On Childish Things

Saint Paul admonishes the Corinthians that, “When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child: but when I became a man, I put away childish things.”

One would think that I (mere I) would be leery of arguing with St. Paul, the great Theologian of the Early Church. But I plan to do so.
I'd suggest that nobody loves stories as much as children; and, with greater evidence, that I loved the stories of my childhood at least as well (and probably better) than those of my adulthood. Nor have I felt any need to “put away childish things.” Instead, I return to them both for their continued excellencies and for the memory of how I loved them as a child.

Grown-ups expand their tastes, and develop new ones. I now like wine, and bleu cheese, and James Joyce. But that doesn't mean I've grown to dislike ice cream or The Jungle Books.

Children love stories so much they want them to go on forever. “The Worm Ouroboros” by E.R. Edison is the perfect children's story, or (perhaps) the end of The Last Battle. But most stories have to end, as does childhood, as does life. I remember the end of The Jungle Books” sending me into tears, as Mowgli must grow up Who needed that! Here's the end: the last line of which is unspeakably sad.

Quote:

““Thou hast heard,” said Baloo. “There is no more. Go now; but first come to me. O wise Little Frog, come to me!”

“It is hard to cast the skin,” said Kaa as Mowgli sobbed and sobbed, with his head on the blind bear’s side and his arms round his neck, while Baloo tried feebly to lick his feet.

“The stars are thin,” said Gray Brother, snuffing at the dawn wind. “Where shall we lair to-day? for from now, we follow new trails.”

And this is the last of the Mowgli stories.

It was bad enough that Mowgli was growing up, and leaving his fantasy world, but “this is the last?” NO! NO!

Here's A.E.'s (the Irish poet and revolutionary take: (I love the second to last verse.)

Quote:

Germinal
by*AE

Call not thy wanderer home as yet
Though it be late.
Now is his first assailing of
The invisible gate.
Be still through that light knocking. The hour
Is thronged with fate.

To that first tapping at the invisible door
Fate answereth.
What shining image or voice, what sigh
Or honied breath,
Comes forth, shall be the master of life
Even to death.

Satyrs may follow after. Seraphs
On crystal wing
May blaze. But the delicate first comer
It shall be King.
They shall obey, even the mightiest,
That gentle thing.

All the strong powers of Dante were bowed
To a child's mild eyes,
That wrought within him that travail
From depths up to skies,
Inferno, Purgatorio
And Paradise.

Amid the soul's grave councillors
A petulant boy
Laughs under the laurels and purples, the elf
Who snatched at his joy,
Ordering Caesar's legions to bring him
The world for his toy.

In ancient shadows and twilights
Where childhood had strayed,
The world's great sorrows were born
And its heroes were made.
In the lost boyhood of Judas
Christ was betrayed.

Let thy young wanderer dream on:
Call him not home.
A door opens, a breath, a voice
From the ancient room,
Speaks to him now. Be it dark or bright
He is knit with his doom

When I read that statement by St Paul, he seemed to contradict Jesus when he said whoever could not accept the kingdom of heaven like a little child will surely never enter it,

I remembered the end of the Jungle Book being sad, although very good. However, when I re-read the Jungle Books recently, the stories were not at all like I remembered.

I read some of the "great" books when I was very young. I read a handful of them several times. (Crusoe n Huck) But I also filled myself with Blyton, Henty, WE Johns, Terhune and co and now I can have the same fun again reading them (and others) with grandkids