Once upon a time, YA literature was simple. Not Clifford the Big Red Dog simple, but rather an easy to define, reasonably limited group of books aimed at, well, young adults. Much of this literature is simplistic by today’s standards; the higher level Nancy Drew and Sweet Valley High franchises just don’t cut it anymore.

Nancy Drew and the Wakefield twins may be very Mary Sue, Angsty-Sues–and wannabe Angsty-Sues seem to be the new trend. Bella Swan (Twilight) is the ultimate emo fangirl; Serena van der Woodsen (Gossip Girl) is a whine in skimpy clothing. Neither, of course, has roots in real life, instead catering to (pandering to?) readers who want to be the It Girl, the girl cool enough to charm a vampire, or smooth enough to have blase rich boys fall at her feet.

But what about the harder, grittier books are seeping into today’s YA–titles such as Laurie Halse Anderson’s Wintergirls (bulimia and anorexia, no holds barred) and Gail Giles’ Whatever Happened to Cass McBride (dysfunctional family; one son suicides, the other kidnaps and buries a girl alive)? Few, if any, teenage girls dream of being bulimic–fewer still are interested in being buried alive. These books are about catharsis, education, issues we need to put out there and talk about.

Despite their intrinsic darkness, though, Wintergirls and Whatever Happened to Cass McBride, are middle of the road issues books. This isn’t to say their content isn’t lacking, isn’t devastating–it is. But for some authors, sending a character into the depths of the earth in a balsa wood box isn’t enough.

Tender Morsels, Margo Lanagan’s retelling of Snow White and Rose Red, is 494 pages of incest, miscarriage, more incest, gang rape, attempted suicide, and general abuse. Lanagan’s descriptions of abuse are evasive yet visceral–details are left mostly to the imagination. Feelings are not.

US YA cover

While I understand the need to put characters in difficult situations (how else will they grow?), TM goes above and beyond. At 28 years old, I struggled with the brutality in Lanagan’s story; at one point, I put it down, and have not yet picked it up again. Friends assure me that I do not want to. And yet, at odd hours, Lanagan’s story comes back to me–I wonder at the horror of Liga’s miscarriage and worry at her attempted suicide. I try to resolve the reason Lanagan puts her character through not just incest, but gang rape, searching for a glimmer of positivity, a single word of hope. Yet Liga’s “rescue” and haven are flat to me–I can only think of what terror Lanagan will inflict next.

PW lists the book as 14 and up, a categorization that comes from the publisher (Knopf). Prior to reading the book, I’d have classed it with Sarah Dessen’s Dreamland, an exploration of teenage girls and abusive relationships. Post-read, I wonder what Knopf was thinking.

There’s a reason sayings about the futility of life are popular–not everything goes to plan. Women are raped; wars are fought; loved ones die. As the fairy tale says, the only truism of life is that this, too, shall pass. But is it fair to heap all of the terrible things in life into one book, wrap it with a pretty bow, then hand it to a girl of 14? At what point is the darkness in a YA novel too much? And is it a publisher’s decision, a parents’ decision, or a reader’s decision?

In a review for the UK paper, The Guardian, author Meg Rosoff writes,

Lanagan handles a variety of points of view and a large cast of humans and animals with great delicacy and restraint. Her characters grapple with the terrible damages inflicted by life and the inevitability of death, and although she offers them (and us) no easy consolation, the book celebrates human resilience and unexpected gifts: “children touched with charm, clueless that it was within them; maids whose frivolous fortune-telling always held a grain of truth; mothers and wives whose soups were as good as medicines; men who attracted luck, or women who sped healing”. Hope, for Liga, resides in her children and their talents, but at no little cost to her own heart’s desire.

Is it fair to suggest to girls–because TM is clearly a girls’ book–that when bad things happen, everything will be okay if they subsume their individuality, their hurts, to further the interest of their children? Post-suicide attempt, Liga continues her life not for herself, but for her child–a noble act. But would her change of mind be any less noble if it were the result of recognized self-worth?

Are Gossip Girl and Twilight good reading? Yes, no, maybe. Any book that encourages reading amongst teens, particularly reluctant ones, is a  good book. Literacy rates are on the decline; books are falling by the wayside, landing next to the hit-and-run victims in Grand Theft Auto 2.  And books that face the reality of life for many–books such as Push (Sapphire), are riveting reading, the sort of reading-that-sucks-you-in-and-holds-you-down-until-you-can’t-breathe-and-that’s-okay-because-you-don’t-want-to-if-it-means-giving-up-this-book. But fairy tales–true fairy tales–with their veil of magic and unreality and their secret dark ways are often cruel enough without treatments such as Lanagan’s.

Foreign adult cover

Should we hide the darker aspects of fairy tales from teen readers? No. Should we explore them with our teens? Yes. Exploration is the stuff of intellect and good decision making. But there is a line–or if there isn’t, there should be. Of course, banning kids from reading a given book isn’t a solution–censorship never is (especially not when they can hold up a cover and say, “But look, Mom, it’s YA!”) And some kids may be ready for Tender Morsels–I read adult books as a kid (Pillars of the Earth in grade 7/age 11). My question is, should those kids not ready for TM and similar books be faced with them? Should they be racked in the YA section of Barnes & Noble?

In the US, TM’s cover is very teen accessible–it’s a stylized fairy tale scene, the sort of art that might show up in Bill Willingham’s Fables series or on the cover of a Shannon Hale novel. Nothing about the cover suggests the book’s darker, arguably less accessible content. To put the darkness of Lanagan’s story in context, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, the seventh and final installment in Rowling’s series, was touted as too dark and too violent for younger readers (for me, the great beauty of HP was how the series grew with its readers). The adult editions of TM (it’s a crossover title) have less teen-friendly covers–some of which I’d hesitate to pick up even now. Cigarette companies are no longer allowed to market to teens; films are forced to provide clear age ratings, as are video games. And while I’m not suggested publishers start sticking NC-17 labels on their titles, I’m not sure TM and the like should be blithely classed as YA just because their protagonists are teens (the sole reason I can see–through very misty long distance goggles–for putting the book out as YA).

It’s become common practice to worry about infantilizing our teens–we’re a far cry from Kingsley’s plea to let children be children (The Water Babies). Although I’m largely for treating teens as responsible adults (within reason–this child of mine will not be hunting Daleks until he’s at least 17), books such as Tender Morsels may be pushing boundaries too quickly.

Have you read the book or Lanagan’s short story collection, Red Spikes? What did you think? Would you recommend Tender Morsels to a teenaged friend?

Photo Credit: Carlosh, via sxc.hu

Edit: I mistakenly listed “Precious”, by Sapphire, as “Push It”. “Precious” is the film adaptation of the aforementioned “Push”. The post has been updated to reflect this.

Update: a little more about TM as YA in today’s post, New Adult Fiction – Beyond the Limits of YA, or Just New Packaging?