Nick & Norah’s Infinite Playlist – Rachel Cohn & David Levithan

This book is drastically different from any of the others I’ve read. Often, the young adult books I’ve read either: a) were written in a different time, and portray a type of young adult I’m not familiar with, and cannot verify the authenticity of, b) portray young, young adults – maybe pre-high school, or c) portray actual young adults – late high school – but with very little authenticity to my own experience. Now, I do understand that there are kids out there who don’t swear, or at least don’t swear like it’s going out of style. It’s also true, however, that these kids seem to have a disproportionate amount of books written about them, as the prevalence of profanity (at least in my own experience) is much more in line with this book than, say, the ever-elegant boys and girls of Twilight.

The level of graphic sexually explicit content in this book would in all likelihood deter me from assigning this as a whole-class text, but I know that as a high schooler I would’ve been excited to read something like this (for the sex and language, true, but more importantly for the punk-rock aesthetic and deeper struggle about trying to figure out what a relationship is all about.

Of course, there are perfectly reasonable teachable elements of the book. I hate to fall so frequently on those old standbys, Voice, Character, and Setting, but this book is yet another that nails them. The narrative style, alternating between Nick and Norah’s accounts of the night, is very interesting (I haven’t found any evidence that Cohn and Levithan each wrote for one character, but it’s an interesting thing to consider, and I’d like to find out.) But really, the teenage vernacular of this book could do a lot for voice, as well as show students that not all writing is as reserved as most of the books that end up on curriculums.

Because of the sexual content, I would not teach this book to a whole class, however. Although the book has a lot to offer in teachability, the graphic nature is just too much. I would willingly and quickly recommend the book to anybody who is interested in either teenage romance books or someone with a vested interest in the type of music in the book. If discussion of the book or film ever came up, I would heartily recommend the book, and cast myself into the “the book is much better” role.

Bridge to Terabithia – Katherine Patterson

If the Newberry Award has anything to do with emotional attachment to characters, then Patterson has earned it ten times over. I had heard all about Bridge to Terabithia, both from peers in college and in middle school (somehow, I always ended up with the teacher who didn’t assign the usual book). As such, I knew what was going to happen, yet nothing could keep me from experiencing the catharsis that the last section of the book offers. The two protagonists are likeable, even with their tempers – in fact, that made them all the more real to me. I completely lost it when Jesse hit his little sister in the face after the visit to the Burkes’. The sympathy that is generated for these characters in the worst of circumstances is incredible.

I also really liked the descriptions of Jesse’s home life. The meanness of his parents and older sisters really stuck out in the majority of the novel, which completely compounded the effect of the parents’ tenderness towards the end. The family relationship between Jesse and May Belle is very interesting, even if I found the ending a little lackluster.

Jesse and Leslie’s relationships with the teachers at the school were also a point that I paid attention to. The transition from “Monster-Mouth Myers” to tender, touched, and mournful Mrs. Myers – who laments the prompt removal of Leslie’s desk just as much as Jesse – is really something that I would want students to pay attention to and notice. I’ve read that some have attacked Bridge to Terabithia for the use of a “senseless” death and the absence of any positive theme. I entertained the latter idea for a while after I read it, but more thinking about it has made me realize the book isn’t as themeless as I thought.

The most important theme I noticed is that people aren’t always what they seem, and they aren’t rigid, unchanging emotional fixtures. From Janice to the teacher to Jesse’s oft-villainized mother, every character shows heart that would go unnoticed by a swift glance. Similarly, even Leslie’s best friend in the world isn’t without a selfish thought when she dies. Nobody’s perfect, but nobody is perfectly bad either.

As to whether or not I could teach this book, I’m really not sure. I really don’t think I’d be comfortable assigning the book at face value, thinking all the while that the students have an unpleasant little surprise waiting for them at the end. And it just would feel wrong to hand out the books, saying, “Okay, class – just remember, someone’s going to die” (one critical blog I read suggested putting a “Contains Character Death” sticker on the cover). I think the logistics of navigating that passage may just be enough to keep me from teaching this book, at least until I’ve prepared myself to deal with that degree of emotional intensity.

Also, I don’t feel that this book has anything exceptional or unique to offer (according to a curriculum, of course). The character voices and development are all really great, and there is definitely some intertextual connectivity with Narnia, but honestly, there is only so much time in a year to teach books with really great characters, and the books I assign to the whole class are going to have to vary somehow. Of course – and I feel like I’m saying this a lot – this is a book I would easily consider suggesting to a student who seemed interested in the themes of the book, or a student who expresses a desire to feel strong emotions. 

The Cay – Theodore Taylor

I did enjoy reading this book, although I did have to withhold my distaste for the narrator, who begins as racist and spoiled and only moves away from those views shallowly, still holding onto another kind of racism. The Cay, a book with a cover that always interested me in middle school, just never enough for me to pick it up, is about an American boy living in Curaçao during World War II. His mother hates the island and wants to go back to Virginia, due partially to the German submarines that surround the island and also to the fact that she doesn’t like black people. When Philip and his mother finally attempt to leave, the boat that they are on is torpedoed, and Phil is separated from his mother, waking up blind on a raft with Timothy, an old black man. The story of survival takes them to an island, where Philip learns to deal with his new blindness.

The voice is well-crafted. Timothy, who is over 70, speaks with a heavy West Indian accent (something that I’ve read has been criticized). Philip’s voice changes throughout the novel. At the beginning, Philip is the most obnoxious protagonist I’ve ever read. His mother’s racism comes out against Timothy, even though Philip frequently comments that he doesn’t understand why his mother feels that way. Apart from the initial racism, he is flat-out spoiled. However, his character is clearly designed this way to make his transformation all the more powerful.

There are a few problems I see with his transformation. Obviously, Taylor is not encouraging Philip’s racist comments, as his movement away from them is one of the main themes of the novel. However, the vehicle that Taylor uses may be misguided. Philip’s blindness is used as a catalyst for a change of viewpoints. At one point, as he becomes closer with his new friend, Philip comments that he’s not sure if Timothy is black or white anymore. He also consciously states that he’s not sure he would have changed his thoughts about Timothy if he hadn’t been blind. This hints at endorsing a policy of colorblindness that may have been considered accepting in 1969, but won’t fly today.

Anyway, The Cay does have teachable elements. If you set the racism elements aside, there are definitely interesting themes. The setting is really well done, especially taking Philip’s blindness into account. Also, the beginning is a really interesting take on the times of World War II. WWII for me always conjures images of Germany, Russia, America and the like in the dead of winter, with snow falling and freezing soldiers. The Cay starts out in a completely peaceful village whose calm is disrupted by the German submarines. Philip could be used to teach voice.

The issue of conflict is definitely what I would pick out as the main theme to teach. At least on some level, Philip struggles with himself, questioning the validity of both his mother’s prejudices and his own assumptions about Timothy. Steering away from that issue, however, the conflict of man versus nature is very powerful. After all, The Cay is a survival story. The dramatic climax pits the two against nature’s fury, and there are many Hatchet-type moments that explain in great detail the survival tips Timothy and Philip employ to stay alive. I feel like those are the moments that a lot of students pick out and enjoy.

If I were to teach this book, the race issue would definitely be taught – I wouldn’t let things go unsaid about it. I would share the information with the class that in 1970, the book won the Jane Addams Peace award, and that in 1975, the association asked Taylor to return the award in light of the mounting criticism of the work. The greatest value this book may pose is as a primary source document in that debate.

Twilight – Stephanie Meyer

The fact that this was my “stretch” book, looking back, really says a lot about communities of readers and the vast influence they have. Somewhere between the hundreds of kids who very vocally love the series, both at camp and elsewhere, and the “Twilight Backlash” movement, I picked up the notion, without even reading a page of it, that Twilight was poorly written and garbage. Perhaps it’s because Stephen King, who is near and dear to my heart, counts himself in the latter group.

Either way, I did not find the book particularly poorly written (although it’s true that it wasn’t the most masterful prose either). The figurative language and complex use of symbols ranks the writing just about the same as many other books, which do not get the same criticism. I’ve thought about this, and decided that the specific symbols used are really the discriminating factor in Twilight hatred – reflective of a fantasy-phobic society, perhaps?

Bella and Edward as characters were perfectly consistent throughout, and what Bella maybe lacked in character development was more than made up for in Edward. The plot developed well, and I think the book did have very good pacing, except at the end where things seemed to move a little too quickly.

One of the preconceptions that I had been given before I started reading it was the accusation about sexism in the book – that Bella, as a female character, has nothing to do but be saved by Edward, and Edward has to be viscerally attracted to Bella. This, of course, leads to them falling deeply in love, much to the dismay of many readers (I do want to point out that this is a time-honored tradition, and I won’t stand for a condemnation of the entire romance plot just because of some sparkly vampire). Looking back on the book, I can’t say that this accusation is without basis. Bella’s narration may be framed in a way to show that she is not self-involved like some girls, but it really does come across as “Edward is interesting, and I am boring,” despite the fact that boys are flocking over her.

As for the teachability of Twilight, I’m really not sure I would use this in a classroom. While it is by no means a terrible book, it is also not a really great book, and most of its strong points – voice, character, pacing – could very easily be taught using other texts of equal or greater quality. The real reason that I think I would avoid using Twilight is because of its massive popularity and the massive hatred of it. Young readers really have strong opinions about this book, but a lot of the opinions seem to be based more on hearsay and popular views rather than actual personal feelings on the text. At my camp, I heard so many arguments over the book that as I was reading it, I found it impossible to separate my own reading from the voices of bickering children. I suppose that in a few years, after a lot of the nonsense has blown over, it will be more likely that I will use it in the classroom. I would certainly not hesitate to recommend it to an individual reader who was interested in the genre, of course.

Speak – Laurie Halse Anderson

This book was really intense, and probably got the most severe emotional reaction out of anything I’d read recently. The story and narration is simply amazing. Melinda’s voice is, ironically, one of the most interesting I’ve heard in a book, and the story of what she’s been put through is tragic and stressful. I couldn’t help but read this in two sittings, and I noticed that when I got up halfway through, I felt tired and emotionally drained. Melinda’s experience was so well-conveyed by the narration that the emotions she felt spread to me as a reader.

The content matter of this book is definitely troubling. When I was trying to figure out what grades I thought this book could be appropriate or inappropriate for, I took into account that Melinda was going from eighth grade into ninth grade when the dramatic events of the book took place. Despite Anderson’s public comments that reading this kind of story, although troubling, could be helpful to a person of any age, I don’t think I would assign this to a freshman class. Sophomores, maybe. That is not to say, however, that I wouldn’t recommend it to individual students. It is extremely well-written, and discusses a lot more than just the aftermath of Melinda’s rape. The side story dealing with Melinda’s social studies classroom is something that I found very interesting, and a recurring moment of relief from the traumatic events of the narration.

This novel is definitely teachable. Often, I tend to shy away from “issues” books, but that’s because I either don’t like the writing or find the book overly preachy. Speak falls into neither of those categories. As for the most teachable elements of the book, voice, symbolism, mystery, and character development could all be items in a unit. My own personal teaching philosophy has a focus on empathizing with both real people and literary characters, and I feel that Speak does a great job of opening itself up for empathy. Of course, if I were to teach this book, I would have to make sure it was approved by whatever process my school uses. In Speak censorship cases, a parent or community leader wrongfully accuses the teacher of assigning pornography. Informing those involved that the book contains graphic depictions of sexual violence (not pornography) would definitely be important. The resounding remarks from parents that I’ve read, however, are able to move past concern with the violent scenes. People understand that the themes of this book are valuable. Of comments that I’ve read, only one expressed a fear that girls who have experienced sexual abuse will be traumatized by this book. The vast majority said it would be helpful and healthy for these girls to read it, seeing a role model who rises out of the silence and begins to live her life again. Of course, I’m not going to fully know the backgrounds of my students, and my first priority is to prevent them from being hurt. I’ll have to think hard about my school’s situation before I assign this book, but I really think it could be a valuable resource.

The Giver – Lois Lowry

Maybe it’s because this is my re-read book, but this seemed like the book of the bunch that was the most designed to be taught. I know that Lois Lowry’s website has a section with resources for teachers and parents. Regardless, I really enjoyed rereading this book. There were a lot of things that I didn’t pick up on when I was in sixth grade – certain character traits that added more depth to the characters.

I really love the main plot of the book, before Jonas’ escape. Both the exposition which serves to explain the rules and lifestyle of the Community, and the escape attempt are interesting and fine, but the interactions with the Giver and experience of generations of memories are really where the books shines. I think the theme that Lowry decided to focus on – the value of memories in a place that does not want to experience them – is fascinating.

Another aspect of the book that makes it a very good read for the classroom is its element of mystery. The progression of the book, slowly uncovering new ideas about the way of life in the Community – such as the absence of color, the storage of all memories of pain, hunger, and war, and of course the eventual revelation about what the Community calls “release” – really does keep the reader interested. The ending seems a little bit rushed – the pacing staggers – and the particular form of cliffhanger Lowry uses, I’m not sure I like. I suppose I shouldn’t comment on the series until I read the sequels, but I liked The Giver as a standalone work and would have preferred it to be concluded on its own terms.

Like I mentioned earlier, there is plenty of teachability in this novel. The Community provides an excellent example for a discussion about dystopias. I read outside of the book a recollection of living in a Japanese town that heavily inspired Lowry’s development of the Community.  There are many examples of symbolism in the book, from the recurring apple to the lack of color.

For me, though, the element of the Giver that I am the most interested in teaching is the entire memories theme. I think talking about the value that we put on ancestral memories is really fascinating. On the one hand, there’s a major “ignorance is bliss” idea that the Community seems to be based on. The citizens don’t know real pain, they don’t know real hunger, they don’t know what war is like, and they seem perfectly happy because of it. Jonas notes that even though every night, they go around and talk about their feelings, none of them have real, authentic feelings in the first place.

In a discussion like this, I think it’s safe to say that there would be some advocates for the Community, at least up until the realization of what “release” means (and possibly after). After all – the people don’t have any idea of what war is like – to them, war is just a game that kids play. They have none of the generational memory of war, and Jonas thinks this is a bad thing. It’s certainly unfortunate. But Lowry fails to expand on this particular fact: there is no war in the community. There is no real hunger, and there is no real pain. The narration makes Jonas and the Giver’s final plan seem noble, but I worry that the mere thought of something like war is enough to bring it back. There is an incredibly teachable discussion about the struggle in the book between freedom and comfort. For some reason, in a lot of books and occasionally real-world arguments, the two are supposed to be diametrically opposed to one another. There could be some really interesting conversations about that in the classroom.

The Little Prince – Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

The Little Prince is one of the most exciting surprises I’ve found in a book in a long time. At first, I was skeptical that this would qualify as a young adult book – it’s a very self-aware picture book, after all, but I was startled at the level of emotional depth that it contained. To be honest, there are parts of the book that I’m not certain I’d be comfortable with giving to a young child. There are very serious themes that while young children may understand on a surface level, are much more valuable to an older reader. Death is a theme of the novel, both as a looming threat to the narrator, who has crashed a plane in the Sahara Desert, and as an eventual conclusion for the body of the Prince on Earth. The story is fantastical throughout, and the format of the fantasy allow Saint- Exupéry to offer critiques on many different aspects of society.

I really did enjoy this book. It repeatedly reaches emotional highs and lows, varying between really depressing existential pessimism, and a sort of wondrous appreciation of beauty in the world.

All things considered, it is really hard to figure out what the “ideal” age group for this book is. There’s a certain type of grown-up that the book is fairly clearly not for – or rather, that it would be perfect for, in the unlikely situation that they should pick it up in the first place. Apart from that, I see the targeted age group as fairly open. The themes of friendship, love, wonder, beauty, hardship, and growing up are all applicable to children of all ages, and it seems somewhat wrong to set a “cut-off age” for the book. The very dedication of the book addresses the discrepancy between grown-ups and children, with the favor leaning heavily towards the latter.

As for the teachability of The Little Prince, I’d say that there is a lot to be said about the book. For one thing, it is translated from French (and has been translated into over a hundred different languages). If I were to teach this book, I would want to have a copy or two of the original French version at the ready to promote the knowledge that literature is not solely an English domain. The fact that nearly every work that is read in the typical Language Arts classroom can understandably create this misconception if there are no contrary examples offered.

The intense emotional content of this book is the primary focus I would have were I to teach it. Empathy and understanding characters are two skills that I consider highly valuable, so I would be sure to have students comment on their own responses to the book. My interest in the emotional reactions to The Little Prince intends to get students thinking consciously about emotion, which is typically an unconscious subject. By having students think consciously about their own reactions to the story, I will encourage them to take the skills of self-examination and use them more frequently. Also, students who are existentially inclined will be fascinated by the philosophical elements of the text.

This philosophical thinking could easily be another teaching focus for the book. Rarely in high school literature are philosophical statements made so bluntly as they are in this book. Often, the higher order thinking required to piece complex philosophies together from other fiction requires too much effort for a less substantial goal. By using a book that thinks consciously about philosophy, students can be introduced to that realm without having to begin with a big blind leap. Introducing philosophy with a simpler or more frank text will provide scaffolding for interested students to pursue further studies of their own. 

The Tao of Pooh – Benjamin Hoff

            Well, this is certainly an interesting entry – The Tao of Pooh seems to occupy a space somewhere between fiction and non-fiction. I had friends in high school who were assigned this book, and were upset to be reading “kiddy books,” only to be surprised at the depth of Taoist philosophy present in the book – something that they were entirely unfamiliar with. I had the same experience reading it. If I were to teach this book, I would make it a priority to immediately dispel the thoughts that this is just a book about Winnie the Pooh, which was kind of my expectation when I picked it up.

Despite containing fictional characters who appear in the actual narration of the book, The Tao of Pooh is much more like a piece of literary criticism than anything. Most of the bare-bones traits of fiction are missing here – plot, character growth, conflict. In a way, the absence of conflict is a reflection of the philosophy that the book endorses and teaches. However, there are still some remnants of fiction in the book. Voice is a constant presence, as Pooh playfully interrupts the narrator, drifting in and out of the conversation. The book is also extremely well-organized. The different tenets of Taoism that The Tao Of Pooh sets out to explain are each allotted a chapter, which is full of both Pooh stories and Taoist stories.

This aspect of the book is extremely teachable. This may be one of the most fully standalone multicultural books I’ve ever read, as it goes deeply into two specific cultures, rather than glancing shallowly over several. Hoff seems intent on portraying both Taoism and the Western culture of Pooh as authentically as he can, and he relies on texts to ensure the authenticity.

Another extremely teachable element of The Tao of Pooh is its status as literary criticism. Perhaps my students will have been exposed to literary criticism by this point. Unfortunately, to the typical high school student, criticism that can be found in those big books in the library is stuffy, old, and dry. Although it is a fairly unique specimen, The Tao of Pooh provides an example of perfectly viable literary criticism – one that doesn’t drone or bury itself in literary references. It is criticism that can have fun, and this is what’s important for this introduction to the genre. Maybe students will be able to appreciate the value of the interconnectivity of the texts, opening them up to other helpful literary criticism that will deepen their thoughts about literature and strengthen their critical thinking skills.

One thing that I’m not so sure about is whether or not the teaching of this book would qualify as unwarranted teaching of religion. When my friends in school were assigned the book, they said it wasn’t really presented as a religious text. While it’s true that the book isn’t part of a canon, I find it somewhat offensive that the book was presented as a sort of distant explanation of Taoism – a summary of a dead religion, which is certainly not the case. However, to lean too far in the other direction is also troublesome. Of course, I wouldn’t be assessing students based on whether their actions are aligned with Taoism, but even to assess them on the content of the book would require that they understand and analyze the values of the religion, and I’m not sure how comfortable I am with pushing that as a required text.  As valuable as I may find this book, I would have to make a judgment based on the school’s philosophy, the students in the class, and the approval of higher-ups and parents. 

The Goats – Brock Cole

I’m really not sure how I felt about The Goats. Perhaps it was just the authority figure in me, but I think I was so dismayed that the camp director and counselors, and even the police officer at the end, showed such an immense lack of responsibility and common sense, that a lot of the story with Howie and Laura was seen through a haze of disbelief. The prank – stripping a boy and a girl to leave on an island, in hopes that they’ll jump all over one another, is just cruel enough to justify their flight. The two children are placed in a position of hardship, but they certainly seem to adjust very quickly. Especially with the boy and girl being as “socially retarded” as they are (the parlance of the times, I suppose), they make their plans for revenge fairly quickly, and take things a lot farther than I would have expected. Of course, the novel wouldn’t have had as much adventure if they had returned immediately to camp as they discuss early on (a much more realistic and perfectly surprising attack, in my opinion), but they seem to go from returning to camp to living life on the lamb without a reasonable transition.

The characters are also only somewhat likeable. Obviously we are meant to sympathize with them, as they are the victims of a cruel prank, and certainly don’t deserve it, but the sympathy never really makes the connection to amiability, at least not for me. As for character development, Cole’s insistence on referring to the children throughout as “the boy” and “the girl” is a decision I’m not sure I agree with. On the one hand, it highlights the fact that the children do not know each other, even as they spend days together. It also demonstrates how character development can occur even without a name to put to the face. However, this anonymity is by no means as important as Cole seems to want it to be, and it hinders the reader’s ability to feel closer to the characters. If I were to teach The Goats, I could maybe use the characters almost namelessness as a jumping-off point for a “what’s in a name” conversation.

The narration also had a certain unlikable something to it for me. Somewhere between the specific details that the narrator picked out in descriptions and the overall journey that the two children took, I felt a certain mental or emotional exhaustion when reading this book. It’s possible that this was driven by the dread that I felt, wanting the two just to go back to camp where they were safe. The high point of this wariness came when they cautiously got into an unmarked car with no door handles on the passenger side, merely because the driver showed them a badge, before veering off onto a back road. Although it turned out that the driver was indeed a police officer, just acting strangely (what on earth was he thinking?!), the entire section just made me feel icky all over. Perhaps the story and narration was styled specifically to create this mental attitude, but I’m not certain that it was. Either way, story arc, tone, and personal connection and reaction to events are all topics that could be taught using The Goats as a text.

The other main theme that this book could definitely be used to teach is conflict. In the traditional “man vs. man, man vs. nature, man vs. self” format, the narrative tone and the thoughts of the characters create a clear “us vs. the world” conflict – even the adults, who are supposed to be the saving grace in this situation, are trying to separate them. Again, like so many of the books I apparently find myself drawn to, the issue of right vs. wrong comes up in The Goats, and could be teachable. Honestly, however, I think the emotional drain this book caused me, and could cause other readers, is likely to prevent me from using this book in the classroom if I have a good alternative.

Danny the Champion of the World – Roald Dahl

Although it seems perhaps targeted to slightly younger readers than I originally thought, I nonetheless really enjoyed this book. The plot, which seems to be a little recyclable in Roald Dahl’s books, is about a father who loves to poach pheasants from a rich landowner nearby, and the process of letting his son Danny in on this secret and letting him take a central role in the biggest heist in local history.

Perhaps one of the things that really stood out to me about this book – something that describes very few of the books I generally read – is that it is primarily a parenthood book. Through no conscious effort of my own, I have a lack of books dealing with the relationships between parents and children. This particular aspect of the book really appealed to me – maybe, it occurs to me, a little too much. The relationship between Danny and his father truly is heartwarming, but there were a few parts about this that were troubling to me. Firstly, William (the father) is narrated as a somewhat infallible character by Danny. However, there are several scenes where William either has a flare of anger, makes dangerous decisions on his son’s behalf, lies, steals (obviously), and breaks from the “perfect father” the narrator makes him out to be. Of course, this is more realistic than the alternative, but the narrator gives no hint to that. Secondly, the parenthood theme is taken perhaps a little too far in a few places. I noted one scene in which Danny described that he preferred to spend literally all of his time with his father, rather than spending time with friends from school. It’s one thing, and a good thing, to have a best friend for a father, but there is also an unaddressed element of this that inhibits social development. That was just a little thing I noted.

As for the writing and teachability of this book, I have mixed feelings. Like I said before, the writing seems targeted to a younger group than high school – maybe between 4^th and 8^th grade. It could definitely go beyond that point, but may be more subject to the “this is for little kiddies” mentality than alternative books. That being said, I really despise that mentality and think that youthfulness has no role as a limiting factor for good literature.

And this is definitely well-written. The character development is there – there is a slightly undeveloped sub-plot regarding Danny’s mother, but with Danny as a narrator it’s passable. The antagonist is perfectly despicable enough to warrant the father’s devotion to poaching his pheasants. This is made even more valid by the fact that the entire town is in on the poaching and pranking of Mr. Hazell. There are definitely some class issues in that relationship. And the voice! There are many voices in the book, which makes it a great resource for teaching that particular idea. From Danny’s adoring, youthful tone (Roald Dahl definitely knows children), to the comedic mispronunciations of the village policeman, to William’s mischievous, wise, concerned tone, the voices are a very teachable aspect of the book.

I think that if I were to teach this book, I would want to incorporate a writing section. The book is the account of a child’s experiences with a role model – something that teaches him a version of right versus wrong. While some may feel that the action of the novel is “wrong” – stealing, scheming, lying – it certainly draws attention to the fact that right and wrong are not necessarily universally understood. I would want students to pick an experience that has shaped their perceptions of what is good and what is bad, and ask them to write a story based on that theme.