Academic literature on the topic 'Boys - Juvenile fiction'

Numerous studies have appeared in recent years that deal with the reasons and rationalizations that accompanied America's overseas acquisitions in 1898. This article uses juvenile series fiction to examine how the nation's youth—boys in particular—became targets of imperial boosterism. In the pages of adventure novels set against the backdrop of American interventions in the Caribbean and the Philippines, Edward Stratemeyer, the most successful author and publisher of youth series fiction, and other less well-known juvenile fiction producers offered sensationalistic dramas that advocated a racialist, expansionistic foreign policy. Stratemeyer and others offered American boys an imaginative space as participants in and future stewards of national triumph. Young readers, the article argues further, became active participants in their own politicization. An examination of the voluminous fan mail sent to series fiction authors by their juvenile admirers reveals boys' willingness, even eagerness, to participate in the ascendancy of the United States.

AbstractDuring the Gilded Age and Progressive Era, thousands of middle-class youths published their own amateur newspapers. These periodicals were printed using the so-called toy (or “novelty”) press, a portable tabletop device that helped democratize word processing. Children often used their presses to compose miniature novels and short stories. They then shared their prose with a national community of fellow juvenile writers collectively known as “Amateurdom.” Adolescent fiction explored an array of subjects, but the frontier, territorial expansion, and empire in the West became some of its particular fixations. All that imperial storytelling, however, possessed a rich subtext. Boys and girls, reacting to late-nineteenth-century changes in the lived experience of childhood, used their printing presses to challenge various constraints imposed upon them. But in so doing, they both perpetuated and reinforced a pernicious culture of settler colonialism that celebrated the subjugation of American Indians. Ultimately, the amateur publications of children remind us that fiction is not exclusively an adult enterprise. The creative output of young people provides important insight into an underexplored realm of the Gilded Age and Progressive Era’s literary world.

Who is in the best situation to understand the just punishment for a crime? To what extent should crimes of youth carry lifetime stigmas? In this work of ethical fiction, Rory is the middle-school bully. The focus of this bully is on taking naked pictures with his cell phone of other boys in the locker room, then using those photos to blackmail them into getting, and giving him, nude photos of their girlfriends. This is exactly what he does to get nude photos of Elizabeth. He then blackmails Elizabeth with those photos for sexual favors. His plan would have gone smoothly enough (again) except one of Elizabeth’s failed suiters (Travis) overheard the plan and told the police. The police used his testimony to get a search warrant and a prosecution. Rory is sentenced to four years in juvenile detention and lifetime status as a sex offender. Years, and a Ph.D. in philosophy later, Travis isn’t entirely sure he made the right decision by coming forward.

Twice Pulitzer Prize winner Colson Whitehead bases the plot of his novels on various facts of American reality found in documents and newspaper publications. By juxtaposing fact and fiction, he transforms them to create a new reality, rooted in the events of real life but acquiring a universal or metaphorical character that could be seen even in his early works. In “John Henry Days” (2001) the writer makes use of the legend of the famous black laborer John Henry, its reflection in the folklore and everyday life of the American South and attempts to up-sell it in today’s USA with the help of social networks. In the novel “The Underground Railroad”, written after Whitehead’s archival research and his study of slave narratives of the mid-19th century, the document is woven into the artistic structure of the text by using authentic announcements about runaway slaves. The novel “The Nickel Boys” was written under the influence of the information about the horrible findings discovered on the grounds of the so-called Arthur Dozier School, established in early 20th century for juvenile delinquents, telling the story of two black boys who got there in the 1960s. The writer incessantly explores the impact of racism on American society and social injustice making use of a historical novel elements, of alternative history, neo-slave narratives and satire in his descriptions of the contemporary US media.

In his seventh novel Colson Whitehead focuses on the recent scandalous discovery of clandestine mass graves found at Arthur G. Dozier School for Boys, a reform school in Florida. During its 111 years of existence the school became the target of various investigations as rumors about maltreatment of its juvenile detainees were sporadically spread. Whitehead focuses on the mass graves and specifically on the black corpses and produces a fictional narrative out of these corpses as a form to reject forgetting and unbury a scandalous event that most Americans would prefer not to be informed. Through Mbembe’s concept of necropolitics I claim that The Nickel Boys reveals another scandal: the persistent necropolitical nature of US incarceration system. My argument is that the palimpsest structure of the novel as it juxtaposes the prison novel with the (neo)slave narrative eventually creates a precise illustration of Mbembe’s critique on modern democracies as postulated in his concept of necropolitics.

This article considers the beginnings of the British actor Roddy McDowall's career as a child star in Hollywood. Following his relocation to the United States in October 1940 and signing a contract with Twentieth Century-Fox, McDowall quickly became one of Hollywood's most popular juvenile actors. For the duration of the Second World War, McDowall's star image was indissoluble from his status as a war guest: he was ‘a British evacuee star’. McDowall thus became an unofficial ambassador for the British nation, much like his fellow evacuees, who were widely recognised for their work improving Anglo-American relations. In the management of McDowall's image, and in his screen performances, there is a discernible effort to substantiate certain attitudes about the character and attributes of the British nation but also to challenge certain prejudices about English sissy boys. McDowall's star text was carefully managed so that the image of the actor presented by the media and the fictional characters he played on screen congealed in a productive way to inspire among American audiences specific sentiments about the British and America's relationship with the British nation during wartime. Analysing the representation of McDowall in American film magazines during the early 1940s, as well as his performances in three war-themed productions – Confirm or Deny (1941), On the Sunny Side (1942) and The White Cliffs of Dover (1944) – I explore the ways McDowall's star text functioned in its geopolitical and bio-political contexts.

AbstractThis paper combines the perspectives of animal studies and reception theory to trace the audience shift of narratives foregrounding interactions between adolescent boys and animals published in the US in the first half of the twentieth century. More precisely, it argues that a text’s focus on human–animal bonds can result in its “kiddification,” a term explained by Beverly Lyon Clark as trivialization that leads to dismissal. We argue that the reasons for this shift include the solidification of the boy-and-his-dog convention in the 1940s as an example of formula fiction for juveniles, combined with the simultaneous proliferation of animal movies geared towards a family audience. The case under scrutiny is Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings’s novel The Yearling and its film adaptation from 1946. Despite the book’s initial success among general audiences (awarded the Pulitzer Prize in 1939), with time Kinnan Rawlings’s novel became “kiddified” and then passed into oblivion, rarely discussed by critics who deem it undeserving of attention and unread by contemporary juveniles, who perhaps find the book difficult, long and tedious (Groff, Harper’s, https://harpers.org/archive/2014/01/the-lost-yearling/, 2014). Consequently, the foregrounding of affective human–animal bonds in the book resulted in its later association with children’s literature, which was amplified by the film adaptation as well as the publisher’s marketing strategies.

Among the sub-genres of science fiction, one of the most traditional and most machine-laden is space opera. The name is dismissive and was coined in parallel with the now little recognised 'horse opera' (for westerns) in the wake of the success of the term 'soap opera' (for romantic serials). Space operas were adventure sagas across the galaxies with space ships carrying intrepid crews on voyages of discovery, into glorious battles and terrifying encounters with aliens. The 'opera' part presumably refers to their seriality and overstated melodrama. At various times during the last fifty years space opera has seemed as doomed as the horse type, but sufficient examples were published to keep the sub-genre puttering along until new authors could invigorate it. This has now happened and I want in this brief note to see the change, through looking at one current writer's series to see what has been done, how it has been received and how observing the role of a particular novum (Darko Suvin's term for the imaginative invention that characterises sf) -- a machine in this case, of course -- illuminates what has happened. Because this begins with a consideration of sf history, I want to start with one of the key distinctions that has long operated in both popular and academic analysis of science fiction (though admittedly it has more currency now in the popular); that between hard and soft sf. Unsurprisingly, given how loaded those terms are, it is a gendered distinction. Hard sf is the boys' playground; technologically driven, its allegiances are to physics and engineering. From nano-widgets to space ships as big as planets, it loves machines. The boysiness of hard sf was sedimented in popular sf through the generic hegemony achieved by Hugo Gernsback in his US pulp magazine empire starting with Astounding in 1926. Space opera was the quintessential type of hard sf in the early years, though it came to be challenged if not displaced by colonisation narratives that concentrated on engineering. Soft sf, of necessity the girly stuff, has the squishy bits -- biology certainly, but also the social sciences. Both New Wave and feminist sf, the innovative sub-genres of sf in the 60s and 70s, used soft rather than hard tropes in their subsequently incorporated revisions of the genre. In the 80s, cyberpunk presented itself as the hard stuff, but this was pretty disingenuous (all that voodoo, those drugs, the excursions into various social sciences), not to mention, as Samuel Delany among others has pointed out, the way this could only be managed by denying its feminist foremothers. These days, the traces of space opera's pulp-laden past are there to be read in the way that the more serious American writers like Kim Stanley Robinson prefer sober space colonisation narratives while the truly innovative work (as well as the quality writing) is done outside the US, by a Scot -- Iain M. Banks. In addition to Banks's wondrous novels of the Culture, the revivified field includes more traditional series like Lois McMaster Bujold's Vorkosigan saga, David Weber's Honor Harrington sequence and Colin Greenland's tracing of the career of Tabitha Jute. It would not be possible to examine how Banks has remapped the field in a note such as this, but dealing with some of the more traditional examples can provide an interesting case study in the hardness of the sub-genre, as well as pointing to wider movements in the sf world. It is the latter that is evident in the way in which the male writers produce female lead and the female the male (by and large, Bujold does occasional female leads). Not that Weber makes any attempt to make Honor credible as a female, she's laughably improbable and only needs to be placed near Greenland's Tabitha Jute for the disparity to become evident. (I'm using this comparison not just for its power but also because it stops the suggestion that male writers can't produce decent female action heroes.) For the more detailled part of this I want to concentrate on Bujold's series in part to mull over why it might be that her books are dismissed as too soft and 'girly' to be good space opera. There is something of a problem in that I find the whole hard:soft distinction more than a bit juvenile and value it primarily for its power in understanding sf history. The moves to broaden the field beyond what it was so artificially limited to in early to mid-twentieth century America seem to me to be a move to a more integrated adulthood rather than the imposition of a line of squishy feminine referents to be denied or repelled. I don't see 'softness' as a negative quality (nor 'hardness' for that matter), but I am interested in why and how a space opera series with space ships, space weaponry, gadgets galore and large quantities of prime quality derring-do should be deemed soft. Bujold has written a long series of space operas set in an Earth-colonised far-future that centre on the deformed figure of Lord Miles Vorkosigan. A few other fictions are set in the same universe and link in various ways to the core texts. Not all are set on spaceships though the majority require their presence as significant features of the plot while others rely on such standards of space narrative as space stations, terra-forming and the hardware of space warfare. To dismiss Bujold's world as one where the hardness of space opera technology is subsumed in girliness, it is necessary to overlook not just great passages of certain texts, but to dismiss whole novels. The Vor Game for instance follows a long sequence at an arctic weather station which culminates in the necessary destruction of outdated toxic weaponry with an escapade across great reaches of space in a whole range of ships displaying, selling and eventually using all manner of wonderful weaponry climaxing in a battle for control of a wormhole nexus. The only woman of any narrative prominence is a evil mercenary leader ("face of an angel, mind of a rabid mongoose"). One would think that it all sounds rather a sitter as a hard piece of space opera fare written for a readership of boys of all ages. My description though so far fails to convey where it is that Bujold has updated the sub-genre. It could be that the problem lies in the same place as the updating -- in the nuancing of the character of the hero Miles Vorkosigan and the continuing delineation of the interweaving of his double life as mercenary Admiral and loyal Imperial lieutenant. Traditionally the space opera hero comes into the world if not fully formed, then at least ready for a coming-of-age tale. Bujold shows us the formation of the hero, ensuring that he remains located within his extended family. It could be that complaints come from those who would prefer their heroes not to have mothers. But then again it could be about the humour. Bujold doesn't see earnestness as desirable and writes a fantastical adventure romp. It seems to me that this is one core difference between her and fellow Baen writer David Weber. There is no predicting what a descriptive passage about technology will lead to in Bujold; it could be a novel way to win hand to hand combat or a comic sequence making a moral point about abuse of power. For Weber, a sequence of space ships and weaponry is sufficient in itself, being an opportunity to talk of model numbers and ballistic capabilities with all the narrative brio of Tom Clancy (i.e. none), but at least Clancy is usually talking about something that has an existence in the real world. When both the machine and the science it operates by are more than speculative, labouring the trainspotters'-guide-to-hyperspace-technology talk can only delight anoraks. Machines are ends in themselves for Weber, means to a narrative or characterological point in Bujold. As well as why the machine is mentioned, there is also the question of what kind of machines are favoured. Maybe over the whole sequence, Bujold pays more attention to biologically-based technologies; when she focusses on engineering it is more often as a means to a biological end (usually terraforming), though in Falling Free, the least closely linked of the novels, the biology which enables the creation of the 'quads' -- freefall workers with four arms rather than arms and legs -- is in the service of engineering advantage. The passion in her work, and despite the humour and invention, there is considerable ideologically driven passion, is reserved for her biologically based beliefs -- that physical difference should be no barrier to achievement. As is common in sf, race is incidental and not part of the argument (it is rare for any but black writers of sf to see race as a meaningful issue for the future), but sex and ability are primary. Thus Miles, whose bones were damaged while a foetus and who is short and hunched, Bel Thorne, the hermaphrodite, Taura, the genetically engineered 'perfect soldier' eight foot tall with claws and fangs, Mark, Miles's clone brother and many others who appear less frequently carry the story of difference that must not be allowed to make a difference. Where gender is concerned, the popular spread of feminism means that forceful statements of position are read as political, not as some more woolly bit of being 'nice to the afflicted'. Bujold's feminism may be old-fashioned liberal rather than radical or post-modern, but it doesn't operate by parachuting women in to narratively significant positions of power. You buy the book and you get the argument and with Cordelia, Miles's mother, inscribed as the figure of rationality, the bases are loaded. The machine around which the discourse of liberation is organised, Bujold's novum and the machine which is the focus of complaint, is the uterine replicator -- an artificial womb. In the Bujold universe this is the ultimate good machine. It was a replicator that enabled Miles to survive after teratogenic damage in utero; his first love and his mother both issued from them; and it seems like the key test of a man is his willingness or otherwise to have his wife reproduce in vitro. I suppose I can see why this offends those wedded to old-fashioned hard space opera. Traditionally, the machines that tell the men from the girls/boys/lesser beings are the ships and their weaponry, but here the machines that count replicate the uterus (ultimate squishiness) and so, far from delivering death, deliver babies. Furthermore, their entry into the narrative is almost always the cue for a disquisition on the inequities of the patriarchal society within which Bujold sets almost all her action. InMirror Dance Miles's clone brother Mark finally meets the senior Vorkosigans. He is taken to a court ball by his 'mother' who explains the dynamics of the evening in terms of the political agenda of the old men and the genetic one of the old women. The men imagine theirs is the only one but that's just an ego-serving self-delusion. ... The old men in government councils spend their lives arguing against or scheming to fund this or that piece of off-planet military hardware. Meanwhile the uterine replicator is creeping in past their guard. (296) In the most recent book,Komarr, the main female character is an abused wife with a young son and the fact that her husband required her to bear the child herself is presented as just one of the many abuses he subjects her to. When you read the various passages which discuss the uterine replicators across the books, it can be surprising to discover the insistence with which barbarity and male oppression are figured in the refusal to countenance the machine and good men are revealed by their regarding it as a valuable device. It seems almost to verge on the excessive (but then this is not how such ephemeral texts as popular space opera are read, and if one put together a collection of the passages of 'best bits of weapons admiration' that would look a bit strange too). One could, if so minded, easily dismiss the Vorkosigan adventures as a bit girly on the basis of their enjoyment of interpersonal relations, character development, or romance. If, though, one were willing to admit that only certain pieces of hardware had generically usable hardness, it might rather be possible to observe that the carping at the centrality of the wrong kind of machine identifies much more accurately what is really worrying about the whole popularity of the series -- that this machine is a Trojan Horse for the incorporation through hard technology of 'hard' feminist politics. References Bujold, Lois McMaster. Komarr. Earthlight, 1998. ---. Mirror Dance Riverdale: Baen, 1994. ---. The Vor Game. Riverdale: Baen, 1990. Delany, Samuel R. Silent Interviews: On Language, Race, Sex, Science Fiction and Some Comics. Hanover: Wesleyan UP, 1994. Suvin, Darko. Metamorphoses of Science Fiction. New Haven: Yale UP, 1979. Citation reference for this article MLA style: Frances Bonner. "The Hard Question of Squishy Machines." M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 2.6 (1999). [your date of access] <http://www.uq.edu.au/mc/9909/bujold.php>. Chicago style: Frances Bonner, "The Hard Question of Squishy Machines," M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 2, no. 6 (1999), <http://www.uq.edu.au/mc/9909/bujold.php> ([your date of access]). APA style: Frances Bonner. (1999) The hard question of squishy machines. M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 2(6). <http://www.uq.edu.au/mc/9909/bujold.php> ([your date of access]).

An analysis was undertaken of 29 volumes of a popular juvenile fiction series, the Hardy Boys, in publication since 1927. Drawing upon Victor Turner's schema of social drama, this study sought to examine the degree to which the melodramatic form is employed in the texts. The distinguishing characteristic of the melodramatic form is the portrayal of a villain or villains who have breached the social order and who, upon defeat, are subject to a process of exclusion from the social order. In addition, with its emphasis on crime and the pursuit of criminals, the series allowed for the analysis of changing images of deviance and social order in popular youth fiction over time. Given the intent to examine the manifest content as well as the underlying frameworks and structures of the texts, both a content analysis and a linguistically-based structural analysis were employed. Overall, the hypothesis that the Hardy Boys books are melodramatic in form was supported. In 28 of the 29 texts, characters who were portrayed as villains were, upon defeat, subject to a process of exclusion. Moreover, as further hypothesized, changing images of deviance and social order were reflected in the series over time. Central to the findings of the present study was the role of ritual in the enactment of social drama. Ritual or ceremonial acts provide the means by which characters' positions within--or outside of--the social order are established in the texts. As such, this study demonstrates the degree to which ritual is integral to class stratification. It further suggests that the performance of ritual, in providing a mechanism through which the social order is maintained and legitimated--or alternatively, contested and subjected to processes of change--furnishes a stage for the enactment of hegemonic struggles.

The creative thesis 'New (Old) Fairy Tales for New Children‘ makes a contribution to the field of creative writing research. It comprises creative work in the form of four fairy tales and a novel for upper primary/early high school readers (70%) and a short exegesis (30%). The creative work uses key fairy tale elements to tell new stories for contemporary children. The four fairy tales are intended to sit within the Western European tradition, drawing on the repetitions, cadence and storytelling voice of the tales collected by the Brothers Grimm.

After World War II, science-fiction authors found lucrative side gigs in writing fiction for young people. Before “young adult” books were a fixed category, authors like Robert Heinlein wrote stories about space for middle-grade readers, most of whom were male. This chapter looks at Heinlein’s juvenile fiction published by Scribner’s, and shows how his work reinforced a vision of scientific masculinity.