I arrived at the club the other day to the usual murmuring from behind newspapers hiding the faces of intense mems reading the day’s news. The low sound cheers me up no end, because I know it indicates a hefty intake of info, leading to wonderful chats after lunch. In other words, the world unfolds as it should, at least here.
It did not take long for a member to give voice, and it was Mr. Cursive, the retired English teacher.
“Major, did you know that children are not reading books as they once did?”
This will come as no surprise to anyone with more than a peanut for a brain. They haven’t for years.
Mr. Cursive went on to say social media and Google have replaced the experience of books. The student of today simply downloads an encapsulated version of a classic novel and presumes thus to have read it.
My collar became a little tighter at the thought, for I was guilty of that myself. In the distant mist of my misspent youth I well recall a test at my school about an unread tome, the Iliad by Homer. In an act of desperation I flung myself into Mr. Taylor’s pharmacy where I could buy a précis of Mr. Homer’s book in the shape of what was then called “Classic Comics.”
These 12-page wonders had shrunk the heavy thoughts of the “Blind Bard” into pictures and a few words, giving some hope of scraping through my exam. But it always came as a shock to me that my masters had taken these life-saving comics into consideration before setting the test, and I would constantly flame out. Nevertheless I took Mr. Cursive’s point: Children do not read as they once did.
He had, he said, cheered up enormously with the Harry Potter phenomenon, but sadly that was only a small minority of children. My favourite books when but a jammy-faced gumboil were Treasure Island and Robinson Crusoe, which terrified me beyond belief. My father would read to me in bed and then kiss me goodnight, returning after a martini or two with a flashlight under his chin yelling like Ben Gunn. I would scurry under the covers and retreat to the foot of the bed, quaking at the thought of the marooned sailor from Treasure Island in my bedroom
My father also thought it amusing to describe the cannibalism scene from Crusoe while snapping chicken bones behind the book. Those frightening moments meant that I would never forget the stories, not in this life.
Harry Potter at least proved there is a publishing market for children with even a modicum of intelligence, but there were always great reads for children. We know because we lived through it. I wonder in how many curriculums today would my favourites appear? Have they been forgotten? We should read them again and to our offspring.
Granted there will be a few minutes of gnashing teeth when they discover you have swiped their social media devices, but I am sure by the time that “Jim” has seen the reaction to “The Black Spot” in his father’s tavern, you will have the miscreant’s full attention.
There seemed to be far more meat for the imagination in those far-off days, heroes writ large in our minds, fighting against terrific odds under awful conditions. Rob Roy running from the British soldiers up into the highlands of Scotland with only a broad sword and a strong right arm for protection. Or a marooned Crusoe doomed to live alone until Friday arrives amongst the cannibals.
These are wonderful stories, along with King Solomon’s Mine, She, Tom Sawyer, Beau Geste, The Jungle Story plus anything by Dickens, Wyndham and Conan Doyle, but I am afraid because of some old fashioned words, and an epidemic of political correctness, they are brushed aside as outdated and obsolete.
They deserve better. Try them again for yourself and the children around you. I am sure that you will find it rewarding.
Copyright Major”s Corner 2014
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