THE GRAVEYARD BOOK and THE ABSOLUTELY TRUE DIARY OF A PART-TIME INDIAN

THE GRAVEYARD BOOK


The Graveyard Book is a coming-of-age novel about your average living boy raised by the dead . . .

Neil Gaiman stays true to his twisted, dark fantasy genre in this book recommended for ages 10 and up.  If you are a fan of Coraline or Neverwhere, you'll enjoy Graveyard too.  If that doesn't give you enough context, try this: I bet Tim Burton has the hugest man-crush on Neil Gaiman.

The book starts with a baby, aptly called Nobody Owens (and Bod for short).  He is adopted by a community of graveyard residents: ghosts identified by their headstones (Joji G. Shoji, d. 1921, I was a stranger and you took me in), an ancient entity called the Sleer buried beneath a Celtic burrow, and Bod's unique guardians--the solitary and enigmatic Silas, as well as the strict and erudite graveyard scholar Miss Lupescu.

What makes this book worthy of its Newberry Medal?  Is it that Gaiman challenges children to explore the theme of death?  Is Bod's journey to young adulthood particularly insightful?  Is it the references to history and mythology, the cleverly incorporated supernatural beings (not ONCE did the word vampire crop up, which millions of paranormal readers are thankful for), or the probing into cultural traditions like unconsecrated burials?  Or is the book simply so creative that its readers are completely charmed?

Probably all of the above.

A note about the illustrations: At first I disliked the grotesque proportions, but the brush-and-ink drawings do fit the tone of the novel perfectly.  There is a grotesque whimsy, a Poe-like quality to the writing that is enhanced by Dave McKean's work.


THE ABSOLUTELY TRUE DIARY OF A PART-TIME INDIAN

     I had no idea the Junior was a weird name.  It's a common name on my rez, on any rez.  You walk into any trading post on any rez in the United States and shout, "Hey, Junior!" and seventeen guys will turn around.
     And three women.
     But there were no other people named Junior in Reardan, so I was being laughed at because I was the only one who had that silly name.
     And then I felt smaller because the teacher was taking roll and he called out my name name.
     "Arnold Spirit," the teacher said. . . .
     He moved on to other students, but Penelope leaned over toward me again, but she wasn't laughing at all.  She was mad now.
     "I thought you said your name was Junior," Penelope said.
     She accused me of telling her my real name.  Well, okay, it wasn't completely my real name.  My full name is Arnold Spirit Jr.  But nobody calls me that.  Everybody calls me Junior.  Well, every other Indian calls me Junior.
     "My name is Junior," I said.  "And my name is Arnold.  It's Junior and Arnold.  I'm both."
     I felt like two different people inside of one body.
     No, I felt like a magician slicing myself in half, with Junior living on the north side of the Spokane River and Arnold living on the South.

(Excerpt from True Diary)


I first encountered Sherman Alexie's work in a postmodern literature course, and I found his writer's voice particularly poignant.  He sees things from a unique perspective, a skill he uses to weave his young adult masterpiece, The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian.  While so many people are intent on chronicling their memoirs to promote their careers, advocate for their political platforms, or line their wallets, Alexie's memoirs are particularly chosen to illuminate some kind of truth.  There are so many levels to his identity; he has the perspective of a horny teenage boy ("And maybe you're thinking, 'Well, you really shouldn't be talking about masturbation in public.'  Well, tough . . .") and the perspective of someone having to surmount physical challenges ("Susceptible to seizure activity. Doesn't that just roll off the tongue like poetry?").  He sees from the perspective of an Indian growing up on the reservation ("When it comes to death, we know that laughter and tears are pretty much the same thing.") but he also sees from the perspective of someone who is part of two cultures at once (". . . we all look for ways to make the pain go away.  Penelope gorges on her pain and then throws it up and flushes it away.  My dad drinks his pain away.") He doesn't hesitate to plunge into topics like poverty, betrayal, conflict of emotion and self, alcoholism, death, dreams, cultural norms . . . You name it, this book probably has it.

And Alexie's character has a unique way of interpreting his insights: Junior is a cartoonist, and as such, Alexie's novel is filled with amazing cartoons by artist Ellen Forney.  This is how he tries to figure out the unanswerable questions plague human existence (from "Boys can hold hands until they turn nine" to the definition of grief, "When you feel so helpless and stupid that you think nothing will ever be right again, and your macaroni and cheese tastes like sawdust, and you can't even jerk off because it seems like too much trouble. --Webster's Dickshunary 4ever").  Junior's cartoons are necessary to understanding the complex emotions he feels, and every teen can relate to Alexie's understanding that sometimes words just can't capture the things that matter the most.

And since I'm obviously in love with this book, here's another excerpt:

     I draw all the time.
     I draw cartoons of my mother and father; my sister and grandmother; my best friend, Rowdy; and everybody else on the rez.
     I draw because words are too unpredictable.
     I draw because words are too limited.
     If you speak and write in English, or Spanish, or Chinese, or any other language, then only a certain percentage of human beings will get your meaning.
     But when you draw a picture, everybody can understand it.
     If I draw a cartoon of a flower, then every man, woman, and child in the world can look at it and say, "That's a flower."
     So I draw because I want to talk to the world.  And I want the world to pay attention to me.
     I feel important with a pen in my hand.  I feel like I might grow up to be somebody important.  An artist. Maybe a famous artist.  Maybe a rich artist.
     That's the only way I can become rich and famous.
     Just take a look at the world.  Almost all of the rich and famous brown people are artists. They're singers and actors and writers and dancers and directors and poets.
     So I draw because I feel like it might be my only real chance to escape the reservation.
     I think the world is a series of broken dams and floods, and my cartoons are tiny little lifeboats.