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100 Books, #14: Catherine, Called Birdy
Jan. 13th, 2013 12:16 amHere is one obvious effect that reading Karen Cushman's Catherine, Called Birdy had on me: ever since I read this book when I was elevenish - actually, let me qualify this; ever since I read this book, and spend the rest of the week doing nothing but rereading my favorite bits over and over - I automatically assume that all heroines named Catherine are amazing.
Catherine is the daughter of a small-time medieval knight. At the urging of her brother Edward the monk, she keeps a diary, in which she records the doings of the manor and the progress of her quest to find the perfect swear phrase. She finally settles on God’s thumbs, which she cries whenever she is vexed, and Catherine is vexed a lot.
Aside from writing, Catherine’s hobbies include painting pictures on the walls of her bed chamber, keeping lots and lots of birds, tossing her embroidery down the privy (it was the nineties, all self-respecting heroines had to hate needlework), and fending off unwanted suitors. Catherine’s schemes are a hoot - and usually successful, to boot.
But there’s more to her than feistiness: she’s also intensely curious, in a way that makes her a good guide to her world. There’s depth and strangeness to the medieval world of the book, a sense that its mental geography is different than our own: each day is consecrated to a saint, the Crusades are simultaneously a current event and an almost mythological undertaking, and Catherine’s crusader uncle brings her a orange from the Orient, which Catherine treasures, long-withered and inedible as it is.
That sense of strangeness grows greater as the book goes on, as Catherine learns more about her world. But the story remains perfectly accessible, growing even more engrossing as Catherine gets stuck with a suitor she just can’t shake.
Children’s authors especially seem to find the idea of using history to teach a moral lesson, generally of the “People were bad in the past! Things are better today!” variety. The arranged marriage plotline in Catherine, Called Birdy would lend itself to such a treatment, and certainly it could be interpreted that way: Catherine’s increasingly desperate struggles to escape an impending marriage she doesn’t want imply a critique of medieval society.
But the important word here is imply. The narrative never hits us over the head and screams “LOOK HOW BAD THIS IS, KIDS” (I read a lot of historical fiction as a child. I may still be a little bitter about the more heavy-handed variety...). It shows us Catherine’s troubles, and trusts readers to follow their own sympathies.
An eminently satisfying book: perfect for sitting by the fire with a mug of hot cocoa on a winter’s day. Or sitting on a breezy veranda on a summer day. Sitting, in any case, long enough to finish the book in one go: because once you start, you won't want to put it down.
Catherine is the daughter of a small-time medieval knight. At the urging of her brother Edward the monk, she keeps a diary, in which she records the doings of the manor and the progress of her quest to find the perfect swear phrase. She finally settles on God’s thumbs, which she cries whenever she is vexed, and Catherine is vexed a lot.
Aside from writing, Catherine’s hobbies include painting pictures on the walls of her bed chamber, keeping lots and lots of birds, tossing her embroidery down the privy (it was the nineties, all self-respecting heroines had to hate needlework), and fending off unwanted suitors. Catherine’s schemes are a hoot - and usually successful, to boot.
But there’s more to her than feistiness: she’s also intensely curious, in a way that makes her a good guide to her world. There’s depth and strangeness to the medieval world of the book, a sense that its mental geography is different than our own: each day is consecrated to a saint, the Crusades are simultaneously a current event and an almost mythological undertaking, and Catherine’s crusader uncle brings her a orange from the Orient, which Catherine treasures, long-withered and inedible as it is.
That sense of strangeness grows greater as the book goes on, as Catherine learns more about her world. But the story remains perfectly accessible, growing even more engrossing as Catherine gets stuck with a suitor she just can’t shake.
Children’s authors especially seem to find the idea of using history to teach a moral lesson, generally of the “People were bad in the past! Things are better today!” variety. The arranged marriage plotline in Catherine, Called Birdy would lend itself to such a treatment, and certainly it could be interpreted that way: Catherine’s increasingly desperate struggles to escape an impending marriage she doesn’t want imply a critique of medieval society.
But the important word here is imply. The narrative never hits us over the head and screams “LOOK HOW BAD THIS IS, KIDS” (I read a lot of historical fiction as a child. I may still be a little bitter about the more heavy-handed variety...). It shows us Catherine’s troubles, and trusts readers to follow their own sympathies.
An eminently satisfying book: perfect for sitting by the fire with a mug of hot cocoa on a winter’s day. Or sitting on a breezy veranda on a summer day. Sitting, in any case, long enough to finish the book in one go: because once you start, you won't want to put it down.
