By Michael Payne
The great 20th-century French critic Roland Barthes made a famous distinction between texts of pleasure and texts of bliss, essentially books we like and books that make us ecstatic. He playfully suggested that those of us who have known texts of bliss should establish a Society of the Friends of the Text in order to share with others our rare moments of true bibliophilic bliss.
If there were a local version of such a privileged reading group, my first recommendation to them would be Carol Mavor's beautiful, deeply pleasurable, and thought-provoking new book, "Reading Boyishly." The first thing to be said about it is that it is a beautiful material object.
Like the typical French paperback, it has that distinctive, sensual, cream-colored cover; but its pages are neatly cut, its type-face is crisp and clean, and its hundreds of visual reproductions are exquisite. Just to hold this book and to thumb through it initially is to be reminded why no electronic text can ever hope to displace a book like this.
It reminds us of books we have treasured since we were children -- perhaps just a few now in their devastated state -- or a truly rare old book (for me, that's a 1618 King James Bible) -- or a sumptuous modern reproduction, such as of an elegant medieval Book of the Hours.
In these lovely pages, Carol Mavor pays homage to four "boyish men" -- Barthes, Barrie, Proust and Winnicott -- and to a young photographer -- Jacques Henri Lartigue -- who is likely to be previously unknown to most readers. Unlike two recently publicized books about whether it's either young boys or young girls who are more adventuresome, this book is about ties that bind mothers and sons and writers and artists whose work reaches out longingly to a past that is irretrievable.
Rather than saying that only a few boyish readers have been the best, it says that there is an erotic pleasure available to all of us when we read, whether we are boys or girls, mothers or sons, fathers or daughters.
Some of Mavor's best pages are devoted to Dr. D.W. Winnicott, the great British child analyst and mentor of America's Dr. Benjamin Spock. Winnicott wrote and talked persistently about what he called "the good-enough mother." This phrase was anything but demeaning. He didn't want mothers to try to be everything to their children, to dominate their lives, and to usurp their emerging freedom.
To try to be everything is not to be good enough. (You remember that on the first page of "Peter Pan," there's a mention of just one kiss on her mother's face that Wendy could never get.) Here is Mavor's rendering of Winnicott:
"Although Winnicott emphasizes that the mother must give almost all of herself (far more than just her breast) over entirely to her infant, a small bit must be left of herself, must be kept intact, for the child to begin making fulfillment from her failure. Gradually, the mother must pull back adequately in order for the child to make the transition from illusion to disillusion so necessary for the creation of transitional objects. Weaning encourages creative play, independence. In sum, the daunting task for the mother is to give of herself almost entirely and then be able to pull back, at the right time, with confidence and care."
Reading boyishly, in the spirit of Barthes, Barrie, Proust and Winnicott -- whether the reader is a mother or father or someone else -- is like this, too. It's a matter of knowing when and how to let the child take over, to read in his own voice, to ask questions, and even to reject the book entirely.
Reading boyishly is to create a safe and loving place where he or she can discover their own selves with the help a book. If that happens for the first time in the lap of a mother, father, or other loving adult, so much the better.
n Michael Payne teaches and writes about literature and critical theory. He lives in Lewisburg and can be reached by e-mail at payne@bucknell.edu.
