Of YA Fiction, Literary Complexity, and “Great Adult Literature”

I came across an infuriatingly condescending Slate article by Ruth Graham entitled “Against YA,” wherein she argues that adults should feel guilty about reading books “written for children.”

The author goes on to make broad generalizations about young adult literature, which only emphasize the fact that she hasn’t read enough YA novels to make such claims. Shallow and poorly-written books exist in ALL literary genres, but there are remarkable stories that are insightful, moving, masterfully crafted, and fall under the category of young adult fiction.

What Graham fails to understand is the significant impact that a book makes on a reader regardless of the genre.

Photo courtesy of the sister

To this day, I still consider Roald Dahl’s Matilda as one of my favorite books for it jump-started my love for literature. Madeleine L’Engle’s A Wrinkle in Time kick-started a love affair with fantasy and science fiction. Katja Millay’s The Sea of Tranquility and Carol Rifka Brunt’s Tell the Wolves I’m Home moved me in ways that I couldn’t even articulate. Rainbow Rowell’s Eleanor & Park made me grateful to be young and in love and to be living in a world where beautiful stories such as this one exists. I will be eternally grateful to J.K. Rowling for writing the Harry Potter books, and to John Green for aiming to “decrease world suck” and introducing young readers to different kinds of literature through his many creative projects (particularly Crash Course Literature). I have often expressed my love for YA books, and I will continue reading these kinds of stories no matter how old I get.

Reprimanding adults (or anyone, for that matter) for reading YA novels simply because they were “written for children” is downright laughable. Graham writes:

Fellow grown-ups, at the risk of sounding snobbish and joyless and old, we are better than this. I know, I know: Live and let read. Far be it from me to disrupt the “everyone should just read/watch/listen to whatever they like” ethos of our era. There’s room for pleasure, escapism, juicy plots, and satisfying endings on the shelves of the serious reader. And if people are reading Eleanor & Park instead of watching Nashville or reading detective novels, so be it, I suppose. But if they are substituting maudlin teen dramas for the complexity of great adult literature, then they are missing something.

By generalizing YA fiction as mediocre and questioning its literary complexity because they “present the teenage perspective in a fundamentally uncritical way”, Graham insults the intelligence of readers, who are more than capable of thinking for themselves.

The problem lies not in the fact that there are adults who read YA fiction. It is in the elitist way of thinking that “we are better than this” and only “great adult literature” is worthy of our time.

Reading, whether for pleasure or cognitive stimulation, is still reading, and no one should ever feel embarrassed about doing so. Granted, there are books that are made entirely out of horseshit and turn brains into mush, but one becomes a discerning reader through practice. The important thing is that there are still people who are choosing to read, no matter the genre of the book or the age of the reader.

Stories affect readers in different ways, and as in everything else, there are exceptionally good ones and excruciatingly bad ones. But nobody should be denied the pleasure of discovering a book so beautiful and moving, that it will remain with you forever.

For more in-depth discussions regarding the matter, click on the following links:

No, you do not have to be ashamed of reading young adult fiction by Alyssa Rosenberg on The Washington Post

Slate’s Condescending “Against YA” Couldn’t Be More Wrong — Young Adult Fiction Is for Everyone by Elisabeth Donnelly on Flavorwire

A Question of Regression by Carina Santos on Nothing Spaces

Hey, Everyone! Read Whatever the Fuck You Want by Mark Shrayber on Jezebel

This was a post by Hanna, who is seriously considering revisiting her childhood favorite books.

Of Personification and Young Adult Literature

Hell-o, multiverse. May was a firecracker, and June is a stealthy little bugger.

Wednesday is cloaked in black velvet and listening to Felix Mendelssohn’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream. I am sitting on my desk, making a feeble attempt to write something of substance. It’s been pretty quiet around here, but we promise that we’ve still been hoarding books and trying to catch up on our reading.

For the past few weeks, I’ve been devouring YA novels like cake:

E. Lockhart’s We Were Liars was stellar, masterfully crafted, and caused an uglycryface.

Reading Nina LaCour’s Everything Leads to You felt like walking on a dream, or diving into a Sofia Coppola film.

Morgan Matson’s Since You’ve Been Gone was such a delightful read, and I can’t wait to read more from her.

Jenny Han’s To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before was a riot, mostly because of the similarities between the Song sisters and my own.

Gayle Forman’s Just One Night was short and sweet. While it provided a satisfying end to the series, I was left wanting more squee (and more Dee).

Of the nine books on the list, these five were my favorite reads.

Young adult literature gets such a bad rap, but it respects its readers and provides an honest exploration of adolescence. While there are some books that turn brains into soup (regardless of the genre), there are those that are clever (E. Lockhart’s The Disreputable History of Frankie Landau-Banks), heartbreakingly beautiful (Katja Millay’s Sea of Tranquility and Rainbow Rowell’s Eleanor & Park), honest (Laurie Halse Anderson’s Speak), deliciously scandalous (Pamela Moore’s Chocolates for Breakfast), and unbefuckinglievably badass (Kristin Cashore’s Graceling).

Yes, I am in my late twenties, but I thoroughly enjoy reading YA fiction (among other things) and will continue doing so.

It is now almost two in the morning, and my ability to articulate my thoughts is waning. In the meantime, click on the following links for in-depth discussions on the importance of young adult literature:

In defense of YA literature by Michelle K on Feministing

In Defense of Grown-Ass People Reading Young Adult Novels by Joanna Robinson on Pajiba

In defense of young adult literature by Alexander Bernard on The Michigan Daily

Why I Love YA: In Defense of Young Adult Literature by Kerry Winfrey on HelloGiggles

This was a post by Hanna, who is thinking of malt shop music and ice cream.

Kubi’s 2013 Year-End Review

I spent a lot of 2013 working and trying to get my thesis off the ground. There were months when things got so tight, it was a wonder I got any reading done at all. I would read a chapter or two before falling asleep or immediately upon waking up; I would read on jeeps, in airplanes, or in line to pay the bills; basically during any stolen quiet moment. I turned in some serious reading while waiting at the airport. On a field trip to Bantayan Island in Cebu, I took a chunk off the tome that is The Wise Man’s Fear by Patrick Rothfuss. Now, I associate travel to the island with chapters of that book.

Last year, I stopped worrying about the number of books I could finish. I took on books that challenged me (in terms of both scope and scale) and was rewarded for it.

I had a renaissance with epic fantasy, and The Kingkiller Chronicles by Patrick Rothfuss were a revelation. I read the first two volumes, The Name of the Wind and The Wise Man’s Fear, a third and final still forthcoming. They were compelling reads, not least because of their endearing protagonist Kvothe and the colorful storytelling. There’s also the added bonus of watching Pat Rothfuss turn fantasy tropes on their ear.

Probably no other book permeated my reading life as pervasively as Haruki Murakami’s 1Q84. Books I and II were gripping enough, but by the time I got to Book III, I was fighting for every chapter. There is a clumsiness (even repetitiveness) to the writing that I speculated could either be deliberate or due to some fault in the translation. Maybe it read better in Japanese? It was a struggle but finish the magnum opus I did. Despite feeling like I was being dragged to the finish line by my hair, my brain wailing “No more!”, it was extremely satisfying to get this book under my belt. There were figurative trumpet sounds and confetti.

The Goldfinch by Donna Tartt was a shock of sublime writing. I highlighted that woman’s sentences with manic frequency, which actually slowed my reading progress. When I realized I would have to highlight entire pages, I made do with marking them with post-its. The Ocean at the End of the Lane by Neil Gaiman was a complicated experience in which I rebelled and ended up getting swept away. I unabashedly love Carol Rifka Brunt’s Tell the Wolves I’m Home, with its superb prose and poignant exploration of family.

Early in the year, I read World War Z: An Oral History by Max Brooks in preparation for the Brad Pitt flick (haha). It’s a very sober take on a genre I count on to revel in its humour (ironic or otherwise) and caricature monsters. It is incisive yet brimming with heart, and I was happily surprised.

In short stories, I was blown away by J. D. Salinger’s Nine Stories. You know how, in short story collections, there are hits and misses? Well, here, all you get are hits. Each of the stories is a high, sustaining a superior reading experience throughout. This book transformed me both as a reader and a writer.

Though not quite as transcendent as Nine Stories, I thoroughly enjoyed This is How You Lose Her by Junot Diaz. In a notebook, I wrote of his style: “I finally understand what ‘lyrical’ means.” I also read my first Raymond Carver this year, Hanna’s copy of What We Talk About When We Talk About Love. I guess it is a thing with Carver where he has to punch you in the heart? I found a copy of Cathedral a couple of months ago so yey, more beautiful pain.

As usual, it was a good year for young adult and children’s literature. I’ve been telling anyone who’ll listen (and even anyone who won’t) that they should read Daughter of Smoke and Bone (and succeeding books thereof) by Laini Taylor. There is Prague and Marrakech and angels versus chimaeras and forbidden luuurv.

After a lengthy, fruitless search for The True Heroine, I finally found her in Graceling by Kristin Cashore. I also did a lot of crying-for-catharsis this year, the Ugly Cry Face making special appearances for Hold Still by Nina LaCour, The Sea of Tranquility by Katja Millay, and Where She Went by Gayle Forman. I took to Rainbow Rowell’s Fangirl betterthan her other YA heavyweight, Eleanor & Park. Alas, the hype killed the latter for me, and I’ve promised to read it again when the dust has settled.

I read Fortunately the Milk by Neil Gaiman in October, at the end of an exceptionally hellish week. It was an oasis for my imagination, which was drying up due to my being severely tired and burned out. The Phantom Tollbooth by Norton Juster, which I finished during the post-holiday slump at the beginning of the year, had the same rousing effect. It is a wise old thing, and I declared that my future kid would read it.

Sometimes, the powers-that-be conspire to send you a book so totally aligned with your current thoughts and feelings. What I Talk About When I Talk About Running by Haruki Murakami was that kind of a book. Looking back, I was lucky I was paying attention. My other non-fiction favourite this year is A Moveable Feast by Ernest Hemingway, which told me “[not to] worry. You have always written before and you will write now. All you have to do is write one true sentence. Write the truest sentence that you know.”

The Encyclopedia of Early Earth by Isabel Greenberg was a purchase late in the year. I’m so glad I managed to get a copy, because it is absolutely gorgeous and strange. It is an ode to stories and the way they keep us breathing. The ongoing fantasy comic Saga by Brian Vaughan and Fiona Staples was a recommendation from the boy, who correctly predicted that I would go crazy for it. And finally, my copy of Love & Misadventure by Lang Leav is a mess of post-its and bleeding hearts.

I didn’t expect it or think it possible, but 2013 turned out to be such a meaningful reading year. I’m not opposed to a repeat, but right now, I’m just thankful. The curtain is about to fall on my academic circus, my friends, so 2014 should largely be focused on finishing my thesis. But I will find those quiet moments, the precious gaps amid the chaos, where I might read a story or two.

This was a post by Kubi who is still looking for the right book to start out 2014.

Hanna’s Year-End Review

It was another year filled with beautiful stories and magic.

2013 was a particularly busy year, but procrastination allowed me to read some of the most incredible books that have, in one way or another, made a significant impact on the way I read, write, observe, and create.

Here are my favorites for 2013:

(Click the photo for a larger view)

1. Sailing Alone Around the Room by Billy Collins – Beautiful imagery, words that jump right out of the page, and masterful storytelling. I’m happy that these poems exist.

2. Hold Still by Nina LaCour – Heartbreakingly beautiful.

3. The Unbecoming of Mara Dyer by Michelle Hodkin – Remarkably creepy and seductive. Also, Noah Shaw. And I want a brother like Daniel.

4. Daughter of Smoke & Bone by Laini Taylor – A gorgeous and satisfying read.

5. The Thief series by Megan Whalen Turner – I know this is cheating because there are actually four books in this series, but these stories are so delicious and I want them all. Also, Eugenides is boss.

6. Eleanor & Park by Rainbow Rowell – I was a mess of rainbows after reading this book. Read my review here, where I gushed about it and tried to articulate my feelings about, and for, Eleanor & Park.

7. Howl’s Moving Castle by Diana Wynne Jones – Spectacularly clever and magical.

8. The Avery Shaw Experiment by Kelly Oram – I can’t with this book.

9. Graceling by Kristin Cashore – I want to be Katsa when I grow up.

10.Abarat by Clive Barker – Reading it felt like I was part of a magical mystery tour.

11. The Sea of Tranquility by Katja Millay – Images of broken flowers, cracked eggshells, and blue roses spring to mind. There was a multitude of pauses and tears, and it made me forget about sleep.

12.The Ocean at the End of the Lane by Neil Gaiman – It conjured up memories of being a kid and being afraid and trying to remember and trying to forget. I’m still thinking about it. (Read Kubi’s review here, where she tried to sort out her feelings about this book and say thank you to one of our most beloved word painters.)

13.Fangirl by Rainbow Rowell – It was like I sneezed, my soul escaped, and Rainbow Rowell caught it.

14.Turn Around Bright Eyes by Rob Sheffield – This provides glimpses into various parts of Rob Sheffield’s life that are familiar to me. I want to write about music like he does. Or at least become his karaoke buddy.

15.The Mysterious Benedict Society by Trenton Lee Stewart – Incredibly clever and a delightful read. I want to go on more adventures with The Mysterious Benedict Society.

16.It’s a Magical World by Bill Watterson – Calvin and Hobbes, always and forevermore.

17.City of Thieves by David Benioff – A rollicking tale of war, survival, desire, friendship, and eggs. Also, a very impressive chess game.

18.Dear Mr. Henshaw by Beverly Cleary – It’s a wonderful little book that I wish I had read when I was a kid.

This was a post by Hanna, who wants more time to read and write and eat dumplings.

Currently Reading: The Sea of Tranquility by Katja Millay

Lovely, lovely novel. It knocked the wind right out of me. I just finished, and am absolutely floored. No coherent thoughts yet, but I need to have it down here. If you haven’t yet, please read this book.

This was a post by Kubi who is grateful for good books.