The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time- Social Justice

     Though what I plan to write about is only a small aspect of the story, I do think it's about delivering justice even if it's in a pathetically small way.  Let's cast aside the opinions of the neighborhood and a stressed parent and focus on Christopher, our hopelessly (and actually uncontrollably) earnest protagonist. Not many care about dead dogs, though one with a fork running through it would probably cause more concern than  a chunk of roadkill. But, not many have such a fondness for the easy to read, loyal mammals. And, not many would dedicate more than a few hours wondering about who killed a dog. I, personally, do not like dogs, I find for them to be horribly over-rated and excitable. If I stumbled upon a dead dog, I would walk right by it and would probably forget about the encounter a few minutes after it occurred. Dogs do, I suppose, deserve justice, justice that is very rarely served. The only person honorable enough and earnest enough to try to deliver this justice is an outcast, a boy with autism who's thought to be unintelligent by others (which is a very inaccurate deduction).
  
     It makes me think that the most frowned upon or criticized can often be better people than those that degrade their being. It's a rather amusing idea, that the people thought to inferior actually have a higher morale than those that put them down. Well, I can't say it's surprising, in order to make somebody inferior to oneself, the bully must be both ignorant and arrogant, two traits of stupidity.
    
     By helping a dead dog, Christopher brings not only justice to the dog, but to himself as well. He displayed his interest in things that are often over-looked, he unknowingly proved the people that thought he was stupid wrong. He created for himself a secretive form of self-justice, secretive because he was unaware that he had even created it. He had managed to liberate himself and free himself of stereotypes by just doing what he always does, which is a feat in itself.

Dangerous Laughter

    Steven Millhauser's book of short stories creates an ultimate portrayal of things that while wondrous and inventive, should have never been attempted. A man sits on his workbench, scratching away at ivory, creating a button for a nearly invisible coat. This coat, whispering, 'genuis!' from every carved fur of its lining, was created to be invisible for the fulfillment of an artist with a craving. An artist whose work, while on the verge of being microscopic, should be marveled over and should be seen. A tower begins to crumble, a tower that once had rumors crawling up and down its impenetrable length; rumors that it had reached the heavens, rumors large enough to send the townsfolk up the tower's now fragmented stairs, dreaming of the monstrous fantasy that lay above their heads. Benjamin Hershfeld, the designer of shapeless yet shamelessly suggestive clothing (and later on, the painter of mobile figures, Harlan Crane) wonders about the world, providing for thankless, ravenous customers, people who mindlessly attempt to decipher their art.
     Mysterious and intriguing, all of the masterpieces represented in this book were vital mistakes, resulting in a longing for what shouldn't have been. The craftsman of invisible art, once respected in his practice, was politely and secretively mocked, regarded as a madman. But how meticulous his work had been! How alluring and unusual! It was, though, this strange and lovable art that did him in. This particular artist found himself selfishly needing more. He labored, as though in a trance, over a creation that no other eyes would be able to witness. While self-fulfilling, this practice was discrediting him, he wanted for his art to be praised by others. Yet, he had created a barrier for himself.
     The other stories are the same, creations and creators, while holding the key to their own prison, couldn't help but prefer being locked inside. Each story told the tale of how something dug a ditch for itself, and sometimes in an attempt to get out and, other times, in an attempt to redeem itself, ended up digging only deeper, slowly becoming trapped.
     In the stories this process was so gradual that I quite nearly over-looked them. Having had been transfixed by the characters settle despair, I found myself being slowly dragged down along with them, believing that they, indeed, were the correct ones. I was angered at those that attended Harlan Crane's art expeditions, how could they disgrace such a beautiful painting, dragging down the artist's name? Why be so unsatisfied with a designer's work? It's not as though Hirschfeld forced you to wear his clothes! Then, slowly, I realized why this passion was yet another critical and intentional move on Millhauser's behave. I was forced to reflect on human nature. I saw exactly how comparable the patterns of the general populace was to our reality. In the stories, the humans either blamed or dismissed what they were either angered by or made bored by. Fads in these miniature, alternate universes carry the same patterns as they do here. People to get bored, even by the most spectacular. When confused, they turn away or become red in their faces, throwing a fit. This anger leads to finger-pointing, the blaming of others, and, at the end of it all, it's always that fault of the artist, no matter how superior their work may have been.
     I do find it to be slightly ironic though, that the author of these stories is so heavily praised!

The Phantom Tollbooth (1

     Children are convenient. They're innocent, unexposed, curious and, best of all, gullible. They are the ideal tool for writers, why not start with a clean slate with which to convey a message? Why not reduce our ugly, adult selfs into small, unknowing children? Why not create Milo and place him on a path to a quest, a quest to tell others of our horrors, our flaws and all of the mistakes to carefully avoid? So, Milo was created, a miniature adult with a heart lured to danger and a heroic quest and new friends. Now, let me assure you, this has been done many times before, perhaps not in the same whimsical, word-play filled way, maybe not with the same names or places or the exact same plots, but this has been done before, in very similar ways. 

     The problem with using such conveniences in books, is that others find them to be convenient too. Not to say that Norton was looking for a shortcut around writing the book, He wrote and rewrote it, but I must say that I've started to tire of the same themes (some of which being to avoid hate and malice, draining yourself of life, embarking on journeys of endless tasks...) the same characters (the ones to learn lessons off of, the princesses, the kings, the amusing ones...) and the same hero ( who goes through some life-changing experiences, who saves the ones in need, who tries, and learns and always, always (in these sorts of books at least) succeeds). The first time I read this book, I was won over by its charm, by Chroma the Great and the alluring concerts, by the countless personifications, by the eatable words. But, by re-reading this book, I realized the unless repetitiveness of it, the lessons always learned elsewhere, the lessons that I've been forced to learn over and over again. In the beginning of the book, the pages were filled with annotation after annotation, but as the story dragged on, my scragged writing became sparse, leaving the pages rather barren of notes. It wasn't that my motivation to write that started to decrease so rapidly, but rather the new things to notice that seemed to have disappeared. Why write then rewrite then rewrite again that Milo is still a child and attracted to this childish world of his, that he's a symbol for adults, but reduced into the form of a child, a form in which he'll be able to learn, that he's begun to learn due to this character and that character and this situation and that quest? I did try to dig deeper but ran into stone.

     I wonder, though, is this what makes a children's book? A piece of literature where things are repeated again and again? While reading this book the first time, I was capable of drawing out themes and make text to world connections. Charlotte's Web   did the same thing, it drilled that same things into the reader's mind, endlessly. It seems that these books often underestimate the capabilities of their audience. I do realize that both of the books mentioned do say deeper things. If they didn't, then why would we be re-reading in 8th grade? But I can't help but be frustrated by a clear lack of originality at the roots of the books. I so suppose that there are limits to things that can be (or more like socially accepted to be) conveyed in books directed towards children, but I do feel that, in some ways, the authors have managed to limit themselves.