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Have to confess, when I was about ten/twelve, I was terribly embarrassed to be thought of as reading anything that was marketed as YA. I could read Winnie the Pooh or Naked Lunch in public long before I could openly crack something held in a - what would you call; Scholastic Cover (TM)?
I have, over the years, had to come to terms with this, and realize that it's just a marketing deal, like 'magical realism' and has no bearing on the actual contents or their quality. I know this, but can't shake the ambient paranoia, y'know?
Partly, I never did - and stil don't - enjoy being talked down to by an inanimate piece of prose or its author, but I treat that as a flavoring, now, as opposed to something personal. If I can read Ada's ficto-author as a pretentious bastard all in his own right and separate from Nabokov, than the same interpretation can be applied to the Potter-verse's boarding school promotional conformist lesson-plan-will-save-the-day atmo, right? It's BS, but it helps.
I've had friends try and - even these days, when we're all far too old, or should be - try and sell me on Babysitter Club, Sweet Valley, and other group-o-school-age-troublemakers-with-too-many-big-plans, but they never really take. The bunny-vampire and paranoid cat novellas never took. The things with overt lessony morals at the end (even if it's 'the dog has to die' or 'this is a hatchet, and this has been three hundred pages on this hatchet' or 'You can't kill the Jesus-Lion you stupid frozen old pedophilic psycho') grate, but I can get through them if there's something else there.
It actively and absurdly traumatises me that there are - supposedly adult - people reading Sweet Valley High books, but then, I read longunderwear superpeople fight comics, so... and Winnie the fucking Pooh, which I can't hate no matter how cutesy and idiotic those books can get. Really, I haven't a leg to stand on, and should be criticising anybody's reading choices.
1900 to 1930s YA-styled fictions entertain me immensely, though. These sort of things where y'know a maid spends two-hundred pages looking for love, finding love, crying her eyes out because said love is getting married to somebody else, then goes off and solves some sort of ridiculous mystery with friend while vague subtexts abound; boardingschool boys beating the shit out of each other to build character, skipping class, having adventures and solving ridiculous mysteries with friends while vague subtexts abound.
But, in the end, I'll take (to quote Moorcock) a Sade or a Wodehouse. They, too, may be preachy and/or moralistic at points, but at least they've got verve. And I despise the word 'verve', so there you go. |
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