexpectedly, won. The winner was also appointed the webmaster for our webpage. We inaugurated the centre with a guest talk by Jack Zipes. It got good press coverage.

Since then we have had more research students and more guest scholars. I don't know whether it depends on the existence of the centre or is a natural process of growth. We continued doing what we had been doing. We ran a couple of international conferences. We applied and were approved as a nominating body for the prestigeous Astrid Lindgren Memorial Award. We established our own award (regrettably, not of the same magnitude) for the best masters thesis. We collaborate with other centres in the UK and elsewhere. Our research students run a blog. We have a minimal budget, but it covers our immediate needs. One day a Cambridge alumnus will donate us ten million pounds. Until then we'll have to manage. People's dedication takes us a long way. On my wish list, doctoral studentships have highest priority. I would like to offer funding to guest scholars. So far, we can offer them desk space, IT services, library access, some free lunches and a fantastic scholarly community. In the coming year, we may be able to offer inexpensive accomodation. I am working slowly, but surely, step by step.

 

So yes, I guess I have achieved something that had been my dream for many years; but the best thing is that when I am gone, which will be soon, I will be leaving the Centre in good hands. 

Five-year report

In a couple of weeks we will have lived in Cambridge for five years. Five years is longer than you imagine. Time for reflections?

I still haven't got over it. Every now and then I stop to ask myself: What am I doing here? How did I get here? It can't be real. Why do people speak English all the time, it's unnatural. Yet I am here, and most of the time I like it.

What I have definitely learned is that my subject will always be a stepchild. In Literary Studies, I was bullied because children's literature is education. Here, in Education, I am bullied because children's literature is not education. In my old life, I had to justify my existence by researching “real” literature, and it was the only way to advance in my career. I don't need to advance any more so I am not going to publish on quantitative methods or autoethnography. After all, I was hired to do what I am doing so apparently it was judged to be good enough.

This is the first time in my career that I have a leader post, and I have learned to put my team's interest before my own. It was easy because I have always put students' interest before my own. I have learned to raise my voice. It is easier when you speak for other people, not just for yourself. But I have been repeatedly reminded that women are still not counted half as good as men. In my role, I frequently find myself the only woman in a room full of men. They try to pretend I am not there. I point out that I am. It's a silly game.

But women are also silly. I've heard a female professor tell students that academic career is incompatible with family. I pity her.

Most of my colleagues are wonderful, and some have become very close friends. I find Cambridge much, much more friendly and informal than any academic community I have experienced, possibly with the exception of Finland. Social life is tightly interwoven with academic life, for students as well as professors. It's a clever way of running things.

Students are the source of most joy and make it all worth while. They keep up my faith in humanity when everything else fails.

After five years I think I have understood the intricate tensions between colleges and departments, but it's pointless to explain it here. I think I have learned the jargon, but every now and then encounter words that have a specific meaning in Cambridge. You have to have been here for thirty years to become an insider, so it's too late.

I am not addicted to books

A friend posted this on Facebook. I understand it is supposed to be ironic, but I cannot help wondering whether people indeed have such relationships with books. So let me respond.

1. When you were little, books were your best friends in the world.

I am not sure what it means. I learned to read when I was four and I was always reading, but I would never call books friends. I didn't have lots of real friends, and I had some imaginary friends, but books were books. 

2. When you’re reading a good book, you forget to eat or sleep.

Why? I wasn't allowed to read during meals, so I have never developed this habit. I like munching on something nice when I am reading. But I would not forget to eat because I would get hungry sooner or later. I may read late, later than reasonable, but forget to sleep? No. 

3. Your ups and downs are completely dictated by the book you’re reading.

This sounds a bit pathological to me. A book may indeed affect my life, as many books have, but on a more profound level. Not my everyday life. 

4. You’ve been traumatized by things that “only” happened in books you read.

Frankly, I have no idea what it means. I must be completely insensitive.

5. The picture window in your wallet displays your library card instead of your driver’s license.

 Could be. Could also be my bank card or my Tesco rewards card. Actually, I don't have a library card because all my library privileges are on my university ID card.

6. You think of colors in terms of Penguin classics.

I must be colour-blind.

7. Rainy days > sunny days.

Maybe. And yes, I used to read a lot outdoors. These days, I do my gardening outdoors, and I do my readign indoors.

8. This is all you think about when you picture your “dream home.” 

No, this is a nightmare that I have been escaping from all life. Moving countries is an efficient way of getting rid of books. And I never re-arrange my bookshelves because then I wouldn't be able to find anything.

9. Walking by a closed bookstore is torture

No. It can be a nuisance if you have come all the way from Stockholm to San Diego to find your favourite bookstore closed, but otherwise it will be open the next day. And my argument is: Do you really need a new book? Yes? No, you must be mistaken. You have a whole shelf of unread books (given to you by publishers for free). Crush on a bookstore employee sounds interesting, but I have not been blessed with such an experience.

10. Anytime you undertake any idea or project, the first step is to read a lot of books about it.

 Yes, but I cannot see this as a sign of addiction, but a normal scholarly approach. Books can teach you almost anything, including how to make friends. 

11. You would never shame someone for reading.

Of course not. I don't understand the point. I must be living in a different world. Does anyone shame anyone else for reading? Well, they do in 19th-century novels and bad contemporary young adult fiction. I feel sorry for people who don't read because their life is poorer than mine, but shame?

12. When others come to you for advice, you just give them books to read.

No. That's what bad educators do. "Read this book about grief, and you'll forget that your best friend has died. Read Anna Karenina, and you will feel better about your adultery".

13. When you go on vacation, your suitcase looks like this.

Depends on the length and nature of vacation, as well as the destination. If you are going to a country where you cannot get hold of books then of course you will bring more. But these days I just bring my reading device. When I used to do to beaches I always brought a book. But other people play cards. Or swim. Or play beachball.

14. TV is OK…sometimes.

I don't watch TV. 

15. The stack of books by your bed resembles the beginning of a Jenga game.

It used to. Then my daughter told me it was bad feng shui, and she was right. Now I just have the book I am reading. 

16. The sexiest someone can look is when they’re holding a good book.

 This must be some weird internal joke. 

17. You make decisions about people based on the number of books they have.

Yes. And the kinds of books they have. And no, books are not better than people. No more than bicycles  are better than ice cream.

18. But when someone reads a book you recommend to them, your faith in humanity is completely restored.

My job is to recommend people to read books so there is nothing particularly remarkable about it.

19. The book is always, always, always better.

No. There are lots of great movies based on books nobody has heard of. And there are lots of great movies based on great books. And bad movies based on bad books.

20. One of your life’s greatest pleasures is the smell of old books.

No. If anything, I like the smell of new books.

21. Book violence concerns you greatly.

I have no idea what it is about. 

22. Sure, you work out!

OK, this was funny.  And yes, I do get pain if I sit uncomfortably when I read, so I don't. 

23. You often have spats of, uh, “insomnia.”

No. I am hopelessly self-disciplined. And I have never experienced the pleasure, described in books, of falling asleep with a book in your hands.

24. Finishing a book you loved is like losing a best friend.

No! It's like gaining a good friend. You can read it again and again. However, I said earlier that books are not friends. 

25. When you’re between books, you feel lost.

No. I always have at least fifty books on my reading list, so when I finish a book I just start a new one. 

Summing up: I read on the average a hundred books every year, for work and for pleasure. I re-read some books regularly for pleasure, and I re-read lots of books for work. I normally read at least something every day. Most days, I read at least an hour in bed. I have books at work and at home. Books are my work and my leisure. But addicted? The typical definition of addicted is that you cannot stop and get sick if you stop. I would be vary unhappy if I were deprived of reading, but none of the symptoms described above make much sense. 

Oh well, I know it is supposed to be ironic. 

You are now number three in line...

My students must think I am crazy when I tell them that I read their drafts on first-come-first-served basis. For each of them, their draft is the highest priority. But I cannot see any other way of dealing with it. I cannot take on the responsibility of deciding that any particular student's work is more urgent than any other. I cannot even say that masters' drafts are more important than PhDs or the other way round. So I just say, first-come-first-served, and I don't read drafts during the weekends (unless specifically agreed with the student).

Now, a draft is a relative concept. Some drafts are five pages, some are forty. Some offer a coherent argument, some are notes and quotes. The latter are the hardest to assess. What can I say beyond: “Carry on”? A full masters thesis draft – 20,000 words – takes anything between three and twenty hours to read and comment on. This year, I have six masters students, and if I read two drafts of each – well, some simple calculation. Further, I have PhD students who insist on producing their chapters drafts in sync with the masters, before the end of term. A chapter is also usually about 20,000 words, and it can also take any number of hours to read. Some students have complained that I don't give them enough feedback. When a chapter is really good, I typically say so, possibly offering some minor comments on structure or suggesting an additional source. But I can imagine that a student who has spent weeks upon weeks on a chapter is disappointed to merely hear: “Excellent – now go and write the next chapter”. Fine, I will give more feedback (there is always something you can say even about the most brilliant chapter), but it takes more time. Hmm... that's what I am paid for.

Of course I cannot read drafts ten hours non-stop. It would be unfair toward the student whose draft I read last on the day. I'd either be too grumpy and find faults or too tired to make sensible comments. Which means that I need breaks every now and then, and occasionally I need to eat. For breaks, I go out and do some gardening. It's tempting to stay in the garden and never return to those lovely drafts, but I have fantastic self-discipline. Yet finally I reach a stage when I don't understand what I am reading anymore, and then I need to stop and re-read the draft the next day to make sure I haven't missed anything. And correct the typos in my comments.

By the time I have read all lined-up drafts there will be more coming. And I write back to the student to acknowledge that the draft has arrived, saying: “You are now number three in line. I will deal with your draft as soon as I can”.

Mind, I love my job!

How children's literature research started

I had a reason recently to look back at my early studies of children's literature, and it struck me that when I took my first undergrad course in Stockholm in 1982, some of the standard works you find today on any syllabus had not been published. No Jacqueline Rose, no Words about Pictures, no Don't Tell the Grownups. So what was on our syllabus? Our main book was a translation from Danish, From Snowhite to Snoopy, and was exactly what it sounds like: a thematic and historical overview. We read some chapters from a Swedish collection titled Children's Literature and Children's Literature Research, published in 1972, which covered a few central topics, such as tomboy literature. We also had my old professor's profound study Form in Children's Literature which was, I am convinced, one of the very first studies in the world to pay attention to the aesthetic features of children's literature, rather than topics and ideology. The Swedish Children's Books Institute had a fabulous international reference collection, and it subscribed to all major journals. In our doctoral seminar, we discussed Peter Hunt's early articles on childist criticism and Peter Hollindale's “Ideology and the Children’s Book” as they appreared. We read Rose and Jack Zipes, Humphrey Carpenter's The Secret Gardens, Aidan Chambers' Booktalk, Juliet Dussinberre's Alice to the Lighthouse. We read some excellent German and Norwegian research. Then we started producing our own colletions and textbooks: on young adult novel, on picturebooks; later, after I finished my PhD, I edited a volume on literary theory and children's literature which was used in every course in Sweden for a long time. As is often the case, we wrote books we wanted to read and needed for our teaching. Sadly, none of this early Swedish research is known and acknowledged in the English-speaking world, with the one exception. The concept of iconotext, used in most studies of picturebooks today, was coined by my fellow student Kristin Hallberg in a journal article in 1982. 

 

Separation anxiety

A student has written a blog post about her academic post partum. Interestingly, while I was weeding the garden today as a break from my absolutely final editing, I had similar thoughts. It is clever to let a doctoral work take three years. If you are a serious scholar, during three years you develop so much that the final product looks completely different from your original design. This book has taken me four years to write. It has nothing to do whatsoever with my initial ideas.

Much like Clementine, I kept telling myself that this was just the first/second/third draft and that I will fix it when the time comes. When the time came, there was no time to fix it. When I started, it was full of possibilities and bifurcations. Now, at the closure, it's finite. It's all pluperfect. Memory of a memory.

I postponed the assemblage of loose notes, that gradually took form of chapters, as long as I could. Originally, I had seven chapters. I now have eight, none even remotedly resembling the original seven. The book is not really what I thought it would be. Whether it's better or worse or rather the other way round, I cannot judge at the moment.

Like Clementine, I'd like to attach a note to my reviewers, saying: This is not what I intended to write. This is not even what I promised to write in the proposal and what was approved by the first round of reviews. It is – yes, a changeling, a stranger that I don't want to touch or acknowledge. The beautiful baby I once had in mind is irretrievably gone.

Perhaps it's just as well. Perhaps the ugly duckling would have grown into a big ugly duck. Now I can imagine what a beautiful swan it might have been. If only... what? If somebody else had written it for me? No way. 

I have put all the chapters and supplementary materials in one file and converted it to PDF.It is ready to go.

Unbook of the week: Un Lun Dun

I like some of Mieville's books and dislike some. I like The City and the City and Embassytown. I have vague memories of disgust with King Rat (which I assume is the intention), and I put aside Kraken after a hundred pages because it was unbearably boring. I am fine with authors whose books are not always to my liking, and I am always prepared to give them another chance.

I started reading Un Lun Dun because a colleague from the English Department mentioned it over lunch table. Colleagues from the English Department seldom read children's books unless they have children, and this particular colleague was reading Un Lun Dun with his son with great enjoyment. I had to confess that I didn't know Mieville had written children's books, and I went home and bought it. I didn't have any expectations apart from someone I know well had recommended the book, and it was written by an author some of whose books I like. I felt obliged to read to the end to be able to engage in an informed discussion with my colleague; otherwise I would have stopped after fifty pages. The moment I saw the word “Chosen” I felt a strong desire to smash the book against the wall (I was reading on Kindle, so it wouldn't have been a good idea).

Now, of course the Chosen business is turned upside down (warning: spoilers!), and generally the whole book is one big parody. But parody only works as such for somebody who had read five hundred fantasy novels, and I am not sure Mieville has done so. He acknowledges Neil Gaiman and Norton Juster, among others, as his sources of inspiration, to which I can only say: sorry, Mr Mieville, you aren't up to your models (which is often the case). Where Gaiman and Juster are splendid fireworks, Un Lun Dun is a party cracker. There are far too many things recognisable from other fantasy texts, but not used creatively – rather randomly glued together, much like the buildings in Unlondon, made of moil objects (Moderately Obsolete in London). There are some wonderful details, such as the torus-shaped Unsun, or the animated milk carton who develops a devotion for the protagonist. This is typical of the novel: the least important secondary character is much more lovable than the protagonist. She is in fact as flat as a pancake. The text has no room for her to think, feel, be surprised. If she is scared, the text says she is scared. If she thinks, she thinks aloud. When she needs to act, she talks to other characters. All tokens of very old-fashioned children's literature. All directly opposite from the exquisite narration of Mieville's other books, including those I don't like. With all the upside-down, fractured, postmodernesque twists, the plot is painfully predictable. And there is no heart-breaking farewell in the end.

I am certainly a wrong reader for this book, fed up with parallel worlds and chosen children, virtuose wordplay and logical paradoxes. I can imagine that someone less spoiled, child or adult alike, would enjoy the book and appreciate exactly the features I find irritating. So don't let my negative response govern you choice. Read it and see for yourself.