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Every year, I naively await the Oscars’ Best Animated Feature Film. Every year, Disney proves itself to be the most powerful force in the animated world, and every year, I nod and grudgingly agree as yet another Studio Ghibli film gets sidelined. With Pixar’s Inside Out setting the bar for animated films this year, Mark Osborne’s The Little Prince was released at the Cannes Film Festival with relatively minimal fanfare. However, I’ve been anticipating this adaptation for a long while, and when it was released for the English-speaking audience late last year, I welcomed it with open arms.
Antoine Saint-Exupery’s The Little Prince is dearly loved by the world of children’s literature, and for good reason. It’s intent on driving home the relevance of childlike wonder in the face of the many facets of adulthood, all while retaining a heartfelt charm that never gets old. Osborne’s version maintains all this, but with a twist.
Instead of adapting the book scene by scene, this Little Prince introduces a young girl whose life has been scheduled perfectly to the very seconds by a helicopter mom. The family moves in next to a former aviator — the same aviator from the original story, only much older and quirkier. Priorities start shifting for the unnamed little girl as she gets to know the story of the Little Prince from her neighbour, all of which innocently reminiscent of the aviator’s own experience in Saint-Exupery’s book. The two storylines, old and new, are laced together for the first half, with the distinction made by the animation style. The girl’s daily life is computer animated, while the aviator’s narration of the story of the Little Prince is executed in lovely stop-motion that really cemented the emotional groundwork of the film for me.
Antoine Saint-Exupery’s The Little Prince is dearly loved by the world of children’s literature, and for good reason.
This first half gives way to a storyline that wholly belongs to this film alone, and the result is something that can make or break the film depending on who’s watching. I chose to go into it with the intention of loving it no matter what, and while I didn’t ultimately love some of the changes they made, I liked them enough to allow them to pull at my vulnerable heartstrings. Osborne set out with this film to make his own personal statement about family and parent-child relationships, and make a statement, it did. The problem is that I’m not sure exactly what that statement is.
I love Saint-Exupery’s Le Petit Prince, and it might be my longstanding loyalty to the original story speaking here, but the one flaw of the film for me is that its original plotline fell short of where it really needed to be. Instead of growing into whatever they were trying to prove with the added story, the film reiterates the same monotonous mantras from Saint-Exupery despite blatantly being determined to distinguish itself. The moral of the story became something repetitive and not unlike anything we’ve ever heard before, and the repetition became something that bordered on ridiculous. It stripped away the emotional brilliance that could have been maintained if handled carefully, and while all was not lost at the end of the day, the rescue can only be credited to Hans Zimmer and Richard Harvey’s beautiful score. Osborne’s The Little Prince is a movie targeted towards children, but for a film that preaches about the importance of childlike imagination, it severely underestimates their capability to understand subtle thematic messages in what was otherwise a lovely film. It beats you over the head with the same message, explicitly stated through the little girl, and while nice at first, it was something the second half of the film could have done away with, or at least managed better.
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Being in university, we’ve all grown accustomed to reading research papers and academic studies. Unless you’re taking English or literature courses, your novels are probably collecting dust or waiting to be read during a break. But when that time comes around, you’re so tired of reading that you’d much prefer an activity that doesn’t involve consuming long passages of text for hours on end. Last year, when I was drowning in scientific papers and textbook readings, picking up a novel felt less like a leisurely learning experience and more like a waste of time — something that would distract me from my other courses. Reading fiction is often associated with entertainment rather than learning, however — as I have discovered — it is probably the most eye-opening and true-to-life literary genre.
The amount of reading required in our academic careers can be overwhelming. It’s easy to see why some people would underestimate seemingly superfluous genres. We think of fiction as basic stories of monstrous creatures and magical Greek islands, when really these tales have a lot to teach us about the world we’re living in today. The Odyssey cannot be reduced solely to a king battling various mythical monsters on his journey home. What are the lengths someone will go to return to their family? When a great hero is on his knees begging to go home, one can’t help but be reminded of the importance of loved ones. Fiction does not solely provide entertainment; it teaches us lessons about our world and ourselves.
It is probably the most eye-opening and true-to-life literary genre to exist.
Reading literary fiction can even improve our empathy. It asks us to step into a character’s life and understand his or her choices. In Frankenstein, the creature is presented as a monstrous being, undeserving of love from the perspective of his creator. The novel challenges us to consider the perspective of multiple characters, including the creature. We are asked to be active readers and assume different roles as the narration shifts from character to character. Despite subjective interpretations of the piece, every reader undoubtedly learns how to relate. If we can step into a fictional world and empathize with characters we come to know in the span of two hundred pages, we can apply that skill to our own lives. The way you form strong bonds with people and connect with others depends on your ability to see the world through their eyes.
So is fiction a waste of time? It doesn’t detract from your schoolwork. It enhances your perspectives and critical thinking by allowing you to see the world in a new light. You cannot come away from a few hours of reading unchanged. When you read fiction, consciously or not, you relate differently to your own life. Whether you have to escape to Ithaca, or pay a visit to Victor Frankenstein’s laboratory, you gain insight into humanity. Even if you may not recognize it, you are learning.
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Growing up, I always found it difficult to fully empathize with the leading characters in young adult novels. Often starring an ambiguously White female lead with a token Black or Latina BFF, the books of my childhood didn’t mirror my coming of age experiences. While most of these stories were set in some North American city or town, and I could often relate to that element, the plot lines were portrayed through White eyes and never touched upon the challenges I faced growing up, or the simple quirks and differences between my childhood and that of someone White growing up in a White home and a White world.
Now that I’m a grown adult who has constant access to the Internet, I’ve recently started to spend a considerable amount of my free time looking into books that feature lead characters that I can relate to. Below are four of my choices if you’re looking for a similarly diverse reading experience:
Everything I Never Told You by Celeste Ng
Set in 1970s small town Ohio, Everything I Never Told You tells the story of a mixed race Chinese-American family with three children. The story is centered on the family’s dynamics after the death of one of their children, alternating narrators between the parents and children. While I don’t come from a directly mixed race home, I did grow up in a family that has a long history of mixed race ancestry and what I’ve grown to refer to as decades of cross-cultural pollination. For this reason, the book did hit home. It touches on the intricacies of family and cultural burdens, and how the notion of acceptance changed across the family’s male, female, racialized and white characters.
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Born Confused by Tanuja Desai Hidier
This was the first book I ever read that was by and about a woman of colour. It is technically young adult fiction, and I did read it when I was 13, but that doesn’t make it any less well written and relatable. The novel follows the teenage journey of Dimple Lala, an Indian-American girl growing up in New Jersey in the early 2000s. It spends a lot of time addressing issues among social circles, especially those related to having friends from different backgrounds, and therefore being treated differently by peers. The book also spends a considerable amount of time reflecting on the choice to pursue a career in the arts when coming from an immigrant American family, and even touches on gender fluidity and cross-dressing. I recommend the book for all ages with an interest in intersectionality.
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The Star Side of Bird Hill by Naomi Jackson
Only released this past spring, The Star Side of Bird Hill tells the story of two teenage sisters from Brooklyn. They are uprooted from their home and sent to live with their grandmother in Barbados when their mother can no longer care for them. The story is relatable for anyone who feels they have two homes — the one where they grew up and the one that answers the question, “where are you really from?” The two sisters learn about their family history when they move to Barbados and are able to learn about aspects of their grandmother and mother’s lives they could never have imagined. But at the end of the day, they are torn between choosing which country is truly their “home.”
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If You Could Be Mine by Sara Farizan
I will admit, I have not actually read this book but it has been on my reading list for the last few months and I have read the pages in the Amazon free preview. If You Could Be Mine tells the story of two queer women living and falling in love in 20th century Iran. This book is different from the other three on the list because it does not directly touch upon North American culture and race relations. It does however deal with the queer identity in third-world communities, and eventually touches upon the prospect of gender reassignment surgery as a method to bypass unjust laws against same-sex marriage. This is also considered a young adult novel, but it is still on my reading list.
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If the pen is mightier than the sword, then the reception of some of Canada’s most esteemed Black writers is surely influential. On Feb. 26, the National Reading Campaign hosted an evening of performances, readings and panel discussions in celebration of Black literary achievement.
The event, held at the Art Gallery of Hamilton, was arranged in partnership with TD Bank to help proliferate Black Canadian literature in the lives of every citizen. ‘Black Works Matter: Celebrating Black Literary Achievement’ was also done in parallel in Ottawa at the National Gallery of Canada earlier in the week.
Considering the Art Gallery as its venue, the event’s artistic vision did not fall short, with a special spoken word performance by Faduma Mohamed of RISE Poetry and a live painting by Camille Lauren.
Black Words Matter also featured a number of distinguished African Canadian writers who shared excerpts from their works and engaged in a dynamic discussion with the audience. The panelists included a diverse range of writers such as Canada’s Poet Laureate George Elliot Clarke, internationally renowned poet Lillian Allen, novelist and children’s author Pamela Mordecai and award-winning playwright Djanet Sears.
George Elliot Clarke spoke up regarding the frustrations of Black Canadians being underrepresented in literature. “Growing up, I didn't really see myself reflected in literature until I read African-American poetry. African-American poetry was about police harassment, poverty, racism, all things I recognized in Halifax. It was bizarre connecting to African-American literature in Halifax and not connecting as much to Canadian Literature, so that told me that I needed to have Black Canadian Literature.”
To help fulfill this niche, Clarke went on to writing numerous works in poetry and plays to narrate his experiences as a Black Canadian, such as his Execution Poems (2001), Beatrice Chancy (2009) and Black (2006).
“What really made me recognize myself as a writer,” noted Clark, “was reading about other Black people, reading books by Black authors, books with Black characters and relating this to myself.”
Despite the heightened emphasis on literary achievement for the evening, Clarke makes the careful distinction between awards and literary merit. “There doesn't have to be an easy one-to-one correlation between talent, creativity and the winning of awards. We are in a market that is fueled in part by popularity and prizes which may be richly deserved. At the same time, writers cannot write merely for prizes, writers write for readers and for the joy of expressing ourselves,” he said.
Bridging the topic of reading to the McMaster student body, Clark is supportive of the role that post-secondary education plays in fostering a critical perspective on society. “Because it is only with [education], that the citizens at large can be empowered to make positive decisions about the direction they want to take their society in.”
“I would like to reinforce the idea that reading is a democratic duty of citizens, and on top of all that, it is a very radical act. It is a link to the material, a link to the author. It connects the authors to our own souls, our own body — very richly, deeply and organically.”
Photo Credit: Karim Bassiri/ Photo Contributor
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By: Alex Florescu
If you were an art museum director and you were deciding on an exhibit theme, what would you pick to be your display? Of all the options under consideration, would books be one of them? Probably not.
The McMaster Museum of Art strays from the norm, having an entire exhibit dubbed The Art of the Book. All of the books come entirely from one source – Rabbi Baskin, a generous benefactor who donated over 1,000 volumes to the university museum. It is entirely because of his contributions that visitors to the museum can view the 16th-century Spanish imprints that cover the exhibit walls, or be close enough to touch an 1876 edition of The Adventures of Tom Sawyer. Adding to the collection are prints by private press editor Leonard Baskin, the Rabbi’s brother.
It is these prints by Baskin that seem to be a dominant and reoccurring presence in the exhibit. Two of his prints stood out to me, with the first one being a simplistic ink drawing of a flower with detailing around it. What I loved about the piece is that the details have not been drawn on. Instead, the background has been inked in black, while the flower and other parts of the “drawing” are starch white, unchanged from the original piece of paper.
The second of these pieces is a large mural of a man, created solely by overlapping black lines. What is remarkable is that when looking at this mural, it seems as if the pen was never lifted from the paper. Rather, it appears as if the entire piece was created in one continuous motion. While it is essentially just an outline, the man portrayed has impressive form and three-dimensionality. The varying thickness and repetition of black inked lines make the man’s calf muscles look as if they are bulging and his face appear to be hiding half in the shadows.
The books themselves were interesting, mostly because they are incredibly antique. The careful detail that went into the calligraphy and penmanship of these volumes is evident, and the illustrations are simplistic but beautifully done. While they are encased behind glass and cannot be reached, you get the sense that they are so old that they could crumble the second you touched them.
While there were prints and books that I found fascinating, there were also other pieces of the exhibit that did not impress me as much. Many of the prints featured grotesque half-animal, half-human composites that were slightly too morbid for my taste. Some of them had deformed faces, with misplaced eyes and mouths. Others were entire bird bodies that also happened to feature human anatomical parts. While they weren’t necessarily pieces of art I would put up in my own home, I could definitely recognize that to others, the pieces would have meant a lot more.
While The Art of the Book isn’t exactly my favourite exhibit, it features many interesting pieces – especially for a literary nerd fascinated by old copies of classic novels. On the other hand, the prints that hang on the wall definitely offer something for those into modern art; and if none of the above interests you, then it wouldn’t make for a bad place to curl up and do your readings for the day.
Mike Roy
The Argosy
Sackville (CUP) -- Alice Munro was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature this past October by the Swedish Academy this year as a “master of the modern short story.” She is the thirteenth woman to receive the award, along with being the second Canadian after expatriate Saul Bellow received the same prize in 1976.
Every year, the Nobel Prize for Literature is awarded to an author of any country that demonstrates an excellence in the field of written works, be it fiction or non-fiction. Munro is no newcomer to the realm of literature, as she has carefully produced fourteen collections of her work over several decades, penning hundreds of short stories. Her literature normally focuses on the themes of female identity, such as the coming-of-age tales in Lives of Girls and Women, or the struggles in middle-aged life in Hateship, Friendship, Courtship, Loveship, Marriage.
Munro was born in Wingham, Ontario, a small community located in the southwest part of the province in Huron County. This environment has served as fodder for her stories, which commonly deal with rural locations similar to her hometown. She studied English and journalism at the University of Western Ontario, where she met her first husband, James Munro. She has been a past recipient of the Governor General’s Literary Award on three occasions and the Giller Book Prize in 1998 and 2004.
As a Canadian woman author, Munro represents a cultural shift for those who still think in the viagra online canadian pharmacy same vein as Gilmour. Literature in today’s world is not simply the study of the same famed authors found in textbooks for centuries, but the incorporation of writing from all backgrounds in all time periods. Her win is not only personal, but demonstrates the quality and talent that can be ignored by biased views of inequality.
Furthermore, it places Canada in the spotlight of noteworthy North American literature. While our country has the same wealth of talent as our neighbours to the south, we do not have the same means to publicize and promote our literature on the same scale. Munro being recognized on an international level will not only garner attention to her works, but to those of all Canadians.
Earlier this year, Munro announced her retirement from writing, which could only be capped off with this magnificent honour of the Nobel Prize in Literature. While she cannot attend the reception ceremony due to her health, she is still humble and thankful for the recognition. There is truly no better way to end the career of a magnificent author, who has shaped the Canadian literature landscape, than this.
By Sarah O'Connor
I’ve always found comfort in a good book and am a frequent visitor to Chapters, Coles and Indigo. And, now that I’ve started university, I also frequent Titles (god how I love Titles.) I find myself scanning the spines of these shining, unread books and allow myself to be momentarily lost in the story.
I don’t have enough money to buy them - that money was spent on textbooks that our professors assured us would be put to good use yet have never seen the light of day. But now I’ve noticed that my visits are just as frequent. That eagerness to escape into a story is slowly depleting and is now replaced with longing. Longing for a book that’s different.
It’s no secret that romance is a big thing in literature these days. You can argue all you want on how the big stuff are paranormal, supernatural or dystopian literature. But take a good look at what you’re reading: The Mortal Instruments, The Hunger Games, Divergent. Each of these books focus on a lovesick couple (that usually grows into a love triangle) that are more concerned with loving one another than saving the world from imminent doom (or zombies).
Current authors seem to have forgotten that the days of Jane Austen are over and that in this day and age, marriage or being in a relationship does not equal having a perfect life. A story cannot be simply dystopian, supernatural or science fiction, it must have a romance to be considered good literature. But why? Are we so behind the times that we assume every person has to get married or be in a relationship in order to have meaning in life?
I used to indulge in the paranormal romance myself and enjoyed it. But after reading romance after romance after romance I couldn’t help but see how all these young unpopular women (books now-a-days usually center on a female protagonist) suddenly became someone when they are in a relationship.
It disgusts me that the message of having a true meaningful life must come through marriage or at least being romantically involved with someone, otherwise your life is dull and meaningless.
Don’t get me wrong, I support marriage and would like to get married one day, but I don’t want the idea shoved down my throat every time I open a book. I’m only eighteen. And I can’t help but think of people who are perfectly happy being single. How can they relate to these books?
We have come very far in literature these days. Progressive literature is published and read by many worldwide.
One hundred years ago this type of literature would be burned and the author probably jailed. It’s now time for authors to focus a little less on romance and a little more on adventure.
Kacper Niburski
Assistant News Editor
If somebody said that David Adams Richards, a prominent Canadian novelist from New Brunswick, would have stopped by the smoke stacks of Hamilton to discuss the finer things in life, the appropriate response would be to ask if the individual was taking any illicit materials.
Illicit materials or not, Richards found himself in Hamilton from Nov. 12 to the 14.
His appearance was part of an annual Distinguished Visitor Speaker Program, funded through the Harold and Lilojean Frid Endowment and sponsored by the Westdale United Church.
Richards spoke on a variety of issues regarding topics large and small, from a wine and cheese meet-and-greet to the existence of God.
In addition, there was a secondary event entitled, “Reading, Discussion, and Reception” at the University Club, sponsored by the McMaster Arts and Science Program, English and Cultural Studies, Labour Studies and Economics, and Religious Studies departments.
Known primarily for his novels, such as Mercy Among the Children, which was a co-winner of the Giller Award in 2000, Richards stands as a leading Canadian writer.
Currently, he is one of the only three to have ever won the Governor General’s Award in both fiction and non-fiction.
Richards has also been shortlisted for the Trillium Award, Thomas Raddell award, Canadian Booksellers Association author of the year, countless regional awards for his novels, and the prestigious Canada-Australia Literary Prize in 1992.
To say the least, this literary paragon’s list of accolades is long.
Yet, under the hum of an anxious audience, his eminence consistently preceded him.
At each event, the audience was left with lingering thoughts of ambiguity: could this really be David Adams Richards?
Where superior knowledge of the literary world should have been, there stood unbridled modesty. In place of splendor and extravagance were unkempt hair and a five-o’clock shadow. Instead of impatience and arrogance, there was a friendly smile.
It was such a characterization that, despite expectations otherwise, perhaps fueled Richards’ opening comment at the wine and cheese event.
“I almost never got into university because I almost never got out of high school. I got expelled four times.”
Such a comment began a brief outline of Richards’ early life as a truly gritty struggle.
From his birth in Newcastle, New Brunswick to his original aspirations of being a professor, because “it looked so grand, sitting in a chair all day and smoking a cigarette,” Richards claimed he had difficulty staying afloat.
But it is only because of difficulty that happiness has any meaning.
Richards, despite his overwhelmingly difficult start to his professional life, soon discovered a passion for writing, and more importantly, the happiness that his writing provided.
Richards attributes his success to a written tone that mixes a bitter realization of moral verisimilitude and indelible nostalgia neatly packaged into a Canadian setting.
Much of this comes from the fact that all of his novels centralize on the region of Miramichi, a familiar New Brunswick territory for the author.
It is in this region, one that Richards’ described as “leaving numerous unforgettable impressions,” where the sobering realities of life dominate.
Far away from the stereotypical enchantment of the East, where unforgiving waves lap across a jagged landscape, where quiet serenity is only interrupted by the roaring of the sea, where an ocean gives way to life and life gives way to an ocean, stands reality, and more conspicuously, the struggles life holds.
Such realties were highlighted during the wine and cheese event as Richards read two passages from his book The Friends of Meager Fortune.
Both of the excerpts were centred around the idea that “human greatness does not involve money, power or authority,” said Richards. “It involves character.”
It is this character, one of equality as opposed to superiority, that emanated from Richards as he read.
With an inviting tone, the room became a setting and the audience became characters in his books.
As he concluded the night with the second passage, one could not help but feel that perhaps art was imitating life, for his shaggy, soft-spoken, working-class sort of demeanor echoed the words that he himself had written, and he walked with an uneasy sway that mirrored the sea.
Or, maybe, it was the other way around.
