The Writing of Roald Dahl - Essay Example

Roald Dahl The writing of Roald Dahl runs the gamut from ordinary to quite extraordinary, depending, it seems, on the audience and when it was written. When Dahl first began to write, he wrote for adults, and his fiction was carefully crafted, and rewritten many times before he submitted it. When the fashion changed for adult fiction, his adult books went into decline, but his children’s books took off with James and the Giant Peach in 1061 and Charlie and the Chocolate Factory in 1964. He became totally immersed in writing children’s stories and his adult fiction just never recovered. (Propson, David 2007) Oddly enough, Dahl’s children’s stories required heavy rewriting by the editors, but they were naturally brilliant, and so were quite worth the effort. Dahl’s adult fiction was quite dark, and though satisfying, it seldom had any balance from humor. However, his children’s stories, though dark as well, always had a generous dollop of humor and fantasy. Even the characters in his children’s stories seem to balance. In Charlie and the Chocolate Factory we have Charlie, his grandfather, and willie Wonka to represent the good guys and they balance out the three four awful children and their parents. (Amidon, Stephen 2006) He seems to have caught the exactly right tone for kids. He knew how they thought, how things worked in their heads. So, his children’s stories rang true for them, wonderfully parallel to their perceptions of the world. Yet, there was a wonderful quality of humor and fantasy which the illustrators, and later filmmakers, could play against in their work. The latest version of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory is fantastically done with the digital special effects of Tim Burton’s version of 2005. (iMDB 2005) (Mcmorran, Will, 2006) All of the lovely fantasy comes through and does justice to the author. However, it probably only matches the images which appear in the heads of the children who read the books. In fact, when one looks at Dahl’s children’s stories there is a core of frank truth at the center. He makes some strong points on the human condition and human psychology. His characters are extreme examples of all the foibles and character traits of real people. Even the Dahl’s childrens stories, even though he takes things to fantastic heights, his characters always wind up with their just deserts, as suits a story for children. Ambiguity is so0mething reader have to learn to tolerate, generally when we are very close to adulthood. Children require justice to be done. It does not have to be happy, but it must make sense to them. In dahl’s work, the pubishment, though often rather extreme, generally suits the crime. When Veruca Salt jumps into the walnut shelling and sorting room to grab one of the trained squirrels, and winds up being thrown down the garbage chute as a bad nut by the squirrels, her parents suffer the same fate, since it was them who spoiled her. In the end, none of the children are hurt, but they are made over better, and each one now has some fantastic attribute which will actually help them in life, making for a happy ending after all. Augustus Gloop is overcome by his gluttony and winds up falling into the chocolate river, and is then sucked up the tube to the chocolate room, where he is remade into something delightful. The sill Violet Beauregarde, who chews gum all the time, become a giant blueberry from chewing the magical gum she takes without permission. When she is squeezed she has become a better person, as all the bad stuff was squeezed out. Then, Mike Teavee, who is stupid from watching the boob tube is shrunk by travelling through the TV. At least his brain now matches his body. Then he is sent to be stretch by the Oompa Loompas, and his parent vow to throw out the TV. It is Dahl’s sense of character and his facility with language that makes his work for children so outstanding. In Charlie and the Chocolate Factory he creates four child characters who are what might be called “grotesques”, since they are absolute extremes of bad children. However, Charlie is no angel himself, since he did spend a bit of the money he found on chocolate for himself, though he planned to give the rest for food for the family. Charlie, in fact, is almost a realistic character. However, it does not matter that Dahl’s characters are not realistic, since they are so extreme as to make them delightfully humerous. Miss Trunchbull, a delightfully imaginative name for this caricature, in Matilda is a case in point. The kind of person she is and what she does is totally fantastic, and not believable, but the reader, even adult readers, do not care, because he paints her with powerful description and action that she is a delightful monster. She does things we simply cannot imagine as adults, but the imagination of his child audience delights in finding a partner in dream. What redeems the awful things that Miss Trunchbull does to children is that the children never seem to be actually hurt, just as the punishments the bad children undergo in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory do not actuallt hurt them, though they do make some rather fantastic changes. Miss Trunchbull, a wonderful villain, is as awful and Miss Honey is nice, and she does horrible things to the children, like swinging one girl by her pigtails and launching her into the next field like the Olympic hammer she is reputed to have used in sport. Throwing the boy out of the window does not hurt him either. However, it is absurdly horrifying all the same. We do not need to believe in Dahl’s characters nor even in his stories, since he paints them so well we can simply live in his universe for a time. His descriptions of the characters is graphic and makes extensive use of metaphor, simile and profoundly strong imagery. Miss Trunchbull is described at length, in the way she looks, speaks, dresses and her character, all of it w=quite extreme but done in very emotive language: “You could see them in the bull-neck, in the big shoulders, in the thick arms, in the sinewy wrists and in the powerful legs. Looking at her, you got the feeling that this was someone who could bend iron bars and tear telephone directories in half.” (Dahl, Roald 1961) This is only a small piece of the description, and he enlarges this picture with his descriptions of her actions throughout the book, plus topping it all of with the wonderful dialogue in which she flings invective at innocent kindergartners. She is a marvelous monster. Dahl is a master of the English language. I found his prose and poetry absolutely delightful to read, especially out loud. He uses imagery as if he can just dream something up and it becomes real, such as the wonderful things in the Chocolate Factory, and he backs this up with wonderfully delightful strings of words. Onomatopoeia is sprinkled all through his children’s works, such as “Willie Wonka” and “— mystic and marvellous surprises” from Charlie and Chocolate Factory. Then he makes up words when he feels like it, such as “Oompa Loompas” and “Scrumpdelyishous” from the Chocolate Factory and even more wonderful words in his script of Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. These made up words are easily understood, being made of recognizable pieces, and they trip off the tongue like music. Dahl’s way with words comes through best in his dialogue and his poems. Let us first look at the dialogue in Matilda. The words have a ring of truth about them. More than this, the dialogue is realistic in form, even when the content is totally unbelievable. He uses fragments, not complete sentences and the dialogue sound like his characters would speak. Dialogue is a dreadfully difficult thing to write, since how we actually converse is rather boring when written down. It is also not at all grammatical, no matter how our parents may have lectured us in the proper way to speak. Writing good dialogue is a fine art and Dahl has perfected it. His dialogue sounds to us like the way we speak, with fragments and disjointed bits that we put together, because we are there for the whole conversation and share some understanding of the unsaid. At the same time it is witty and imaginative, making excellent use of a huge vocabulary which is augmented by words he made up. Miss Trunchbull uses a whole long list of invective and very colorful vernacular, whole long strings of insults, which a headmistress would never do, but it makes her character larger than life, and adds to her wonderfully horrible portrait. As Matilda states in the story, going to the extreme becomes fantasy, even when it is bad. This is exactly the type of villain we love to hate. The language Dahl uses in his poetry, which is filled with extremes blends marvelous sounding words, with rhythm and wit, making the package totally delightful. He manages a rhythm that is, at once, conversational, but also rather sing-song, much like children’s nursery rhymes. The songs that the Oompa Loompas sing about the bad children are easily the best part of the story. The poem about Augustus Gloop, a name typical of Dahl, begins with a couplet: “Augustus Gloop! Augustus Gloop! The great big greedy nincompoop!” (Dahl, Roald 1964) This continues for quite a long poem to be done entirely in couplets. When it comes to the description of what will happen to poor Augustus Gloop, we are treated to quite a gloriously horrifying description of him being slice up, boiled and rolled: “A hundred knives go slice, slice, slice; We add some sugar, cream, and spice; We boil him for a minute more, Until were absolutely sure That all the greed and all the gall Is boiled away for once and all.” (Dahl, Roald 1964) The imaginative words put together in this poem are both descriptive and have wonderful sounds. It is indeed worthy to be called a song. Dahl also makes extensive use of words that instantly get a reaction, like the use above of “slice, slice, slice” All of this makes Dahl’s work wonderfully dramatic, easy for kids to read and become engrossed within. When you read his work you can totally shut out the real world and inhabit the one Dahl creates for you. The rest of the poems in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory follow the same pattern, couplets all the way through, as children delight in this kind of rhyme. Some, such as the poem about Mike Teavee, are quite long. Dahl apparently did not think much of television, as he lambastes it quite thoroughly in this poem. “The most important thing weve learned, So far as children are concerned, Is never, NEVER, NEVER let Them near your television set —… IT ROTS THE SENSES IN THE HEAD! IT KILLS IMAGINATION DEAD! IT CLOGS AND CLUTTERS UP THE MIND! IT MAKES A CHILD SO DULL AND BLIND HE CAN NO LONGER UNDERSTAND A FANTASY, A FAIRYLAND! HIS BRAIN BECOMES AS SOFT AS CHEESE! HIS POWERS OF THINKING RUST AND FREEZE! HE CANNOT THINK — HE ONLY SEES!” (Dahl, Roald 1964) Of course, people, especially parents and teachers, of the time of its writing were absolutely sure that TV would destroy children’s minds and make books obsolete. People would forget how to read and become absolute dolts. While this has not happened, and even the perceived threat of the Internet has only increased reading, there are certainly dangers in watching too much TV as has been demonstrated many times with research studies on behavior and aggression in children, and in studies of how TV is used to acculturate the viewers and subconsciously sell them ideas, products and even life styles. So Dahl certainly was extreme in his description, but the dangers he perceived were not all fantasy. I suppose that the whole package that Dahl put together in children’s stories is what influenced me the most, as it is this combination which opens up the imaginations. Even his early adult fiction, though much darker, has this quality. However, his later fiction simply does not stand up, possibly because he had less time to devote to it. It cannot have been easy at the time to be relegated to the “Children’s” section, as this was not where most authors aimed and children’s authors are often dismissed as somehow inferior, even though children are certainly much harder as an audience. Writing for children requires immense imagination, excellent command of language, and an attitude that does not talk down to them. I think the most influential thing about the writing of Roald Dahl is his total commitment to story. He spins a good yarn. His stories are fantastic and delightfully imaginative, told is a marvelous witty voice like a conspirator with the audience, filled with delightful invention and crafted with language used like a paintbrush. They sing to us of fantasy, whisper of horror and lead us to picture that all is eventually put right in the world. I think, perhaps, Dahl was really a child all his life, since he spoke to children with truth and real joy. His tales are somewhat extreme, like the characters who people them, but we do not expect reality as children, nor do we actually separate it well from our dreams and fantasies. Dahl could set up a landscape and fill it with delightfiull inventions and wonderfully vivid characters, all while bringing the reader along on a journey with the hero or heroine. This is the mark of a truly great writer for children. Amidon, Stephen, 2006, COLLECTED STORIES. By Roald Dahl. Everyman’s Library., The Natopn 2006 Dahl, Roald, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, 1964, Published by the Penguin Group Dahl, Roald, Matilda, 1988, Published by the Penguin Group iMDB, Internet Movie Database, 2007, http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0367594/ Mcmorran, Will, 2006, The Journal of Popular Culture, Vol. 39, No. 5, 2006r 2006, Copyright the Authors, Journal compilation r 2006, Blackwell Publishing, Inc. Propson, Davi, 2007, Guys & Dahls, review of Roald Dahl, The CoUected Stories of Roald Dahl.Everymans Library, The New Criterion February 2007 Jemima Beaney walked very cautiously around the supermarket e she was always worried about falling over and breaking an arm or even worse a hip. She turned her head briskly from side to side looking out for those yellow triangular boards they would put up when someone had spilt something. Jemima knew it was vital to avoid such dangers or at least walk very carefully round them. Jemima preferred to shop in the morning, and usually on a Tuesday morning. Why on Tuesday? However, on this fateful occasion, she had to make the journey in the afternoon. This was the time she disliked the most, because at 3 o’clock, the children would be let loose from school. Worse than the children were the teenagers whose favourite sport was to torment her over her shabby appearance and the scowl that a lifetime of hardship had painted over what had once been a lovely face. Walking slowly down different aisles of brightly coloured boxes, sweet smelling washing powders and expensive looking hair care products, Jemima lingered on her chosen aisle, cat food. Purina, Iams, Sheba, Pearl, Whiskas and Felix. Well she had heard of Whiskas, but it was very expensive, her state pension wouldn’t stretch to it. The adverts on TV said that eight out of ten cats preferred Whiskas, so believing this to be true because the man in the advert had such a nice voice, she started to rummage around the pouches nervously. Thank god for pouches, so much more comfortable than tins she thought as she bundled a handful under her enormous grey duffle coat. With another furtive glance, she took off the purple, velvet, squishy hat that covered her fluffy white hair and in went another four packets. Jemima had always been extremely honest, all through her life. In fact she had been a captain in the Salvation Army and could actually play the bugle but the thought of Tom not having anything for his supper was enough to undo a lifetime spent saving souls. Why is she not on retirement from them is this was so? Would she not be better provided for? Her scruples had deserted her out of necessity but not her guilt. She banished thoughts of eternal damnation and instead filled her head with thoughts of the latest addition to her family, a small white kitten she had named Angel. Angel was almost blind but had been compensated for this by being blessed with the loud, hungry cry of a lion cub. This demanding cry had been the last thing Jemima had heard as she locked the bright blue door to her small, council bungalow and the memory of it gave her the strength she needed to face the final hurdle in accomplishing her mission, the checkout. The young,shop assistant was so engrossed in checking the polish on her long nails, inwardly cursing the leaky bleach bottle whose contents had oozed out all over her Purple Passion nail polish, that she hardly noticed the elderly lady standing in front of her wanting to pay for a single onion. As she took the 7 pence from her customer’s frail hand, the girl found herself astonished by how Jemima’s grateful smile transformed her tired, wrinkled face into something quite beautiful. The assistant watched Jemima, who was trying not to draw attention to herself by scurrying suspiciously out of the shop, as the automatic doors swished closed behind her small frame. For some reason she felt that she was going to see that lady again. How right she was. Jemima walked away from the lights of the supermarket and made her way down the damp, November streets that led to her home. As always, after a successful ‘expedition’ as she liked to call it, she was accompanied by her two friends relief and guilt. By the time Jemima reached the high street, relief had abandoned her, leaving her in the clutches of her guilt and shame. Jemima walked as quickly as her arthritic knees would allow, her progress impeded not only by their creaking stiffness but also by her new sensible shoes, picked up very cheaply at the charity jumble sale, which were adding to her misery by causing a blister to form on her left heel. Jemima started to limp, and fearful that she was drawing attention to herself and her hidden cargo of cat food, she decided to take the bus for the last part of her journey, Jemima needn’t have worried, the people who passed by hardly noticed the small, elderly figure. Everyone was too busy with their own thoughts, how quickly could they get home to avoid the worsening rain and what on earth could they have for their tea. Jemima too was thinking about home, she had the whole evening planned. First, she would feed Tom and Angel. She was sure they would love the salmon flavoured Whiskas and she could picture them both tucking into the supper served to them in two Royal Albert china bowls, the sad remnants of the whole dinner service which had been a wedding present more than forty years ago. Jemima would cook her own supper, a cheese and onion toastie and a cup of tea. Then, she and the cats would sit in front of the two bar electric fire and watch TV. Jemima had calculated that she could have the fire on for two hours a day and still pay the electricity bill so this luxury would take her through the news at six, Emmerdale and Coronation Street. As soon as the lounge lost its temporary warmth and cosiness, she would go to bed and take the cats with her. Jemima had made two small nests out of old cushion covers and placed them at the end of her own bed. Two hot water bottles would ensure that the cats at least were able to have their dreams uninterrupted by the cold. Jemima plodded on, so intent on reaching the bus stop that she hardly noticed the children who were streaming out of the gates of the local comprehensive school. Like lemmings, they all headed towards the shops, intent on topping up with fizzy drinks and sugar before disapproving parents could stop them. One boy, who was busy talking on his mobile phone whilst eating a pasty, knocked into Jemima. His apology, although immediate, was ignored by Jemima, who was now dealing with her worst nightmare. The force of the boy colliding with her had caused one of the pouches of stolen cat food to become dislodged from its resting place inside her duffle coat. It was determinedly making its way down her body, snaking its way ever onwards towards the freedom of the pavement. Horrified, Jemima slowed her pace to a crawl; she folded her arms across herself, trying to impede the relentless progress of the rogue pouch. The bus stop was within sight, if she could only hold on. The pouch moved suddenly downwards and with nimbleness unusual in such an elderly lady, Jemima caught it between her knees. But now she was stuck. She tried to waddle forwards but it was impossible, she could feel the slippery plastic pouch moving the second she did. She looked around her desperately; people were hurrying past her, heads down, collars up against what was now driving rain. Thoughts of public humiliation and even prison flashed through her head as she wondered how on earth she could budge without announcing to the world that she was a shoplifter. Jemima was terrified, what would happen to Tom and Angel if she were to be incarcerated? The thought of her darling cats ending up homeless on the streets gave Jemima courage and she made her brave decision. With a quick glance left and right to check that no one was looking, Jemima allowed the cat food to plop on to the pavement. Like some agile, highland dancer, she hopped to one side, leaving the pouch abandoned on the concrete. Jemima scurried towards the bus stop, reaching for her bus pass, which was under the onion nestling in her pocket. With a deafening hiss of air brakes the number 87 bus swung violently into the bus stop and the soaked and weary passengers started to slowly board, dropping coins into slots and pulling reluctant tickets from uncooperative machines. Nearly there, nearly there, chanted Jemima to herself as she struggled up the high, rubber coated step on to the number 87 and waved her bus pass under the nose of the disinterested driver. She spotted a seat near a window and sank down on to it gratefully as the bus lurched forward to begin its journey. Jemima closed her eyes, only vaguely aware of the other passengers finding seats around her. As she waited for her heart palpitations to subside, Jemima thanked god for helping her in her hour of need, and tried to ignore the presence of the other cat food pouches about her person. Jemima allowed herself a deep sigh of relief and opened her eyes, blinking in the harshness of the bus’s fluorescent lights. Then, a cold hand touched Jemima’s shoulder and an even colder one touched her soul. Jemima gradually turned round, amazed to see a pouch of salmon flavoured Whiskas in front of her. It was held by the strangest purple tipped fingers. ‘I think you dropped this’, said a quiet voice. Really well done. You have talent. Read More