"Forbidden fruit"

McNicol, S. (2008). Forbidden fruit : the censorship of literature and information for young people : conference proceedings / Sarah McNicol (editor), BrownWalker Press.

[reproduced from lybrary.com]

The 2008 conference on the censorship of children’s literature (which I would have loved to have attended but couldn’t), brought together a multidisciplinary and multinational group of professionals approaching censorship from perspectives as diverse as public librarianship to linguistics. Each presenter therefore focused on different aspects of text and readership, from the obvious forms of book banning, to the more subtle issues of self-selection and translation of cultural references. What perhaps did not receive much direct attention, is what the relationship might be between text and reader, or between intended audience and actual reading.

Lucy Pearson uses two texts, Young mother (1965) and Forever (1975) as an indicator of the change in social attitudes across a decade, but perhaps what strikes most resonatingly for me is not the difference depicted between the 60s and the 70s, but the contrasting sense of “then and now” that highlights the constructedness of our ideals of morality. For example, in the apparently progressive Forever, all responsibility to avoid pregnancy appears to lie with the female protagonist, Katherine. More disturbingly, in Young mother, the protagonist, Pat, is held accountable for the poor moral choices that led to her pregnancy; “moral choices” that would now more likely be described as rape. The assumptions behind these responsibilities are not explored, reminding Pearson, and me, of how rarely we recognise the assumptions underlying our own values, and of the fact that our sense of reality is largely possible through contrast and contradiction. Pearson’s essay is, for me, a cautionary tale in relation to my own explorations of a theme, and I recognise myself as a link in a chain that will one day doubtless be seen as woefully biased and limited in the light of hindsight. And what do I mean by that? Am I suggesting a progressive linearity of continuing evolution for the better? I suspect there are some interesting assumptions in there that could stand dissection!

In two separate papers, Chapman & Wright (UK) and Harter (US) tackle the provision of LGBT materials for young people in libraries. What immediately strikes me from Chapman and Wright’s paper is the emphasis on the educational, bibliotherapeutic and demographically reflective value of texts. Within the context of provision of materials, the texts appear to be viewed, not as art or thought or new idea, but as a vehicle for reflecting, explaining and assisting people to accept and adjust to reality. The value of text therefore becomes both didactic and representational; it should encourage the values of inclusivity and self-acceptance:

Data on the current situation in schools suggest that there is a need to tackle homophobia and to provide positive information for young people who are LGBT or questioning their sexuality. (p. 21)

The role of literature therefore becomes to help people to feel good about themselves. Much as I personally applaud the values of inclusivity and tolerance implied by the essay, and would want to support the aims of reducing the incidence of negative mental health outcomes related to poor self-image as a result of homophobia etc, I can’t help but wonder at the level of censorship or “positive selection” involved in thus deciding the role of the library and of literature in the lives of assumed readers. Why, specifically, should literature have to “be” anything or fulfil a particular role or purpose?

Harter follows a very similar theme from a US perspective, citing Devon Thomas:

If we read to discover new worlds, we also read to find ourselves. (p. 42)

For me, this feels very personally true, as I define myself by both similarity and contrast, by my own evolving process of selection, both of texts themselves, and by what I choose to draw from each text I read. But is it the responsibility of the writer to help me achieve that? What is the relationship between writer and reader? Is there one, or are the processes somewhat exclusive?

Harter appears to put his own views fairly firmly on the table with his use of language, when, for example, he contrasts the “widely held view” (usually biblically connected) that homosexuality is a choice, with:

the most reputable U.S. social and scientific organizations that have weighed in on this debate present the view that homosexuality is not a personal choice, but an innate trait (p. 43) (emphasis mine)

The Bible and popular belief do not stand up well against the depiction of “reputable” organisations. However, having come up with an argument against the “it’s a choice” campaign, it is interesting that he then feels the need to use this as his justification for the inclusion of LGBT materials on library bookshelves. On pages 45-46, he goes on to discuss the importance of serving the “needs of a select group of children…” LGBT themes are thus seen to relate to a particular minority of readers, rather than to any general readership. The unspoken sentiment appears to be that, if non-conformist sexualities (and presumably also transgender identifications) were not an innate, unchangeable trait, then the book banners might have a better argument. In other words, an LGBT lifestyle is deemed to be okay because it’s something that can’t be helped, perhaps like a disability. What, then, are acceptable choices, and does literature have a responsibility to choose and promote these? And is it assumed that we will only wish to read reflections of ourselves for our own bibliotherapeutic benefit?

Ioanna Kaliakatsou examines attempts in Greece to control rather than ban the discourse in relation to themes such as sexuality. She quotes Foucault:

Discourse transmits and produces power; it reinforces it, but it [is] possible to thwart it. (p. 87)

Interestingly, she also points to evidence that text can influence social attitudes and behaviours:

When Goethe's Werther was published, there was an accompanying wave of suicides, while a series of women readers turned to daydreaming in imitation of Flaubert's romantic heroine, Madame Bovary. The cultural suspicion that the fiction has the power to threat social institutions clearly revealed by Lawrence Stone who states that 'The romantic novel of the late eighteenth century and early nineteenth centuries has much to answer for in the way of disastrous love affairs and of imprudent and unhappy marriages'. (p. 77)

By contrast with Chapman & Wright and Harter, Kaliakatsou paints a picture, not of literature reflecting and validating reality, but of literature connecting to or creating desires, that readers then attempt to turn into reality (with apparently varied outcomes). If this is true, it is perhaps then not surprising that the Greek government and other authority institutions might wish to control the expression of desire through careful portrayal of acceptable outlets for that desire. I am reminded of Rose’s exposure of UK education attempts to shape a nation according to its economic and social requirements.

This point is reinforced by Evangelia Moula, who states that “Every act of reading is basically political.” (p. 92). What I find interesting about this statement is that it is not the texts themselves that are political, but the act of reading. This is an interesting contrast with other papers which talk about the importance of supplying materials for a specific target audience. Moula’s statement appears to divorce the text from the actual process and outcomes of reading. It suggests personal agency, with power to the reader to create and shape meaning, and to situate that meaning within a societal context with implications for social norms. This, however, contrasts with official retellings of Greek classics in an attempt to control what messages children will read. In this, Moula reinforces Kaliakatsou on the felt need to control the discourse. And yet:

A text is considered to be classic when each generation discovers in it something new. In other words it is the text which supports different points of view and different kinds of perceptiveness in various times… canonical works are supposed to remain always new, inexhaustibly open to fresh interpretations. (p. 91)

There is an obvious irony between the depiction of “the canon”, chosen by academics and “experts” to represent the inexhaustibly fresh, and the definition of what constitutes a classic or canonical text. The relationship between attempted imposition of message and the ability of the individual to freely and innovatively interpret material appears to be uneasy and unresolved.