Sometimes, against all better judgment I pick up a book that I’ve not read since I was a child. I like to know when last I read something so I can look back and say, “Wow. I don’t remember that at ALL. I wonder how long it’s been.” I know, for example that I finished Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray, on March 18th 2002 . Even today, at times the recollection of it is so vivid and inspiring that I laugh to myself for no apparent reason while walking through the grocery story. In contrast, I finished James, Washington Square
However, I REMEMBER reading The Swiss Family Robinson and it’s been at LEAST 20 years ago. I even remember having pleasant feelings about it from across the void of space and time that separates me from it. What a difference, apparently, a translation can make. What I did not realize as a child is that much of literature is properly and scrubbed and sanitized before the average person sees it. Most translations of the Family Robinson are stripped of the endless religious droning that are so keenly present in my Oxford World’s Classic version. In many ways, it’s not even the same book.
More to the point perhaps, even if perchance it was the same book, I’m not the same person.
The religion I could readily tolerate. Religion, for many, is THE cornerstone of their lives; first comes breathing, then comes religion, then comes defecation. So, the book was written by a pastor and has a STRONG religious message. Not a problem: so far, so good. In addition to religious lessons though, Wyss also wanted his book to convey some information about the natural world. Ostensibly this was to aid the reader in case they should ever have to survive on their own in such a situation. That’s fine too, despite my gripes about what I refer to as ‘the middle third’ of Moby Dick, I can tolerate a bit of encyclopedia in my fiction. Again, no problem.
The last straw on the pile of annoyances is really an unfair one. This little dainty was written almost 200 years ago. Because of that, the author’s treatment of women is at times utterly derogatory. His wife, while useful and industrious in their situation, isn’t really expected to be. She’s treated more or less like an invalid. Again, this is a sign of the times in which the book is written, clearly not the author’s fault. The Family also has no regard whatsoever for the natural world around them. They shoot and kill every beast they possibly can. The wife even points out at one point that they’ve brought back so much game that they can’t possibly eat it all. They’re apparently just on a holiday with an infinite amount of gunpowder at their disposal. I was also appalled by their treatment of a local troop of monkeys. They massacre one group and proceed to poison another and dump their bodies into their drinking water. How much of the ecosystem do these people need to take out exactly?
At this point, the astute reader will look at his screen perplexedly thinking simply, “But this is the way people were at the time?” And I certainly agree, I don’t expect people in novels to act in ways that conform with modern standards of behavior by any means. I applaud the accuracy of the portrayal but it was still annoying.
To sum up, the Family Robinson is a thinly disguised and by today’s standards of knowledge, really inaccurate encyclopedia. The author spends 20 pages getting them onto the island, 5 pages getting them off the island and in the middle 490 pages, one finds hundreds of unconnected episodes in which they meet with an impossibly diverse menagerie of creatures, plants and situations. I’m glad to have finally plodded my way through that mess…
What’s Next? Ah, well, time for some real misinformation: A History of Private Life, Volume I, From Pagan Rome to Byzantium
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