A Bittersweet Goodbye, Enid Blyton

It seems oddly suitable that the start of this online journey is marked by the end of my nearly lifelong love for the author who'd also marked the start of my love affair with fiction. 

I have not retained a lot of memories from my childhood, but I have always been very clear about the almost chronological occupation of Enid Blyton throughout my primary school years - the hardcover short stories and Secret Seven series in Primary 1 and 2, the Adventure and Secret series in Primary 2 and 3, the Famous Five, Find-Outers and Malory Towers series in Primary 4 and 5. 

Most notably, though I can no longer recall when I'd first read that book, I can never forget the sheer pleasure 'The Secret Island' had given me — it'd filled my head with the most delicious fantasies… of willow houses, wild strawberries and fresh cream. I'd loved it so very, very much.

So much so that I'd reached for it unhesitatingly when choosing something new to read aloud to my class the first year I'd taught Primary 3. I had a class of not-quite-nine-year-old students who struggled academically with English. By then, I had already experienced the magic of reading aloud with my Primary 1 classes with Roald Dahl and various other authors, and fully expected the journey with Enid Blyton to be no less magical, if not more — seriously, an enchanting adventure involving setting up a cosy home-like space on an island, with freshwater all around, under the stars, no adults, a cow for fresh milk and hens for eggs; children disenfranchised but empowered by their own wits and strength… what could possibly go wrong with this selection?

The higher the expectations, right?

For days, I could sense that something was off, but could not quite put a finger on it. It was in the air, the atmosphere – the children were attentive, and quick checks revealed that they enjoyed the story and wanted to continue reading it, but somehow the classroom energy remained palpably low during the readings, draggy even. I’d doubled down on my energy, adding short commentaries to create a better picture of a scene in the children’s minds, sandwiching the readings with anticipatory enthusiasm of what was coming next. Yet the low energy persisted – in a classroom made up of 65% boys practically buzzing with pent-up energy.

Actually, that might have been a good thing.

I’d formed some inkling of the various factors contributing to this oddly persistent phenomenon over numerous bouts of reflection about the book, but it really took me years to organize these vague sentiments into semi-coherent thoughts.

The first key factor was the language – there is something formal and ‘prim’ about the way the narrative and the dialogues were written. Much of what had enchanted me as a child failed to weave the same magic around the children I was reading to. Her words painted such beautiful images in my head, but did not do the same in theirs, even with my elaborations, guidance and prompts.

I’ve since realised that Blyton’s magic worked so well on me only because by the time I’d arrived at Secret Island, I had already developed a sufficiently avid imagination of a voracious reader. So even when I could not understand descriptions like ‘There were willows, alders, hazels, and elderberries at first, and then as they went up the hill that lay behind the cove there were silver birches and oaks,’ my mind had happily identified the unknown words as different trees or possibly plants, and conjured up suitably magical images for them, and conveniently filled in the rest of the scene at the same time. I had little problems picturing myself sleeping in a ‘heathery bedroom’, building a dreamy little ‘willow house’, or drawing water from a clear, bubbly spring.

But without the seasoned imagination of a mind well-acquainted with English literature, what prior associations could the city-dwelling children of modern Singapore latch on to weave the images that could be drawn up by Blyton’s words?

A simple way to put it, I suppose, was that there is a little too much ‘telling’ and much too little ‘showing’ in Blyton’s writing. The language was simply not one that induces the most fantastical images with the simplest words – and while this makes the book no less magical, it does make the magic a lot less accessible.

The language was also not one that induces easy laughter – even the parts that were meant to be funny. For instance:

“And there goes a grand piano tumbling down the stairs!” said Mike, at another heavy rumble. Everyone laughed. Really, the thunderstorm did sound exactly like furniture being thrown about.

This would probably draw out a smile on many of our faces. But would it trigger a bout of laughter, send a large hit of happy chemicals into our brains and create another memory that permanently associates reading with pleasure? Very unlikely.
And with so many other authors to explore with my students, so many whose stories contained little to no barrier to the magic woven by their worlds, ‘Secret Island’ marked the start and the end of my use of Blyton’s books for reading aloud with my classes.
Yet this farewell letter seems too much of a response to as mundane an observation about a single book by Enid Blyton.

Well, there is a second factor, of course.

I have, over the years, picked up news about the discussions surrounding Enid Blyton’s books. I have taken note of them, but have not been overly concerned about my students reading her books. I remember strongly the great pleasure I’ve experienced with them as a child, and thought it harmless for children to have a little peek into some worlds that are vastly different from theirs. Given what I’d understood about her language style and the barrier it presents to my students, I’d stopped recommending Enid Blyton directly (there are so many other brilliant authors to fill such conversations with), but I’ve never been one to stop a child from reading anything they have an interest in — as long as they are reading, right?

Then I picked up another Enid Blyton. I’d decided on a whim to read one that I happened to have on hand, ‘Five Go off in a Caravan’. Oh, it wasn’t too bad.

In her typical style, Blyton allowed me to escape reality and join the children on their little holiday, in luxurious, fully-equipped, spotlessly clean caravans parked in the most enchanting spot with the most marvellous view of an easily-accessible-perfect-for-swimming lake, complete with effortlessly prepared picnics of wild raspberries and cream, fresh milk and butter, ham, scones and ginger cakes.

The magic has simply, I suppose, been broken. I could still enjoy the book, quite easily; just sit back and let its magic sweep over me. Yet, there were just little things that simply seemed… off. Bits that just gave me pause and wonder – was it really a book that I would read to my niece? (She was one year old then, but I’d already started on ‘Alice in Wonderland’ and ‘Harry Potter’.)

Again, I’m unlikely going to stop my niece from reading Enid Blyton’s books herself, but I don’t think I shall be the one introducing her to a world where the main heroes tend to be characterized as ‘posh’, infinitely sensible and well-mannered; where girls are frequently associated to a stereotyped set of desirable behaviour and suitable interests (even if George is allowed to continue resisting them admirably, there undeniable undertones that imply that her behaviour is less); where a ‘less posh’ friend is described as ‘eating more sandwiches than anyone and talking all the time with his mouth full’.

There were just so many bits and pieces that simply did not sit right with me.

Even as I scanned ‘Secret Island’ again just to write this up, sentences like this jumped right out at me:

Jack was always dressed in raggedy things, but the children didn’t mind. 

Well, should they have minded the state of his clothes? Why should they have minded it? Does the state of his clothes mark him as inferior? Is it a mark of their character that they did not mind it, thus also placing them as superior?

Why attach that clause at all? The sentence would have worked perfectly as ‘Jack was always dressed in raggedy things.’ Then it would have been left to the readers to decide what to make of him, or of them.

In any case, I have concluded that as much as I shall remain thankful for the magic Enid Blyton had woven into my childhood, it shall remain as such – just fond memories. Nothing can take away the happy associations I’ve made through her books, but I don’t think that visiting them again could bring up the same happy feelings. Nor would I be introducing her to any other children who come my way.

And with so many other authors to work through with my little niece, there is quite a chance that she’ll never find time for Blyton too.

So thank you, Enid Blyton. And goodbye.