How do you get teenagers to read?

I hope some of my reading friends here have ideas about this, but let me be more specific about the problem, as I think it’s a new one, twenty years ago it wouldn’t have existed.

The question is, how do you get hostile belligerent teenagers who are addicted to phones/social media and over whom you have no authority, though you are their teacher, to read for pleasure? And, by the way, this is a ‘nice’ school in Geneva, Switzerland; heaven knows how bad it must be in other places.

To complicate things further, these teenagers are learning English as a second language. Their grasp of it is very weak, A2 at best.

The best I’ve come up with so far is one teacher’s suggestion of The Hunger Games because what is relevant to teenagers is sex, death, violence and drugs. Relationships with each other and how to get through those. Are there more uptodate examples readers might suggest that will get kids reading?

And if these kids don’t even read in their own language, what are the chances of their reading anything in a foreign language they are being forced to learn?

The teacher referred to above posted here about his experiences.

Approaching adult themes
Perhaps the two most popular fictional series for young adults in recent years have been The Hunger Games trilogy and The Twilight Saga. They have been translated successfully into all the major languages so it’s clear that they have a universal appeal. They may appear to be very different from each other on the surface: the one being set in a futuristic dystopia while the other, although set in the contemporary world is a tale of rival gangs of vampires and werewolves. But they share a number of important themes in common. They are both works of fantasy. They both deal with relationships in the form of a love triangle. Violence and death and all of the emotional and moral conundrums therein are also central plot themes. These themes crop up again and again in young adult fiction. The prevalence of fantasy is easy to understand – successful books need to entertain after all. Vampires, werewolves and wizards may come and go according to fashion. But the human realities of surviving relationships, being different, coping with hardship, violence and even death are here to stay.

Looking at the top ten teen books being sold online at the moment, six fall into the science fiction/fantasy genre, two are set in futuristic dystopias. Four have romance as plot elements, while two deal with the issue of rape. It should come as no surprise that these themes have so much appeal to teenagers who are themselves coming to grips with issues surrounding relationships, sex, violence, and being different themselves, as they near adulthood. Books offer them a safe place to explore these ideas as they try and work out their own beliefs and how they fit in with the world around them.

I wonder if there are any A2 vampire stories out there? Perhaps that’s the way forward in this dispiriting conundrum.

A Connoisseur’s Case by Michael Innes

Hard not to love an archetypal English countryside mystery first published 1962, that has a homage to Tom Lehrer in it.

‘A piano, you idiot?….I’m not expecting a piano. What should I want a piano for? To play myself to sleep with Mozart and that crowd?’ Channing-Kennedy gave a short, sharp bellow of laughter on this, so that one had to suppose he considered it a considerable witticism.

It is undeniable that the story line is thin – a fan tells me that is often the case – but it isn’t why you read an Innes. You read it to share his lighthearted love of language, the fun he has with it, the droll wit. It’s so jolly English, what.

I complained in my review of Donleavy recently that he is frequently described as having a staccato style, which I think is predicated on a misunderstanding of how he writes, perhaps because Donleavy himself played the master of the manor. But here Innes captures exactly that staccato upper class English way, that inability to construct sentences. Having read these books back to back it really struck me, the contrast between this, and the dreamy melodic nature of Donleavy’s prose.

‘I’ve no idea, my dear. I’ve never heard him mentioned for years. Went off the rails, they say. But I don’t know how badly. Sad thing, when a decent family produces a rotter. Came across it once or twice in the Regiment. Honoured name, you know. And then suddenly you have a boy forging a cheque or cheating at cards. Embarrassing.’ For a moment Colonel Raven looked extremely serious. Then he brightened. ‘But I see that Tarbox has let us have the Stilton,’ he said. ‘Dig into it John. It’s really not bad – not as Stilton goes nowadays.’

The words make pictures in your mind, it’s hard to believe that Appleby’s stories haven’t been filmed. And I wonder if Sir Humphrey Appleby, the star of Yes Minister, is deliberated named as a tribute to Michael Innes for word games in the English language.

Wiki’s done a good job of summarising the nature of these books:

Between 1936 and 1986, Stewart, writing under the pseudonym of Michael Innes, published nearly fifty crime novels and short story collections, which he later described as “entertainments”.[1] These abound in literary allusions and in what critics have variously described as “mischievous wit”, “exuberant fancy” and a “tongue-in-cheek propensity” for intriguing turns of phrase.[1][3] Julian Symons identified Innes as one of the “farceurs”—crime writers for whom the detective story was “an over-civilized joke with a frivolity which makes it a literary conversation piece with detection taking place on the side”—and described Innes’s writing as being “rather in the manner of Peacock strained through or distorted by Aldous Huxley“.[4] His mysteries have also been described as combining “the elliptical introspection … [of] a Jamesian character’s speech, the intellectual precision of a Conradian description, and the amazing coincidences that mark any one of Hardy’s plots”.[1]

For: when you want to be entertained with a deft touch that keeps a smile on your face
For: appreciation of the English language
For: the butler

The Beastly Beatitudes of Balthazar B. by JP Donleavy

Once a darling of the literary world due to his first novel, The Ginger Man, he is now of that period, only old enough to be out of fashion, and I don’t know if he’ll get to be classic. I was put off Donleavy long ago by failing at my attempt to read The Ginger Man and then later by failing also with The Unexpurgated Code: A Complete Manual of Survival & Manners.

Late last year, however, I went to an English booksale in Geneva, which had the following rule: once you had 30CHF of books in your bag,  you could continue to fill your bag with books at no further charge. I have not been buying books at fairs and fetes and sales and op shops since I could walk to no effect. Stuffing books in bags? It is a skill I could put on my CV. Knowing the rules of the game, I bought various books that otherwise would not have made the cut and this was one of them.

Evidently somebody had died and his books had been donated to the sale. He was clearly a man of literary taste and I hated to see so many of his books just sitting right at the end of the sale, not the sort of thing read these days. Hrrrrumph. There I was, therefore, practically obliged to take this book, by a writer with whom I had no affinity. I wanted it to have a home.

Twenty or so pages into the book, my opinion had not wavered, my previous judgement of him more or less confirmed. I might have stopped reading….but I didn’t. And suddenly things turned around. Far from wanting to stop, I couldn’t put it down.

The fact is one might criticise this, and perhaps others of his, since I gather Donleavy tends to write about the same thing, for various 21st century crimes. His hero, a tragic hero no less, is a young rich white male. One feels the misogyny of Donleavy and a patronising of ‘the lower classes’ which goes with his image. He bought a big country house in Ireland and dressed in the outlandish way Balthazar does.

And his comic pieces, which are oddly thrust into the book here and there, once they are set in Ireland, are coarse caricatures. The harridan of a wife, who sets upon her husband and young women, who sees the merest thought of sex as rape. Really? Now we would think like this: that these poor women were divided into those who had to keep becoming pregnant with all the attendant risks and the ones so young they didn’t yet understand those risks.

But then I think of the Irish couple I used to know, the tough woman with her eye fixed on her husband, the fact that it was with good reason, since he had lust perpetually in his face, though he may always have been too scared to act upon it.

And in any case, with the bulk of the book lyrically, if harrowingly sad, perhaps these pieces of silliness were essential to provide some balance.

Here we are, then, expected to laugh at things which are inappropriate to laugh at these days, and expected to feel sorry….for a rich, handsome, young white male? That’s really challenging the reader. It reminds me of a musician I used to go to see in Melbourne. He used to rant at his audience about how hard it was being part of this minority, the rich white male. The ‘rich’ seemed particularly obscene for him to complain about because he performed with a longtime member of the live folk scene in Melbourne, who had not a cent to his name. Errrm. Give all your money to Pete? We’d all be better off?

So here we have the hero of this book, Balthazar, a beautiful soft fearful young filthy-rich white male. Women fall for him like flies, but he is too paralysed with his fearfulness to be able to take advantage of this. In the entire book, over a long period of years, he has almost no sex. And he experiences almost no love.

He has all the get up and go of something small which has been squashed almost to death, perhaps by a copy of this very book. He has even less initiative and when he does, on rare occasion, exercise it, disaster befalls. If you ask me, such a person should make you so jolly irritated that you want to throw the darn book at the wall. And why on earth should you waste one moment of that shrinking number of moments you have left feeling sorry for him?

Ah, but you do. The fact is that there isn’t one moment in the book when you don’t feel for him. Somehow, despite all his natural advantages, despite his almost slothful approach to the world, despite his complete failure at any time to see any point to existence, despite all of that, you don’t want to box him around the ears whilst yelling at him to get real and wise up.

And it seems to me, that there is some aspect of genius at work, affecting the reader in a way where their very digestive system is wreaked havoc upon by the words of Donleavy, the order in which he puts them, and that way he has. Just google ‘Donleavy and ‘staccato’ to see the common observation-come-criticism that his delivery is staccato. But nothing could be further from the truth. The remarkable thing about this way – I wouldn’t want to use such a cold word as technique – of Donleavy is that although many of his sentences are not proper at all, but merely parts of sentences, they have a lilting, lyric quality of – well, one might say poetry there, but in fact it is much more complicated than that. I’ve tried to read this book out loud, thinking that it demanded to be, but no. So far my conclusion is that although it seems like it should be read aloud, in fact that is impossible to do and give justice to the words and their order. I’m fairly sure that this is not my fault for being an inadequate interpreter (though I may be). Rather, it is remarkably hard to read this book except in your head. I wonder if others have thought about this? I’d love to know if my idea about this is right or wrong.

To show what it’s like, this strange hypnotic prose, but at the same time to have this doubt, that to take a passage will reduce the very thing I’m trying to expose. Still. Take this, for instance. There is a context. The war which has ended. His abject loneliness. His constant yearning and complete inability to address that.

Balthazar B sat down on a crimson seat beneath a strained glass window and perused this oriental menu. The black dressed waitress brought a large cup of coffee and plate of glistening brown topped currant buns. A dish of gold balls of butter. A woman with a priest. Two red coated girls with refined small fingers sticking out form their cups of tea. Little clanks of cutlery on the glass. Heaped pots of sugar pieces. Warm fragrant coffee in the mouth. To open an evening newspaper and read that a cow escaped onto a road and gave the garda a wild chase into a village where the beast entered a public house and set the occupants to holding their pints high over their heads so as not to have them spilled. A wondrous simple peace. Without years of lonely grey. And upturned rafters in brick debris. With bombs and cannons chattering up against the night and searchlights waving over a terror torn sky.

To walk back down again this bustling street. The shop lights go on. A sweet smoky air descends. My drop of dew on a blade of grass. Is my gladness. Hovering above the ground.

High and still
And
Sparkling so
In Dublin
Town.

And that thing he does, slipping from third to first person. Marvellous.

The Emigrants by WG Sebald

Those who have this in their libraries will know that it is choicely raved about on the cover. Ondaatje leads the pack ‘This deeply moving book shames most writers with its nerve and tact and wonder’. Nicholas Shakespeare, Anita Brookner, Susan Sontag, Karl Miller all have a stab at bettering that. I might add that the women are both of Jewish background.

But how can I read this, when I picked it up to start, and first saw the words of the dead man who left his library for me to pick through?

In his scathing hand he writes: ‘Empty, silly, meant to appeal to German non-Jews, geographically crippled, useless.’

And under, printed on a laser printer, I think, and tipped into the first page:

Phony postcards and vacuous stories of little relevance (when not totally implausible like that of the compulsive gambler with his ‘visions’ of the winning combinations). I may be wrong, but his stories make me suspect that he is writing as a German-non-Jew for an audience of German-non-Jews – the worst types. I am comforted in my negative judgment by the lyrical comments pasted on the bookcovers by my favourite ass, viz. Mme Sontag.

I don’t know who wrote this. Google search turns up nothing. It can’t be my companion as he would never say anything as circumspect as ‘I may be wrong’.

At any rate, you see why I can’t read it and why I must record the opinion of the now deceased M.F-L.

……Much later after writing the above, I did read a Sebald and liked it a lot. I suppose this means I have to give The Emigrants a fair shot.

The Glass Palace by Amitav Ghosh

I was sorely tempted to review this in conjunction with Ishiguro’s The Buried Giant, which if I had to put it in a genre, I would call historical fiction. Yet the two books could scarcely be more different. Ishiguro gives you an idea of a period, it’s hazy, impressionistic. Ghosh is very precise about historical themes. The book is sweeping – panoramic – but his focus is not on detail. If one might call World War one, for instance, a ‘detail’, it is noted in passing, perhaps in no more than a sentence, whilst the process of logging teak in Burma (as it was for most of the story) is told in depth over various settings and periods.

In principle I disapprove of historical fiction. Read a history book if you want history. Go the hard yards, fiction author. Don’t rely on historical filler to make up for your lack of story. But the fact is that I swallowed up all 500 pages of this in a couple of days and (obviously) was pleased to do so. I felt like I was there for every moment of the book. I was in the Glass Palace, I was in the jungle, I was on a rubber plantation in Singapore and various settings in India. Presumably that’s about as high praise as this sort of book can get.

It’s my first book by Ghosh, but I can see I’m going to have to try another.