Showing posts with label Steve Jenkins. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Steve Jenkins. Show all posts

Tuesday, March 25, 2014

VERY SAME TOPICS, VERY DIFFERENT BOOKS Rosalyn Schanzer


It's pretty impressive to see how many different ways nonfiction authors can present the very same subject matter or the very same people in their books. To get the gist, today I thought it might be fun to compare some examples of books on the same topic--mostly (but not entirely) by our own INK authors and illustrators. I'll be brief, I promise.  


So how about starting with our foremost founding father, George Washington himself. Each of these 3 authors has come up with entirely different hooks to pique your interest, so a young audience could get a pretty well-rounded view of our guy by checking out these true tales.



First up is The Crossing: How George Washington Saved the American Revolution by Jim Murphy.  His hook is to focus on Washington's growth as a leader, obviously leading up to the famous crossing of the Delaware on Christmas in 1776. He's used some very interesting artwork from the period to enhance the tale.

Next comes an entirely different take on George from Marfe Ferguson Delano. Her book, Master George's People, tells the story of George's slaves at Mount Vernon, and she has collaborated with a photographer who shot pictures of reenactors on the scene. 


And this one is  (ahem) my version. George vs. George: The American Revolution as Seen from Both Sides shows how there are two sides to every story.  I got to meet George Washington and King George III and paint their pictures myself.
OK, on to the second set.  In one way or another, the next 3 books are all based upon Charles Darwin and his Theory of Evolution. Let's start with Steve Jenkins' handsome book Life on Earth: The Story of Evolution.  With a nod to Darwin, Steve has created a series of stunning collages along with fairly minimal text in order to focus on the history of all the plants and animals on the planet. 
And here's yet another nod to Deb Heiligman for her celebrated true tale of romance between two folks with opposite views of the world. Despite Emma's firm belief in the Bible's version of life on earth, she and Charles enjoy a warm and loving marriage.
Mine again. What Darwin Saw: The Journey that Changed the World, tells about Darwin's great adventures as a young guy while traveling around the world. We're on board In this colorful graphic novel as he picks up the clues that lead to his Theory of Evolution and then does the experiments that prove it.
And here's series number 3.  Apparently these authors and illustrators were hard at work at the very same time on three very different picture books about the very same person; her name is Wangari Maathai, and she won the Nobel Peace Prize for bringing Kenya's trees back to life after most of them had disappeared. 

The artwork in all three books is outstanding, and each version is truly unique. The writing styles vary enormously too. I strongly recommend that you look at them side by side to prove that there's more than one way to skin a cat.  

Planting the Trees of Kenya was written and illustrated by Claire A. Nivola.


Wangari's Trees of Peace was written and illustrated by Jeanette Winter. 
And Mama Miti was written by Donna Jo Napoli and illustrated by Kadir Nelson.  
I'd bet anything that these folks didn't know they were creating books about the same person until all 3 versions were finally published....writing and illustrating books is a solo occupation if there ever was one. 

OK, that's it--though we could easily go on and on.  Here's hoping that if any kids examine a whole series of books on the same topic written and illustrated in such different ways, they can come up with some unique new versions of their own....and have some fun at the same time. 

Monday, December 9, 2013

Coffee-Table Science Redux


It’s that time again — time for my quinquennial list of coffee table books, just in time for the gift-giving season. Hard to believe it was five years ago when I blogged about some of the weightier photography books I pulled from my own bookshelves, pointing out that looking through them with a child — or alone — can be a great introduction to corners of the natural world that we sometimes overlook. That list is still relevant, but since then I’ve accumulated a few more volumes that are well worth considering. These books are not written for children. The text is often academic or technical. But in the context of children’s nonfiction, the text doesn’t matter. The images are so compelling that they can’t help but engage children (and adults), and they provide all sorts of opportunities for talking about animals, the environment, and our relationship to them.



Animal Earth 
Ross Piper



This is a beautiful book (all the books I suggest here are beautiful, so we’ll get that adjective out of the way). Piper focuses on unfamiliar animals such as sea worms or phoronids (you’ll have to look it up). There are also remarkable images of more familiar creatures — a spider or shrimp — greatly enlarged.


Seeing Trees: Discover the Extraordinary Secrets of Everyday Trees
Nancy R. Hugo  (Author)
Robert Llewellyn  (Photographer)










The fantastically precise photos in this book look at the buds, leaves, flowers, and other details of ten different trees. It’s an intimate look at the life cycle of these organisms. I think that trees, if we stop and think about them (or really look at them), are a kind of miracle, one that we don’t often appreciate because trees are so ubiquitous. This book wakes us up.



Ice — Portraits of Vanishing Glaciers
Jame Balog



























Balog, who has produced a number of elegant photographic books about animals and trees, began a project in 2005 that became something of an obsession. He started photographing ice — particularly glaciers. I think he was initially interested in the visual possibilities of the subject, but he soon realized how quickly most of the world’s glaciers are disappearing. This led to a multi-year project involving time-lapse photography of glaciers on several continents. With director Jeff Orlowski, Balog made the excellent documentary film Chasing Ice. Ice includes many images from the film. Both book and film make a compelling case for taking global warming more seriously. Culture wars notwithstanding, I believe an awareness of human-caused climate change should be part of every child’s education.


Survivors: A New Vision of Endangered Wildlife












Another Balog book. The photographer placed his subjects in unexpected contexts — often in a photo studio — which, aside from capturing them in exquisite detail,  somehow makes them seem even more vulnerable.



More than Human
by Lewis Blackwell  (Author)
Tim Flach (Photographer)

















Most of Flach’s animal images feature familiar animals, many photographed in close-up in a studio setting. They are powerfully affecting photos. Flach manages to capture both the uniqueness and dignity of  these species, and makes us feel as if we have not really looked at them closely before.


Walton Ford: Pancha Tantra





The last book on my list is a bit of a wild card, and probably not for young children. These animal paintings are stylistically reminiscent of Audubon. But the compositions are not simply depictions of scenes from nature: the creatures are often characters in some sort of allegory or fable. The images can be dark. Some feature violence or other disturbing juxtapositions. That said, the questions they raise — many about man’s relationship to the natural world — are relevant, and the book could provoke some very interesting conversations with a child who is old enough to understand the artist’s perspective. (I don’t like giving age ranges for books, but I’ll make an exception here and say that most 4th or 5th graders should be fine with this book, and that many kids that age will find it fascinating.) 

Monday, November 4, 2013

A Picture Is Worth . . .


Information graphics (infographics, if you must) have a long and rich history in print. The classic of the genre is probably Charles Joseph Minard’s 1869 map of Napoleon's march on Moscow. 
According to the information graphic authority Edward Tufte in his book The Visual Display of Quantitative Information, this map “may well be the best statistical graphic ever drawn.” The map shows the size and direction of travel of the French army both geographically and by date as they invaded Russia, then retreated. It also shows the temperature at key points of the march, making it dramatically clear how river crossings and bitter cold spells decimated the French army. Of the 424,000 men who began the campaign, only 10,000 returned. 


2012 Presidential Election Map — The New York Times
Minard’s map sets a high bar, but lately I've noticed that the information graphics in newspapers and magazines have become more common, more complex, and more effectively designed. No doubt this is due, in part, to more sophisticated and accessible digital tools. I also suspect that the audiences for these publications have become accustomed to interpreting information rich graphics on television screens and mobile devices. 
Historical Hurricane Tracker — NBC News.com

 News and sports programming often features split screens, inset images, superimposed numerical data, and text scrolls across the top and/or bottom of the screen. 

Video games, with real-time inset maps, 3d views of a city or battlefield, gauges showing strength or battery life, lists of other players, etc. have certainly helped a significant segment of the population — many of them children — develop impressive visual and cognitive multitasking skills and the ability to monitor multiple informational inputs (wow --I'm talking the talk).


Minecraft screen shot
I'm starting to think, however, that this is an area in which nonfiction picture books may be missing an opportunity. There is a real possibility that children — our audience — are capable of processing and benefiting from more complex informational graphics than those we typically include in our books. Now, I understand that not every author is interested in chasing this particular trend, and I certainly don't think that we should all jump on this bandwagon, if that's what it is. But I was a graphic designer for many years before I was an author, and I've always been intrigued by the possibility of communicating information graphically.

I explored a few of these possibilities, if only tentatively, in my most recent title, The Animal Book. Here are three of them . . .

The first is a diagrammatic food web. It's intentionally complicated, almost to the point of confusion, the better to express the complex interactions in a forest food web. 

The pie chart, which shows the relative number of living animal species, is more conventional and accessible. 

And the last graphic, which is perhaps more decorative than strictly informative, does emphasize that the vast majority of animal species are extinct. I think all three examples make their points more effectively than text alone.






For more, see Karen Romano Young's related I.N.K. post On the Value of Visuals.














Wednesday, October 16, 2013

Common Core: Main Points & Key Ideas

Since reading standards can be such a drag, I’ve come up with some easy-to-read tables that make them seem almost friendly. Here’s an example:

Key Ideas and Details #1
Kindergarten
Grade 1
Grade 2
With prompting and support, ask and answer questions about key details in a text.
Ask and answer questions about key details in a text.
Ask and answer such questions to demonstrate understanding of key details in a text.
Grade 3
Grade 4
Grade 5
Ask and answer questions to demonstrate understanding of a text, referring explicitly to the text as the basis for the answers.
Refer to details and examples in a text when explaining what the text says explicitly and when drawing inferences from the text.
Quote accurately from a text when explaining what the text says explicitly and when drawing inferences from the text.

Key Ideas and Details #2
Kindergarten
Grade 1
Grade 2
With prompting and support, identify the main topic and retell key details of a text.
Identify the main topic and retell key details of a text.
Identify the main topic of a multi-paragraph text as well as the focus of specific paragraphs within the text.
Grade 3
Grade 4
Grade 5
Determine the main idea of a text; recount the key details and explain how they support the main idea.
Determine the main idea of a text and explain how it is supported by key details; summarize the text.
Determine two or more main ideas of a text and explain how they are supported by key details; summarize the text.

You can find similar tables for the other K-5 Reading Informational Text (RI) standards on my pinterest page. I like them because they show how skills scaffold from one grade level to the next.

The tables above highlight the first two Common Core for ELA RI standards. Basically, they say that after reading a nonfiction book, your kiddos should be able to identify the main topic and key details in of the text.

This certainly isn’t a new idea. In fact, it’s pretty basic. What’s the point of reading if you don’t understand or remember the content? But as we know, this isn’t always easy for kids, especially beginning readers.

One great way to help students build their fluency and comprehension is Reading Buddies. You can find a comprehensive article about the benefits of programs with multi-age reading partners here, but here's my special twist: Instead of using books at the younger child’s reading level, use books with layered text.
 
The simpler text is perfect for the young child, and the more complex text will challenge the older child. So both students are learning. And after they finish reading a spread, they can discuss the art and content—a practice that will certainly address CCSS for ELA RI #1 and #2.


My new book No Monkeys, No Chocolate is perfect for this kind of Reading Buddies program. Here are some other books with layered text. They are also good choices for a Reading Buddies program in which both students participate fully.

Actual Size by Steve Jenkins
Beaks by Sneed B. Collard (illus. by Robin Brickman)

The Bumblebee Queen by April Pulley Sayre (illus Patricia J. Wynne)
A Butterfly is Patient by Diana Hutts Aston (illus. Sylvia Long)

An Egg is Quiet by Diana Hutts Aston (illus. Sylvia Long)
Here Come the Humpbacks! by April Pulley Sayre (illus. Jamie Hogan)

Meet the Howlers by April Pulley Sayre (illus. Woody Miller)
Move! by Steve Jenkins & Robin Page

My First Day by Steve Jenkins & Robin Page
A Place for Bats by Melissa Stewart (illus by Higgins Bond)

A Place for Birds by Melissa Stewart (illus by Higgins Bond)

A Place for Butterflies by Melissa Stewart (illus by Higgins Bond)
A Place for Fish by Melissa Stewart (illus by Higgins Bond)

A Place for Frogs by Melissa Stewart (illus by Higgins Bond)
A Place for Turtles by Melissa Stewart (illus by Higgins Bond)

Prehistoric Actual Size by Steve Jenkins
A Rock Is Lively by Diana Hutts Aston (illus. Sylvia Long)

A Seed is Sleepy by Diana Hutts Aston (illus. Sylvia Long)
Snowflake Bentley by Jacqueline Briggs Martin (illus. by Mary Azarian)

What Do You Do with a Tail Like This? by Steve Jenkins & Robin Page
When the Wolves Returned  by Dorothy Hinshaw Patent (photos Dan and Cassie Hartman)

Wings by Sneed B. Collard (illus. by Robin Brickman)

Monday, June 3, 2013

What's the Big Idea?


I’m on my way home from a children’s book conference. It’s a long flight, and I’m struck by how abstract my grasp of distance becomes when I’m traveling at 500 miles an hour. I’d probably have to walk (and swim) the 4,000 miles to really appreciate how far I’ll travel over the next few hours.

A casual preoccupation with scale — both spatial and temporal — began even before I became an author. It was my own children’s constant questions about the size of things, however, that focused my interest and led to one of my first books. Biggest, Strongest, Fastest is a book of animal superlatives. As I worked on that book, I was confronted with what would become a recurring issue: the limitations of the printed page when presenting things of large or small size. I used a simple scale reference — the silhouette of a human figure or hand next to an image of an elephant or flea — to help the reader take the true measure of an animal that wouldn’t fit on the page or one too small to see clearly if not enlarged. In another title, Actual Size, I employed life-size illustrations of animals or parts of animals to get the point across. As long as a subject’s size allows for comparison to something as familiar as the human body, these approaches work pretty well. Once something gets too large or small to relate to something familiar that can be experienced directly, it gets trickier. Similar challenges arise when dealing with big numbers or very long or short periods of time.

Of course, problems of expressing and grasping extremes of scale didn’t originate with the picture book. Millions of years of natural selection operating on our human and pre-human ancestors have favored perceptual abilities that respond to things that aid or threaten our survival. Food, mates, and danger, in most cases, ranged from the size of a small insect to the size of an elephant. A distant mountain or approaching storm represented the upper size limit of something in the physical world that could be directly understood. Many things that were larger or farther away, such as the sun or moon, were eventually incorporated into superstition or myth.

Similar limitations exist in the realm of the temporal. We are limited in our ability to intuitively understand periods of time briefer than, say, the blink of an eye or longer than a few human generations. This hasn’t really changed. We may have an intellectual grasp of the interval that passes when light travels from our computer screen to our eyes at 186,000 miles per second or the 65 million years that have passed since an asteroid collision incinerated much of the earth, but I suspect that none of us have anything other than a metaphorical grasp of these spans of time. 

For most of our history, these limitations weren’t important (which is why they exist). But much contemporary science is concerned with objects and events that lie far outside our perceptual abilities. The best science writing — for both children and adults — can provide a vivid (if limited) sense of many things that we can’t actually experience. The book, however, is the same medium that was available to daVinci and Newton. On one hand, this speaks to the value and enduring power of the printed page. But also makes me (a dyed-in-the-wool ink-on-paper person) wonder about the possibilities of new media. The to-this-point-underwhelming (to me, at any rate) ebook will no doubt be the 8-track tape player of the near future. As digital media evolves, however, they may make it possible to explain and demonstrate phenomena that are beyond the capability of the traditional book.

I’m keeping my options open.

(After this was posted, a friend sent an interesting link related to scale. It's worth checking out: http://htwins.net/scale2/)

Monday, May 6, 2013

Happy Birthday



I experienced another birthday recently (celebrated is no longer appropriate; endured is over-dramatic, at least for the time being). Without quantifying too much, let’s just say I can remember Sputnik but not the Korean War.

Why bring it up? My life has, coincidentally, been concurrent with the last half of the 20th century. Plus a bit of the 21st. And this period has been a remarkable one for science. I 've read persuasive arguments that for all the amazing advances in medicine, communications, and transportation that the past 50 or 100 years have witnessed, the greater paradigm shift happened during the industrial revolution. The telegraph, the steam engine, and the transition from farm to factory had a bigger impact on most peoples lives. This may be true, but our understanding of the natural world wasn’t changing at the same rate. The universe described by Newton in the 17th century was the same universe people inhabited at the beginning of the 20th century. Since then, we’ve come light years, literally.

One of the most commonly encountered criticisms of a scientific world view is that science, as a tool for understanding the world, is no more legitimate than almost any other mythological or investigative methodology. On the left, this manifests itself as relativism — the idea that there are no absolute truths, only truth relative to some cultural or intellectual frame of reference. On the religious right, science is sometimes positioned as an antagonist to Christianity or Islam, and is often characterized as a religion itself, especially evolutionary theory. To quote the Institute of Creation Research (I know, I spend too much time looking at sites like this): “Evolutionism is thus intrinsically an atheistic religion.”

I think much of the misunderstanding about science has to do with a focus on conclusions rather than process. This is partly a function of the way science and scientific ideas are reported in popular media. When some finding — margarine is better for one’s heart than butter — is accepted as dogma only to be discredited later, it appears that the scientific method has failed.  But the fact that science can accommodate new information and change its conclusions to provide a more accurate description of something is one of its strengths. Science thrives on failure. This is in contrast to many of the belief systems science now finds itself in conflict with, most of which have not changed the explanations they offer (if any) for hundreds or thousands of years.

So, back to that birthday. It’s offers a good excuse to think about a few of the important scientific concepts that have been accepted as mainstream science only during my lifetime. Many replaced earlier theories that had to be discarded or completely revised. 

An incomplete list:

• By deciphering the structure and mechanism of DNA in 1953, Watson and Crick explained the mechanism of heredity and showed that life is digital, not analog.

• In 1964, Wilson and Penzias discovered the cosmic background radiation, which allowed other scientists to confirm the Big Bang as the universe’s origin and relegate the steady-state theory to the dustbin of cosmology.

• Continental drift. What is obvious to a second grader — the continents fit together like a jigsaw puzzle and must have been connected at some point — was proposed by a few geologists but resisted by most until the 1960s, when symmetrical magnetic anomalies on the seafloor showed that the continents were separating along the mid-Atlantic Ridge. Continental drift explained not only the shape and position of the continents but the existence of many geological features, such as the Himalaya mountains and the Marianas Trench.

• Until the 1970s, it was widely accepted that all multi-cellular life on earth is dependent on the sun, either directly or indirectly. In 1977, hydrothermal vents were discovered in the Pacific Ocean. These “black smokers” are surrounded by ecosystems that get their energy not from the sun but from dissolved chemicals in hot water emerging from the vents.

• In 1980, Walter and Luis Alvarez discovered a worldwide layer of the element Iridium in strata dating from the end of the dinosaur era 65 million years ago. They proposed a large asteroid impact as a key event in the extinction of the dinosaurs (and many other forms of life), an idea that is widely accepted by earth scientists.

• A few scientists proposed the idea of human-caused global warming as long ago as the 19th century, but it wasn’t until the 1980s that an overwhelming majority of climate scientists accepted the idea of androgenic global warming. As in the case of evolutionary theory, political and cultural factors have resulted in large segments of the population in this country dismissing what is an almost unanimous consensus among scientists.

• In 1998, cosmologists determined that the expansion of the universe is accelerating, probably due to dark energy, something we still don’t understand but which apparently constitutes almost 70% of the mass-energy of the universe.

These are just a few of the new ideas that science, by its own rules, has had to accept over the past 50 or 60 years. I say “had to” because each new idea displaced existing theories that, in many cases, represented the life’s work of other scientists.

But what, one might reasonably ask, does all this have to do with writing non-fiction books for children? It’s a reminder that science is a dynamic, messy affair. It rarely deals in absolutes. Its crowning achievements often turn out to be incorrect or incomplete. Keeping this in mind as we write can help us give young readers a more accurate picture of what science is and how it works.




Monday, April 1, 2013

Teach the Controversy


Recently I was talking to a friend who teaches high school, and he mentioned that a surprising number of his students — even bright, literate, articulate students — believe in absurd conspiracies (chemtrails, secret world governments, etc.) or equally flaky pseudoscientific theories (astrology, remote viewing, healing crystals). Living, as I think most non-fiction writers do, in the reality-based world, these sorts of beliefs have always seemed amusing but not really worth much of my attention. I’m starting to wonder, however, if that’s a mistake.

Plenty of polls show that acceptance of ideas such as a 10,000-year-old earth or alien abductions are far from fringe — in many cases, they represent the majority view (at least in this country). Confronting these ideas is tricky. Most scientists, for example, refuse to debate creationists, not wanting to give them the imprimatur of legitimacy that a debate might provide. One danger of this attitude, understandable as it may be, is that the scientific perspective remains unarticulated and risks becoming just one of a smorgasbord of perspectives, no more or less legitimate than any other.

I’ve been thinking about a couple of books that take a more direct approach to this issue. Carl Sagan’s The Demon Haunted World (1995) isn’t thought of as a book for young readers, but should be. In it Sagan addresses a range of pseudoscientific topics, including UFOs, ghosts, and channeling ancient entities. His writing is clear and accessible. Perhaps most importantly, his intent is clearly not to just debunk irrational ideas, but to express something of the beauty, elegance, and importance of a scientific understanding of the world. 


Richard Dawkin’s The Magic of Reality — How We Know What’s Really True is even more ambitious. The book, which is intended for a young audience, is organized around a series of questions: Why are there so many different kinds of animals? Why do we have night and day, winter and summer? When and how did everything begin? Each chapter starts off with some of the mythological rationales for these phenomena, then introduces the real — scientific — explanation. Dawkins acknowledges the limits of our understanding of some of these subjects, but does an excellent job of using analogy and metaphor to make potentially complex accounts understandable. It’s true that Dawkin’s high-profile atheism, which is implicit in this book, means that he’ll never be acceptable to much of the country’s educational system. That’s a shame, because he really does have a gift for explaining how the natural world works.

Now, about that blog title. I think “teaching the controversy” — shorthand for introducing intelligent design into science classrooms  while discrediting evolutionary theory — has real merit. But not in a science class. In a social sciences class, discussion of how and why so many people believe things for which there is no evidence could have real value. I’m enough of a realist to admit that there is not much chance of this becoming a widespread practice in the public schools. But as a non-fiction writer, I think there may be opportunities, when addressing a scientific topic, to acknowledge and refute some of the popular and inaccurate views on the same topic. This doesn’t have to be confrontational, though sometimes that approach may make us feel good (perhaps I should just speak for myself here).

Monday, March 4, 2013

Forests and trees


Last week Brian Greene, the physicist and mathematician, gave a lecture at the University of Colorado in Boulder. Greene is the author of several books about relativity, quantum mechanics, string theory, parallel universes, and other fields of contemporary physics. He’s also hosted two Nova series dealing with the same subjects on PBS. Several members of my family attended his presentation, including my 14-year-old son Jamie.

Greene talked about string theory, multiple dimensions, and the multiverse. The hall, which holds more than 2,000 people, was completely full (apparently that many more people showed up but couldn’t get in, which struck me as pretty remarkable).

The audience included lots of physicists — even a few Nobel laureates. But many of us were non-scientists, so the talk, which presented mathematical, theoretical, and observational arguments for the existence of multiple universes, had to accommodate a wide range of educational backgrounds. Greene managed this by placing his main points in a linear historical context and by using stories, analogies, and images rather than advanced math to explain his hypotheses. He’s quite good at this. When I talked to Jamie afterward, I found that he’d understood the essential points of the lecture even though his freshman physical science course hasn’t progressed beyond Newton’s physical laws.

There’s an obvious connection here to writing nonfiction picture books about subjects like evolution, geology, and astronomy for an audience with a limited scientific vocabulary. Before I go there, however, one more story.

When I was a graduate student in design school, I taught an introductory photography course for four semesters. This was in the pre-digital era, so in addition to the aesthetics of the medium the class covered many of the technical  aspects of B&W photography: the relationship of f-stop and shutter speed, the process and chemistry of film development and printing, and so on. The first two times I taught the class, I just turned the students loose to make images, and we covered the technical issues as they arose. The quality of the final product — a B&W print — was pretty abysmal, at least for a while. But the class was having fun making pictures. As an experiment, I decided to try a different approach during the third semester. I spent the first few weeks of class explaining the technical side of the process before we started making images. Depth of field, freezing motion, reciprocity failure, the chemistry of film, that sort of thing. And the students were bored to death. I can’t ignore the possibility that my limitations as an instructor were at least partly to blame. But it was pretty clear that jumping right into the heart of the process — making images — was much more rewarding.

Based on own experiences as a student — and on those of my three children ­— something similar often happens in school science classes. The beautiful, awe-inspiring parts — the power and elegance of Darwin’s theory, the way Einstein changed our fundamental understanding of the world, Watson and Crick’s incredible discovery of the digital nature of life — get buried in an often intimidating deluge of formulas and facts to be memorized. It’s a forest and trees problem. This isn’t intended as a criticism of science teachers, who have a prescribed — and, sadly, often circumscribed — curriculum to get through in a short period of time.

Instead, it’s another way to think about what we do as authors. We know that children — even very young children — can often understand complex scientific concepts as long as they are presented in a context and with a vocabulary that makes use of what they already understand about the world. A 32-page book (I’m talking picture books, but these ideas are just as applicable to longer chapter books for older children) presents the same sort of challenge that Brian Greene faced in explaining a significant chunk of  modern physics to a lay audience in an hour and a half. Children’s book authors also use stories, analogies, and images to make complex concepts understandable. We have no choice but to skip over many of the technical details and get right to the heart of an idea.

Monday, February 4, 2013

The End of the World



I’ve been reading — rereading, actually — Our Final Hour, a fascinating and depressing little book by Sir Martin Rees, a cosmologist and the British Astronomer Royal. The subtitle, A Scientist’s Warning: How Terror, Error, and Environmental Disaster Threaten Humankind’s Future in This Century ­on Earth and Beyond, pretty much says it all. 

Rees believes that civilization has no more than a 50-50 chance of making it through this century, and he gives those who are so inclined an impressive list of things to obsess about. There are the usual suspects: nuclear war, asteroid impact, nearby supernova, massive volcanic eruption, pandemic, nanotechnology run amok, and evil computers. There’s also the highly unlikely but disheartening possibility that physicists fooling around with subatomic particles and high energies might accidentally unravel space-time itself. The upside of this particular scenario is that the destruction would propagate at the speed of light, so there wouldn’t be much time for regrets.

I don’t think I’m the only one intrigued by this sort of thing. The book was published, after all, and it’s just one title in what might be thought of as the apocalyptic non-fiction genre. These books are written for an adult audience, which raises a question: where are the dystopian non-fiction books for children?

In The Uses of Enchantment: The Meaning and Importance of Fairy Tales, Bruno Bettelheim makes a convincing case for the therapeutic value of those gruesome Grimm Brother’s stories. The witches, evil stepmothers and monsters give young children a vehicle for acknowledging and externalizing their own dark impulses — feelings that they are just becoming aware of. Older children are certainly exposed to many of the catastrophic possibilities that Rees discusses, which might help to explain the popularity of YA dystopian fiction, much of which is as dark as any real-life scenario we could imagine. Personally, I would have appreciated some factual and unpatronizing information about the consequences of all-out nuclear war back in the duck-and-cover days, when we were advised to turn away from the windows and get under our desks when we saw the flash.

It’s interesting that children’s non-fiction doesn’t shy away from dreadful episodes in the past — plagues, wars, natural disasters and genocides get plenty of attention. Unless there are titles I’m overlooking (a definite possibility), I don’t see children’s non-fiction that speculates about really bad scenarios in the future. I did come across a frightening volume titled A Kid’s Guide to Understanding the End Times, by the authors of the Left Behind series, but I don’t think it qualifies as non-fiction (no link for this one — you’ll have to dig it up on your own). There are plenty of books that deal with serious social and environmental issues that lie ahead, but their tone tends towards “here’s what you can do to help fight global warming.” I don’t have anything against optimism and positive action, but if that asteroid we failed to detect does hit (giving us, Rees says, about three seconds warning), recycling won’t make much of a difference.

I’m speculating that it is reluctance on the part of the adult gatekeepers rather than a lack of interest on the part of young readers that explains the absence of these books. It makes a certain amount of sense — we are more comfortable learning about terrible things in the past, because the fact that we’re reading about them means we probably weren’t directly affected.

Now, here’s a segue I could only get away with in a blog (i.e., with no editor to point out what a stretch it is). I’ve been playing with a concept about what life might look like at some point in the distant future, and it’s occurred to me that — like attitudes toward Armageddon — opinions about evolution are not symmetrical with regard to time. (I couldn’t write a blog without some reference to this subject. Sort of like Gail Collins and that dog strapped to the roof, at least until last November). I have no real evidence for this observation, but here it is: if asked whether at least some living things might change over time and be different in the distant future, I think many of the 40-odd percent of Americans who deny that anything has evolved to this point would accept the premise. If it’s true, it offers the possibility of presenting an important scientific concept without the fear and loathing the subject normally inspires. Unless, of course, that asteroid makes the whole subject moot.