The Reading Monk

I was sitting at my desk this morning thinking about the books I’m reading now and wondering about what Jovenus over at Bibliojunkie might be reading (given her voracious appetite for books) and that got me to ponder upon what and who inspired me to read and love books. One name came to my mind – Enid Blyton.

I’m always surprised to come across young people today who have never heard of Enid Blyton or read her books. I think it is such a loss to one’s childhood. I owe my sense of wonder and curiosity to her through her writings. If childhood is about innocence, then Enid Blyton books give to it magic and wonderment.

As a young child, my mother would give me a weekly allowance to buy books. I would be dropped off at the bookshop in town and left to browse for an hour in the afternoons after school. I’d pick one book to buy and another I’d read on the floor inside the shop while waiting for my mom to come pick me up.

Tales of pixies, golliwogs, knomes, goblins and fairies – and yes, naughty children who neglected their toys – are standard Enid Blyton fare. I was into her collection of short stories but didn’t really get into The Famous Five series. I didn’t like it that everything was real. I wanted fantasy and magic. My cousin, on the other hand, was into The Famous Five and The Secret Seven and was always trying to solve mysteries in her home which she gave names such as The Mystery of the Missing Pencil and The Mystery of the Missing Cordial Syrup, and so forth. Rather amusing now in hindsight but it was serious stuff back when we were small domestic sleuths running around acting paranoid and suspicious about every little thing. Again, a testament to Enid Blyton’s amazing stories.

I remember one particular series called The Faraway Tree which my cousin introduced to me and its stories have stuck with me until adulthood. Remember Jo, Bessie and Fanny? Moonface, Saucepan Man, Mr Whatzisname and Dame Washalot? And then there’s also the Wishing Chair series with Mollie and Peter and the magical wishing chair that could grow wings and fly them to magical places. I reminisce back to the evenings when I used to sit and read these books on my own, and am overwhelmed by the sense of nostalgia. The smell of the pages in the new book and the warm cup of Milo that I’d have with me all come back to me. I remember how I used to “ration” how much I read so as not to finish the whole book in one sitting. So I’d read to a predetermined page (… and 1 or 2 more pages, or sometimes 3!) and leave the rest for the next day; pacing myself so that I’d finish just in time for my next visit to the bookstore.

Enid Blyton was my nanny and a lovable caring story teller who filled my days with unforgettable stories when I had no playmates. She was the soothing voice that stayed with me and whispering bedtime stories as I fell asleep and in my slumber, holding my hands and guiding me through magical realms. She defined my childhood.

It was because of Enid Blyton that I believed my toys would  come alive at night while I slept so much so that I’d pretend to be asleep hoping to catch them in the act (God knows what I’d have done if they really did stand up and walk around). Thanks to her stories, I had respect for my toys and learned to treat them better thinking that they too had feelings and could feel pain or neglect. Even today, at 34, I sometimes feel the urge to switch off lights or fans (because I don’t want them to feel exhausted), or to make sure the teddy bear isn’t sitting in the sunlight (he’d get sun burnt).

I know I will want to share these worlds with my own daughter (who is now 17 months old) when she starts reading soon. I would want her to know the magic in Enid Blyton’s writings.

Yes, some of her expressions have grown quaint over the years as expressions must surely do. “Smashing”, “I say!” “Wizard!” and “Jolly Nice!”. But what child would notice this anyway. It was in the early 1980s that I read the most number Enid Blyton books. The stories are as fresh and marvellous today as they were back then. Little did I know (until very recently) that Enid Blyton had long passed away back in 1968. Now, that’s truly transcending time. That’s immortality. Timeless.

Enid Mary Blyton, 1897 - 1968

But like I said, now I’m 34. At 34, I’m old enough to know that fairies don’t exist, that golliwogs are considered racist toys (which I personally don’t agree) and that toys don’t come alive at night.

What I’m trying to get at is this. In writing this entry, I took the time to read up on Enid Blyton’s biography. There’s the usual general information but then I came across an online article in The Independent (UK) (14.5.2009) which reveals a darker side to the life of Enid Blyton far removed from the fantasy worlds she created.

It’s a different Enid Blyton, one who is very sexual (playing tennis naked, sexual relationship with her children’s female nanny, adulterous affairs) and in some instances, cold and cruel (denying her children access to their father after her divorce). Her own daughter Imogen Smallwood described her mother as, “arrogant, insecure, pretentious and without a trace of maternal instinct“.

It’s a side I find hard to reconcile with the children’s author that I know. But I guess fairy-tales and the real world were never meant to be one and the same anyway.