Jane Sullivan - Storytime: Growing up with Books

Storytime

GROWING UP WITH BOOKS

JANE SULLIVAN

First published in 2019 by Ventura Press

PO Box 780, Edgecliff NSW 2027 Australia

www.venturapress.com.au

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Copyright Jane Sullivan 2019

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any other information storage retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.

ISBN: 978-1-925384-67-3 (paperback)

ISBN: 978-1-925384-69-7 (ebook)

Cover design: Christabella Designs

Internal design: WorkingType Design

In memory of

Arthur Horner

Victoria Horner

David Sullivan

CONTENTS

by H. A. Guerber

Alices Adventures in Wonderland
Through the Looking-Glass, and What Alice Found There

by Lewis Carroll

Winnie-the-Pooh
The House at Pooh Corner

by A. A. Milne

by Enid Blyton

by Tove Jansson

by Horace Boyten and Stewart Pride, illustrated by Evelyn Flinders

by Louisa May Alcott

by Kenneth Grahame

by E. Nesbit

by Norman Lindsay

by Gillian Avery

by C. S. Lewis

edited by Phyllis Cerf Wagner and Herbert Wise

by Alan Garner

by H. A. Guerber

THE STORY OF PISK

The Myths of Greece and Rome

by H. A. Guerber

Its ten oclock at night and theres still just enough light to read by. Im in bed and everyone thinks Im asleep. But Ive got my favourite book of the moment and Im devouring it.

Im eight years old. Im wearing my Ladybird Adventurer pyjamas, of course. White fleece top with a pattern of pink stars, and trackie pants in matching pink. A bit hot for summer, but who cares. The Ladybird Adventurers are children just like me who have adventures while wearing their pyjamas. They star in a strip cartoon on the back page of a comic I read, and every now and then they yank the neck of their tops sideways so you can see the Ladybird label and they point to it. Its as if the ladybird is the source of all the excitement.

Tonight Im not reading about the Ladybird Adventurers. Im reading one of my parents books, a stately old tome with a cover in olive leather: Myths of Greece and Rome, by H. A. Guerber. I know little bits of the stories practically off by heart, and I know the pictures too, which are black and white on shiny paper. They show fat, almost naked people clutching swirly bits of drapery, and white statues of naked people fighting huge snakes or turning into trees. Thanks to those statues, I know what men look like. They have little taps to do their pee. I dont want one myself, thank you very much.

There are gods and humans and nymphs and dryads. There is lots of fighting and the women are always getting abducted. Abduction means you get carried off by a god or a man or an animal. If youre lucky you might turn into a tree first, like Daphne. I wonder what that feels like, having your legs stick together and bark growing up them and your hair turning into twigs and leaves. Why is that better than being carried off?

My favourite story is Cupid and Pisk.I dont usually like soppy love stories, but thisone is different.

My favourite story is Cupid and Pisk. I dont usually like soppy love stories, but this one is different. Cupid visits Pisk at night and they lie together in the dark, kissing. She doesnt know what he looks like because shes never seen him in daylight, and he warns her she mustnt try. But of course her jealous sisters go on at her and she gets curious and fearful he might be a monster, so she lights a lamp when hes asleep. The light shows a beautiful young man. Then a drop of burning oil lands on his skin and he wakes up, and with a sorrowful cry he leaves her forever. Poor silly Pisk. My first sad ending. I love it so much.

Once I tried to tell my mother how I felt about the story of Cupid and Pisk. She was puzzled until I told her what happened. Oh, she said, you mean Psyche. She pronounced it Sykie. I dont remember whether she explained to me that Cupid was Love and Psyche was the Soul. I only cared about Pisk.

We live in St Johns Wood in London. My bedroom has birds on the wallpaper. Theres a small window where I can see the dome of St Pauls Cathedral in the distance, and sometimes I hear the hollow clap of horse hooves as the soldiers from the barracks in Ordnance Hill ride down the road. My sister Julia sleeps in the bed next to mine. When it gets too dark to see, dark enough for Cupid to visit, I close Mr Guerbers book. I dont believe in torches under the bedclothes, it feels like cheating. Just as well, for otherwise I would never sleep at all.

I am a compulsive reader. Cupid and Pisk, the Ladybird Adventurers, and a host of others I need them all.

I am a compulsive reader. Cupid and Pisk, the Ladybird Adventurers, and a host of others I need them all.

The books that kept me up late at the age of eight, which I read over and over again while chomping an ill-advised treeful of green apples at bedtime, which had me squinting at pages under the covers and ruthlessly careening through chapters with cursory mumbles of oh no, I accidentally started a new one were H. A. Guerbers The Myths of Greece and Rome, and Roger Lancelyn Greens A Book of Myths, illustrated by Joan Kiddell-Monroe. Their scant, iridescent tales of vagrant gods and golden ancient landscapes made me a pagan for life.

Enthralled, I read of the fierce, resolute, dignified female deities Isis, Cybele, Demeter, and my own goddess, grey-eyed Pallas Athena, to whom I solemnly poured libations of cold tea. I lived in mysterious Babylon, austere Scandinavia and wandered the olive groves of Arcadia. A blessed re-prieve from ghastly modern reality, the hush of old dusks and bright noondays stays with me still.

Kate Holden

What were the first stories? Voices in the dark. I dont remember my parents ever reading to me, but they used to tell me bedtime stories they made up as they went along. My mothers stories were about Erg and Ug the cavemen and Marmaduke the mammoth. My fathers stories were about Septimus the frog, and they always ended the same way: Down, down, dived Septimus to the bottom of the pond Its only now as Im writing this that I realise my father was using the ritual phrases to hypnotise me into sleep. Usually, it didnt work. I just ended up wanting more Septimus.

There must have been a moment when I discovered I could tell stories to myself by reading, and it must have come quite early. For quite a while, I thought reading was a mix of memory and guesswork. I would learn picture book stories off by heart and recite them, and I was convinced I was reading. I proclaimed Mr Hip packs his dumborah with great pride, and was surprised when my parents laughed. I knew Mr Hip (a hippo, not a cool customer) packed something strange with three syllables, but I couldnt get my head around portmanteau. I loved long words, which I collected. My favourites were isosceles triangle and banking facilities. I had no idea what they meant.

My favourites were isosceles triangleand banking facilities. I had no idea what they meant.

At school, we read boring books about Janet and John, and murmured dull chants: Run, John, run. I hid proper books under my desk lid and read them on the sly. At home, I could read what I liked, which was everything except Janet and John. I discovered heaven, which was the St Johns Wood Library, and an even bigger heaven with a huge flight of steps and lions by the door, like Trafalgar Square, which was the library in Marylebone Town Hall. I fell in love with the special library book bindings and the deep-etched round stamps on the covers. Nothing was better than bringing home a new set of library books and opening the first one and breathing in that library smell of musty intoxication. And every now and then, Id get a new book as a present. How thrilling to tear open that book-shaped parcel under the Christmas tree. How devastating when it turned out to be a toy in a book-shaped box.