War Boy to War Horse

o be invited here, to the land written. Nelson Mandela said that of the free, to the country of we become who we become, achieve THenry Longfellow and John what we achieve, only because others Steinbeck and Mark Twain and quite have been there alongside us, to nur- a few others besides, and speak to ture and support us, and to give us this conference dedicated to bring- at the right moment a helping hand, ing books to children and children to offer encouragement, inspiration, to books, is for me an almost sin- and advice when we needed it most. gular honor—as a British writer for children. I’m told that only Philip So let’s begin with my mother, Pullman from across the pond has a very good place to start, as the been here before me to give the May song goes. I was born in 1943 and Arbuthnot Lecture. A hard act to fol- grew up in bombed-out London, a low, but I will do my best. war baby. Next to our house there was a bombsite where my brother I have to say that I was at first some- Pieter and I played—bombsites made what reluctant to accept this honor grand playgrounds—dens, crumbling and this invitation, not simply walls, creepy crawly creatures in the because it’s such a really long way undergrowth, bird’s nests to rob, and from Devon, England, where I live, a notice saying “Keep Out,” which but because I don’t really do lectures made it all the more exciting to go in, as such. I talk to people. I tell peo- of course. But come bedtime, it was ple stories. Of course, I proselytise storytime. unashamedly on the importance of stories in our lives, in the lives of our My mother, an actress by profes- children in particular. But I tend not sion, would come and lie propped simply to talk about it, I like rather up on a pillow between us, book to do it, to tell stories. I am first and resting on her knees, and read us foremost a story maker, a weaver of a story or a poem or two, always tales, a dream-merchant. one of her favorites, which of course soon became ours—Kipling’s Just So what I don’t intend to do today So Stories (“The Elephant’s Child” in is to expand at length, to wax lyri- particular), Winnie the Pooh, Alice cal, on the benefits that reading (and in Wonderland, Toad of Toad Hall, War Boy to writing) can bring to our children— poems by Longfellow, Kipling again, how poems and stories are a high- Masefield, de la Mare, Edward Lear, way to empathy and understanding, Shakespeare. We simply loved those War Horse how lives without literature are the precious twenty minutes. She passed poorer for it, how democracy itself is on her love for us along with her May Hill undermined unless we are truly liter- love of the stories and poems. For ate, how the power of words changes Pieter and me, these were the best of Arbuthnot lives, even makes history. The coun- times, moments in an oasis of won- try whose founding fathers composed der and calm. We were cocooned in Lecture the Declaration of Independence, the magic of words, and in the love of where Lincoln gave us his Gettysburg our mother. Address, where Martin Luther King Jr. told us, “I have a dream,” this country The war had taken its toll on every- needs no reminder of the power of one. London was a grey, grim place words to change lives, to make history. full of fog; its people exhausted by By Michael Morpurgo six years of trauma and grief. Every What I can do is take you on a jour- household had lost someone. My ney that will be new to you, because Uncle Pieter had been killed in the British native and novelist Michael it is my journey as a child, a man, a RAF in 1940, a young man of 21, an Morpurgo, author of War Horse, father, a teacher, a farmer, a husband, actor like my mother, who never lived delivered the 2013 May Hill Arbuthnot an educator, a storyteller, and story long enough to become a father or Lecture, hosted by Nazareth College maker. It is my story. I offer it to you a grandfather. He was always in the and the Youth Services Section of the as a telling tale of one child who was room as I grew up, in a photograph New York Library Association last spring. lucky enough to be helped on his way on the mantelpiece, looking down at by the power of words— spoken and me. As I speak to you now, his face is 4 Spring 2014 • Children and Libraries War Boy to War Horse before, blown on the embers, and set the flames flickering again. Then some years later I found myself at university, in London, struggling with my studies in English literature, failing yet again to engage with the subject in a meaningful way, failing to get the grades I needed—it was simply a subject. My heart wasn’t in it. Until one day my deeply morose university professor sat himself down on the corner of his desk in his scruffy tweed suit, puffing on his pipe, and began to read us Sir Gawain and the Green Knight. He read it with passion. Utterly absorbed in the poem, he drew us into the world of this ancient language with its strange and wonderful sounds and rhythms. Just like my mother reading me Kipling, he meant it, he loved it. The flames were more than flickering now. Again I should like to be able to tell you that I became a great reader and scholar from that day on. Not so, I’m afraid. But it was enough to excite me all over again, to get me through uni- clear in my mind. All my other relatives and friends grew old, versity. So that when at last I found myself a year or two later, a changed. Not my Uncle Pieter. Here began, I think, my early teacher in front of a class of thirty-five ten-year-old children, I awareness of war, the heroism of it (my Uncle Pieter was a hero knew from my old professor, and from my mother before him, to me), the sacrifice and the pity of it, too. As I grew I under- what magic there could be in stories, what music there was to stood further the significance of those bombed-out buildings, be discovered in the words. I knew by this time how to read of the suffering, of the pain and pride in mother’s face whenever a story too—you had to love it and mean it, and by now I did the name of Uncle Pieter was mentioned. Such things leave an mean it. Every story I read to my children I lived. I read them indelible influence on a young life. only the books I loved. I read them with passion. From three to half-past every afternoon, I would read them a story to fin- School so nearly cut me off altogether from that early love of ish the school day, theirs and mine, to send us all home maybe stories my mother handed down to me. Almost gone was the laughing, maybe crying, but always thinking. fascination of the music of words, and the power of words to make me laugh or cry, think, dream, and wonder. Instead stories Then one wonderful day it all went wrong, in the best possible simply became texts. Print crowded the pages, to be studied, way. I had begun reading a new book, sure as always that if analyzed, and comprehended. Punctuation tests, spelling tests, I gave it my all I could draw them in! But after five minutes, handwriting tests, dimmed and then dashed any love of story, I looked up and saw they were shifting about, looking out of killed the magic in the words stone dead. Poems were to be windows, wishing they weren’t there, wishing they were home. learned by heart, to be recited out loud in front of the whole class. Disconcerted, I resumed my reading with even greater enthusi- I languished at the back of the class, looked out of the window asm and commitment. A while later I looked up again. I’d lost and dreamed. I longed for playtime, and played rugby at which them completely. Disappointed with myself and bewildered, I I excelled and set my heart against books and stories and poems went home and told my wife Clare who was also a teacher. She forever. For me they were filled with dread, a fear of failure, and said that I must absolutely not go in there the next afternoon with failure came humiliation, and often punishment. and bore them all over again. I was a long time lost in the wilderness at school, focusing “Try something different,” she said, “Tell them a story of your almost exclusively on sport by now. But luckily there was one own, one you’ve made up yourself. You tell our children stories great teacher at my secondary school, high school—the most from time to time—not often enough maybe, but I’ve listened ancient monastic school in England founded by St. Augustine outside sometimes. They’re really quite good, and you’re quite in the seventh century, where we wore winged collars and a good liar too.

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