Childhood and Literature
The purpose of this book is to investigate, as a body, Louisa May Alcottâs works for and about children. In doing so, I will also consider how childhood is constructed within Alcottâs texts and by those who read them, thereby questioning the basis on which assumptions about childhood in literature are made. All too often, and despite extensive work in this area by theorists such as Jacqueline Rose and KarĂn Lesnik-Oberstein, claims that childhood is self-evident continue to thrive; and such assumptions direct readings of the textual child as much as they construct the so-called real child that is frequently called into being as the literary childâs point of origin. Alcottâs literature is of particular interest in looking at childhood via this approach because of the overwhelming critical and popular focus on just one of her works, Little Women , with most of her novels and short stories for children occasioning very little attention beyond the authorâs own lifetime. I therefore intend to investigate Alcottâs childrenâs literature, including and beyond Little Women , to consider portrayals of childhood within her texts and their criticism, and to ask: why analyze the textual child at all?
In looking at Alcottâs works, I also want to consider what is at stake in reading the child in literature from a critical perspective. In âHoliday House: Grist to The Mill on the Floss, or Childhood as Textâ,
Lesnik-Oberstein claims:
[C]hildhood [âŠ] usually remains a field regarded with anything from mild amusement to derision, judged either too simple to be serious, or too pure to be touched. The studies that have been devoted to it have equally been seen, and often see themselves, as strictly specialized and local, if not positively marginal.1
The assumptionâor bestowalâof childhoodâs status as a âfieldâ positions it as other, as separate from a default adulthood, and places it within of a body of literature that is positioned as marginal against an assumed norm that is designated as prior to, or beyond the need of, the qualifying term âfieldâ. The âfieldâ of childhood is therefore an adult production, separated from the normative adult world and categorized in terms of that claim to difference and the resultant separation. Such categorizing, here, is constructed in terms of an excess under the critical adult judgment: childhood is always âtooâ much of something, âtoo simple [âŠ] too pureâ, to be worthy of any serious adult engagement. As such, it sits outside the boundaries of what is deemed an acceptable focus of adult critical attention, with each claim to excess providing a reasonâor excuseâto stay away. And here can also be read the adult anxiety about engaging with childhood at all: childhood either infantilizes the adult engaging with it, with the adult moving into what it has constructed as the childâs space, or any such engagement brings the child into the ostensibly adult world of
sexuality and desire, through the adult rejection of its own potential âtouchâ. It is, therefore, the adult engagement with childhood that produces the very child it appears to be rejecting; the child that can only exist in uneasy relation to the adult who does not want it.
However, Caroline F. Levander and Carol J. Singley, in their introduction to The American Child, disagree with this perspective, claiming that critical study is not turning away from the child, but toward it: âScholars from a wide range of disciplines have turned their attention to the child in order to interrogate how it comes to represent, and often codify, the prevailing ideologies of a given culture or historical period.â2 According to this cultural studies approach, scholars are investigating childhood not to discover what it is or might be, but to see what the child can tell them about a society of which, by default, the child is not a part. In a sense, the child does not exist here but rather represents, or even re-presents as a mirror, that which also produces it; and its representation of culture or period pre-exists the adult attention that, in fact, positions it as that representation. In Levander and Singleyâs reading, what gives the child its value is the very re-inscription of that which it is not.
Reading the child in Alcottâs works is no more straightforward, with different perspectives creating a variety of responses in which the textual child is up for grabs. Is Alcottâs child an âadult-in-processâ, as claimed by Charles Strickland?3 Is it the biographical Louisa and her three sisters, as read primarily through popular and critical responses to Little Women? Is it unproblematically female, as many of Alcottâs protagonists and her readers are still assumed, largely, to be? Is her child the site of Transcendental and Romantic simplicity and innocence, in what Levander and Singley claim is âthe repeated figuring, in nineteenth-through late-twentieth century American culture, of the child as a nostalgic symbol of lost innocence and youthâ?4 Is Alcottâs child also, therefore, a nineteenth-century child, one separated by time period from other figurations of childhood and therefore representative of the period in which it exists? This work aims to explore some of these possibilities through the body of Alcottâs works for and about children; not to result in any claims to a single and knowable Alcottian child, but to look at some of the claims that have been made and explore the varying constructions of childhood in these texts.
So, under what terms will this book question the textual child? In
Bodies That Matter,
Judith Butler claims:
To call a presupposition into question is not the same as doing away with it; rather, it is to free it from its metaphysical lodgings in order to understand what political interests were secured in and by that metaphysical placing, and thereby to permit the term to occupy and serve very different political aims.5
In reading âchildâ, âchildhoodâ, and other related constructions, and in seeking to understand how they operate within and between texts, I am not arguing that these terms no longer have currency or should be abandoned altogether: in asking what a child is in Alcottâs works, I am not attempting to annihilate âchildâ from language. Rather, as
Butler arguesâin terms of âmaterialityâ rather than âchildâ, although it could be argued that it is the supposed materiality of the child that is at stake in many critical readingsâI am calling âa presupposition into questionâ in that I intend to argue that âchildâ is not a stable term, that its lodging is indeed âmetaphysicalâ and can be, if not exactly freed, at least analyzed and explored in order to consider how it operates in literature and, in particular, to look at both what those âpolitical interestsâ might be, and how they are constructed in the locating and relocating of the child in these critical and Alcottian texts. In questioning these terms, then, I will endeavor to analyze how each term is being used, what is at stake in its usage and, indeed, what âpolitical interestsâ are both secured and displaced in doing so. In âpermit[ting] the term [âchildâ] to occupy and serve very different political aimsâ, however, in no way do I intend to secure a resolution whereby âchildâ becomes stabilized; rather, it is in the question itself that the child will be continually re-located in this work.
6In the destabilization of the term âchildâ, however, is the concurrent problem of childrenâs fiction; after all, if we cannot say with any certainty what a child is, either inside or outside of the text, how can we designate any work as about and/or for children? Anne Scott MacLeod considers this problem in her essay on the nineteenth-century textual child, and the development of the childrenâs literature market from the didacticism of the ârationalâ era to the idealization of the Romantics, one that she positionsâin American childrenâs literature at leastâas arising from outside the text, âon a wave of social concern for the children of the urban poorâ.7 Yet this separation of childrenâs literature into two separate camps is not without its problems, and MacLeod calls on Alcott as a writer who troubles such a linear process of childrenâs literature development. Having positioned the American Civil War as the marker between one era and the other, MacLeod argues: âClosest in some ways to prewar fiction, curiously enough, was the novel that has survived longest [âŠ] Louisa May Alcottâs [post-war novel] Little W...