The Silent Boy

When will publishers understand the difference between books about children and children's books?

It is not really a story for children, though it is about a child.
—from The Silent Boy

When I read this disclaimer, in the very first chapter of Lois Lowry's newest book The Silent Boy, I began to wonder whether the book publishers had truly bothered to read the galley proofs. After all, Ms. Lowry has published 29 books and won the Newberry Medal twice; it's not as though they're taking a chance on publishing some unknown writer. They can expect—and as it turns out, they've received—good things from her. Maybe they don't feel a need to "check up" on her by reading her latest book all the way through.

But having finished an uncorrected proof copy of the book (it will be published later this month), I can't help but wince at the flyleaf, at the words printed there: "Ages: 10 & up. Grade: 5 & up."

I don't think so.

I can see why a casual reader, particularly one who did not finish the book, might assume this was a story for children. After all, just about everything Ms. Lowry has written to date—Anastasia Krupnik, Taking Care of Terrific and Number the Stars—is classed as a children's book. Too, this story is primarily about the lives of children and teenagers growing up around the turn of the 20th century. The prose is spare and simple, packing maximum character development into minimal words, and a fast reader can finish the whole book in one sitting.

There are just things about this book which make me question its suitability for the average ten-year-old reader. I would hesitate to be the first person to introduce some of its themes—insanity, brain disorders, illegitimacy and death—to a fifth grader. I know these are themes all too often encountered in reality, yet we feel compelled to shelter our children from these facts of life as long as we can. The Silent Boy does not shy away from them.

Katy Thatcher, the narrator of the piece, is the only daughter of a small-town doctor. When her family hires Peggy Stoltz, a household girl from one of the local farms, Katy comes to know Peggy's younger brother Jacob, a thirteen-year-old boy who never speaks a word. Town people assume he is slow-witted, although he has a special way with animals and a talent for imitating the sounds of things, but as Katy grows to know the strange boy, she discovers that he is a gentle, understanding soul.

The word "autism" is never used once in the book, at least in part because this particular developmental disorder was not officially defined until 1943, but also because the author has an emphatic point to make about labeling people. Those who do label Jacob Stoltz usually call him touched or an imbecile; they tend to believe the worst about him. They notice only his self-absorbed silence and his strange, repetitive behaviors, but they ignore his many abilities.

This unfortunate tendency of human beings—to focus on what they want to see and ignore the rest, to find a scapegoat for their troubles—is the crux of the story, and perhaps the strongest reason why it's difficult to recommend The Silent Boy to children. The internal tragedy of the book builds and finally spills over into a kind of genteel horror; there's plenty of foreshadowing, so most readers will see what's coming, and in this case it only increases the sense of dread. Once you begin to get a sense of their characters and the way they interact, though, you will be compelled to continue your descent into the maelstrom.

I strongly recommend The Silent Boy for its compact prose, honest characterizations and compelling story. It rivals The Giver as some of Lowry's best writing to date.

That said, if you're the parent of a ten-year-old, read it first.

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