New Critic on the Block

Great literature is in the eye of the beholder.

Ever since Hemingway McCaveman found a way to pen some prose on the granite wall (FIRE GOOOOOD!), people have been turning to the art of the written word to immortalize their thoughts, stories, and ramblings (YAB prefers the third in that list.) Writers have existed for centuries, as people make a profession out of putting their ideas into a transferable form, so that one day other future people will have something to occupy them on the Metro. Sadly, from the first moment Hemingway’s buddy, Grog Hunter, said that his cave etching lacked “a conceivable plot,” and the first critic was born. There is nothing like an outside opinion to ruin a guy’s life’s work. McCaveman would never write again thanks to Grog, even though as luck would have, fire proved to indeed be good.

Maybe he had an opportunity and a real talent about him, but we’ll never know if The Cavewall Chronicles would rank up there in the realm of the history’s great works of literature. I swear, God shouldn’t have given up smiting for Lent.

For centuries upon centuries after the first written word, critics have been declaring what books should be remembered as truly great. I wish I could say I’ve read a majority of these volumes, but grad school seems to dictate what I read these days. And last time I checked, you rarely place “Principles of Innovation Management” up there with the best of Dickens, Melville, and Chaucer. It is the critics who make determinations of what literature is truly great. What I want to know is – who died and made them deciders of what should be regarded throughout history as the Yankees of the literary world?

Just ask a 2-year old.

Great literature should be regarded as those works of print that capture the undivided attention of the reader, bringing them into the pages, and leaving them with a grand appreciation for the material they have just absorbed. For many of the world’s great books, they have proven them time and time again. But as I found out last Thursday night, a 2-year old named Patrick has his own two cents to add to this debate.

Robert Frost and DH Lawrence? Meet Bob and Larry.

As I watched from the floor of young Patrick’s room as Katie read him this selection as a bedtime story, the proof of a classic was right there in front of me. Part of our babysitting instructions was to allow the young lad to pick a book as part of his nightly routine. Sifting through the pile, a small hardcover edition about a couple of talking vegetables running through the alphabet with reckless abandon was chosen. Maybe the kid’s onto something.

Katie read Patrick the book with confidence and ease. I don’t care how simple the subject matter is – when you have an audience, you’ve got to bring your "A" game. Especially when the audience’s eyes are glued to the colorful illustrations, knows every word by heart, and will correct you if you stray from the script. There’s no way you would be able to sneak in the following:

G is for Grapefruit, fruit the size of your head. // Don’t you think that if I read fast, I can put you to bed?

H is hurrying through the end of this song, // Hit the gas pedal, make it up as I go along.

No, the kid would immediately realize your clever ploy. I swear, children at storytime are the most attentive of people out there. We need to put them to work as codebreakers or something. And as I watched Katie close with the final rhymes of X,Y, and Z, I watched as a satisfied smile grew across Patrick’s face. Mission accomplished. Time for bed, right?

Nope.

Patrick had decided it was now my turn to read Bob and Larry. Wow, a back-to-back telling?

That must be some great literature.