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Available
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Publication
Penguin Books Ltd (1987), Edition: New Ed, Paperback, 528 pages
Description
With an Introduction by Randall Jarrell. Sam and Henny Pollit have too many children, too little money, and too much loathing for each other. As Sam uses the children's adoration to feed his own voracious ego, Henny watches in bleak despair, knowing the bitter reality that lies just below his mad visions. A chilling novel of family life, the relations between parents and children, husbands and wives, The Man Who Loved Children, is acknowledged as a contemporary classic.
Media reviews
The Guardian
This novel is not for everyone, nor for every mood. I have read it twice with great admiration. When I tried to read it a third time (when I had a young family myself), I couldn't stand it. If Hamlet runs four hours and Lear almost five, well, The Man Who Loved Children runs 14 or 15 hours, and
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though the plot is actually quite neat and progresses steadily, novel-readers are not used to 15-hour storms. The catharsis here, compared with any other tragedy, is a long time coming. Nevertheless, Stead's novel is like Ford Madox Ford's The Good Soldier in its power to astonish and compel with each reading. It is sui generis among novels, and Stead, too, never wrote anything else like it. Show Less
"Although “The Man Who Loved Children” is probably too difficult (difficult to stomach, difficult to allow into your heart) to gain a mass following, it’s certainly less difficult than other novels common to college syllabuses, and it’s the kind of book that, if it is for you, is really for
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you. I’m convinced that there are tens of thousands of people in this country who would bless the day the book was published, if only they could be exposed to it. I might never have found my way to it myself had my wife not discovered it in the public library in Somerville, Mass., in 1983, and pronounced it the truest book she’d ever read." Show Less
In a letter to Thistle Harris Stead in 1942 Christina Stead wrote:
Every work of art should give utterance, or indicate, the dreadful blind strength and the cruelty of the creative impulse, that is why they must all have what are called errors, both of taste and style: in this it is like a
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love-affair (a book, I mean.) A love affair is not delicate or clean: but it is an eye-opener! The sensuality, delicacy of literature does not exist for me; only the passion, energy and struggle, the night of which no one speaks, the creative act: some people like to see the creative act banished from the book - it should be put behind one and a neatly-groomed little boy in sailor-collar introduced. This is perhaps quite right. But for me it is not right: I like each book to have not only the little boy, not very neat, but also the preceding creative act: then it is only, that it gives me full satisfaction.1
Here is an author quite conscious of the imperfect, disunified nature of her art. In this letter, Stead shows a rather postmodern consciousness of the novel as creation and an interest in exposing the act of creation in the work of art. Without the assistance of poststructuralist critics, Stead points to the importance of 'errors' as indicators to the reader of art's place in life - art as 'struggle', as process rather than as product. Show Less
Zeer lovende bespreking. Ook nawoord en vertaling worden hogelijk geprezen.
"Pas bij de heruitgave in 1966 kreeg het boek, mede door een lang nawoord van Randall Jarrell, de aandacht die het verdiende, en al snel werd het beschouwd als veruit de meest indrukwekkende roman uit de hele Australische
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literatuur van de twintigste eeuw." Show Less
Het is erg knap zoals Stead Sams maatschappelijke idealen koppelt aan de praktijk van het gezin – tirannie, manipulatie, geldingsdrang en emotionele chantage (‘Sammiepammie vraagt niet veel, alleen dit...’).
De man die van kinderen hield is te vol om hier recht te doen, soms misschien zelfs
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iets te vol. Maar de indruk die na lezing overblijft, is een aangrijpend beeld van destructie. De ideale staat die Sam thuis probeert te creëren, ontaardt in een hel. Een koningsdrama, maar wel een dat zich afspeelt binnen een ‘gewoon’ gezin. Het drama wordt door die gewoonheid alleen maar versterkt, en dat zal de reden zijn geweest dat het in de jaren zestig lezers wél aansprak, en dat het boek invloed zou krijgen op andere schrijvers. Ik kan me voorstellen dat bijvoorbeeld A.M. Homes dit las, voordat ze Music for Torching (1999) over een disfunctioneel gezin in een Amerikaanse buitenwijk schreef. Show Less
User reviews
LibraryThing member lauralkeet
This is a most unusual family drama, simultaneously frightening, funny, and intense. Sam and Henny Pollit have six children. Eldest daughter Louisa was a product of Sam's first marriage; Henny has been nothing more than Sam's brood mare, spawning an assortment of children that offer endless
Sam and Henny neglect many of the practicalities associated with raising a family. At 13, Louisa is far too young to shoulder these responsibilities and yet there she is, fixing breakfast every day, and making sure the household runs smoothly. Henny has never accepted Louisa into the family, and verbally abuses her. Sam showers her with pet names like Looloo, but also smothers her with his prying and controlling behaviors. Louisa longs for summer holidays, when she stays with her mother's family:
For nine months of the year were trivial miseries, self-doubts, indecisions, and all those disgusts of preadolescence, when the body is dirty, the world a misfit, the moral sense qualmish, and the mind a sump of doubt: but three months of the year she lived in trust, confidence, and love. (p. 163)
Sam and Henny have such a poor relationship that all communication occurs through their children. Even Sam's impending posting to Malaya is communicated to Henny via her eldest son. And when they argue, all hell breaks loose:
When a quarrel started (Henny and Sam did speak at the height of their most violent quarrels) and elementary truths were spoken, a quiet, a lull would fall over the house. One would hear, while Henny was gasping for indignant breath and while Sam was biting his lip in stern scorn, the sparrows chipping, or the startling rattle of the kingfisher, or even an oar sedately dipping past the beach, or even the ferry's hoot. Exquisite were these moments. Then the tornado would break loose again. What a strange life it was for them, those quiet children, in this shaded house, in a bower of trees, with the sunny orchard shining, the calm sky and silky creek, with sunshine outside and shrieks of madness inside. (p. 326)
Louisa often finds herself caught in the middle of this marital drama, trying to break up the fights and protect the younger children. While Sam is away in Malaya, life settles into some semblance of order, and on his return it seems as if normalcy will continue. But a series of events dramatically change the family's place in the community. Sam and Henny are unable to work through this together, and when Sam takes charge you just know it won't end well. Louisa continues to serve as a stabilizing force, but increasingly resents Sam's intrusion and control.
By now the "frightening" and "intense" elements of this novel should be clear. It's strange and uncomfortable to admit that in the midst of all this, there are funny elements as well. Sam is larger than life. He's a complete prat and yet amusing and likable. He and Henny share equally in their family's dysfunction, and as much as she's a victim of Sam's ridiculous notions, I couldn't help liking Sam more. But Sam does some really awful things to his children, things that (if they were real people) would scar them for life. As a reader, I felt really conflicted, which I think is by design. Christina Stead is able to make the reader feel like one of Sam and Henny's many children -- fond of both parents, hurt and abused, and completely caught in the middle.
This is not an easy book to read, but not for the reasons you might think. Yes, the subject matter is difficult, and it's a bit like watching an impending train wreck. But the prose also makes its demands on the reader, particularly Sam's invented language. However, those willing to invest the time and effort in this book will be rewarded in the end.
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amusement to Sam and endless stress and torment to Henny. Sam is self-centered and without a care in the world; he prides himself on being the "fun" parent, organizing all manner of escapades with his children. He speaks in a language all his own, full of cutesy nicknames and odd turns of phrase. Henny grew up in a wealthy family, and cannot accept the reduced circumstances of her life with Sam. She lives beyond their means, both materially and socially.Sam and Henny neglect many of the practicalities associated with raising a family. At 13, Louisa is far too young to shoulder these responsibilities and yet there she is, fixing breakfast every day, and making sure the household runs smoothly. Henny has never accepted Louisa into the family, and verbally abuses her. Sam showers her with pet names like Looloo, but also smothers her with his prying and controlling behaviors. Louisa longs for summer holidays, when she stays with her mother's family:
For nine months of the year were trivial miseries, self-doubts, indecisions, and all those disgusts of preadolescence, when the body is dirty, the world a misfit, the moral sense qualmish, and the mind a sump of doubt: but three months of the year she lived in trust, confidence, and love. (p. 163)
Sam and Henny have such a poor relationship that all communication occurs through their children. Even Sam's impending posting to Malaya is communicated to Henny via her eldest son. And when they argue, all hell breaks loose:
When a quarrel started (Henny and Sam did speak at the height of their most violent quarrels) and elementary truths were spoken, a quiet, a lull would fall over the house. One would hear, while Henny was gasping for indignant breath and while Sam was biting his lip in stern scorn, the sparrows chipping, or the startling rattle of the kingfisher, or even an oar sedately dipping past the beach, or even the ferry's hoot. Exquisite were these moments. Then the tornado would break loose again. What a strange life it was for them, those quiet children, in this shaded house, in a bower of trees, with the sunny orchard shining, the calm sky and silky creek, with sunshine outside and shrieks of madness inside. (p. 326)
Louisa often finds herself caught in the middle of this marital drama, trying to break up the fights and protect the younger children. While Sam is away in Malaya, life settles into some semblance of order, and on his return it seems as if normalcy will continue. But a series of events dramatically change the family's place in the community. Sam and Henny are unable to work through this together, and when Sam takes charge you just know it won't end well. Louisa continues to serve as a stabilizing force, but increasingly resents Sam's intrusion and control.
By now the "frightening" and "intense" elements of this novel should be clear. It's strange and uncomfortable to admit that in the midst of all this, there are funny elements as well. Sam is larger than life. He's a complete prat and yet amusing and likable. He and Henny share equally in their family's dysfunction, and as much as she's a victim of Sam's ridiculous notions, I couldn't help liking Sam more. But Sam does some really awful things to his children, things that (if they were real people) would scar them for life. As a reader, I felt really conflicted, which I think is by design. Christina Stead is able to make the reader feel like one of Sam and Henny's many children -- fond of both parents, hurt and abused, and completely caught in the middle.
This is not an easy book to read, but not for the reasons you might think. Yes, the subject matter is difficult, and it's a bit like watching an impending train wreck. But the prose also makes its demands on the reader, particularly Sam's invented language. However, those willing to invest the time and effort in this book will be rewarded in the end.
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LibraryThing member Meredy
I thought I was in for a literary treat when I read this savagely lush description on page 7:
[E]very room was a phial of revelation to be poured out some feverish night in the secret laboratories of her decisions, full of living cancers of insult, leprosies of disillusion, abscesses of grudge,
Disturbing imagery, yes, but it reminded me of the artfully controlled mad excesses of Look Homeward, Angel, and I thought I'd stay with it to see where it went.
I made it all the way to page 30, with considerable difficulty, and then just gave it up. And this is one of the very few (not so many as ten) books that I will take some satisfaction in placing in the recycle bin and not trying to palm off on anybody, not even in a box labeled "Free" at the curb.
The reason: the gaggingly awful speech mannerisms of principal character Sam. He has horrible nicknames for his children ("Loozy," "Little-Womey") and affects a phony dialect that makes him sound like a demented babbler in a madhouse of overage babies. It is so staggeringly obnoxious that I would be hoping on every page for the story to turn out to be a slasher novel with six kinds of violent mayhem in store for our Sam. Five hundred pages of this? I need peace in my life, not the vision of a character who makes a good old-fashioned evildoer look like more pleasant company for my reading hours. How could an author even bear to create a character whose dialogue is so sickeningly loathsome that a hopeful, receptive reader turns away in disgust?
Never mind, I don't want to know.
[E]very room was a phial of revelation to be poured out some feverish night in the secret laboratories of her decisions, full of living cancers of insult, leprosies of disillusion, abscesses of grudge,
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gangrene of nevermore, quintan fevers of divorce, and all the proliferating miseries, the running sores and thick scabs, for which (and not for its heavenly joys) the flesh of marriage is so heavily veiled and conventionally interned.Disturbing imagery, yes, but it reminded me of the artfully controlled mad excesses of Look Homeward, Angel, and I thought I'd stay with it to see where it went.
I made it all the way to page 30, with considerable difficulty, and then just gave it up. And this is one of the very few (not so many as ten) books that I will take some satisfaction in placing in the recycle bin and not trying to palm off on anybody, not even in a box labeled "Free" at the curb.
The reason: the gaggingly awful speech mannerisms of principal character Sam. He has horrible nicknames for his children ("Loozy," "Little-Womey") and affects a phony dialect that makes him sound like a demented babbler in a madhouse of overage babies. It is so staggeringly obnoxious that I would be hoping on every page for the story to turn out to be a slasher novel with six kinds of violent mayhem in store for our Sam. Five hundred pages of this? I need peace in my life, not the vision of a character who makes a good old-fashioned evildoer look like more pleasant company for my reading hours. How could an author even bear to create a character whose dialogue is so sickeningly loathsome that a hopeful, receptive reader turns away in disgust?
Never mind, I don't want to know.
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LibraryThing member LizaHa
I kept wishing that I could stop reading this book because it was so ugly, but I couldn't because it was too compelling. It almost physically hurt to read it because it is just bursting with too many sights, too many smells, too much STUFF all falling apart and disintegrating, things falling apart,
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children scrambling for any kind of understanding, and all this roly-poly, hurdy-gurdy dialog tripping along, ugh. And nothing has so much brought back for me the sensation of being a child in a family, but the truth is, I don't really want that sensation. You know how Tolstoy is bursting full of life in a happy way, and even what's sinister is endearing? The Man Who Loved Children reads a little bit like a refutation, where even what might be endearing is sinister, and the only possible respite comes from the ability to stare the ugly truth in the face and see it for what it is. It is bursting full of a kind of life, but it is a life more like decay. Well, in conclusion, I think this was a very good novel and showed a certain angle of truth extraordinarily well, but thank god there are other angles too. Show Less
LibraryThing member ursula
I was a little hesitant when I saw that this book had a blurb from Jonathan Franzen on the cover. But, I told myself, don't let that influence your opinion of the book, because even people you don't like can like the same things you do. Maybe this book will be the tiny kernel of commonality you
This book is not the tiny kernel of commonality between Jonathan Franzen and me. I loathed it. I loathed everyone in it. I loathed the way it was written. Every single thing about it, I hated.
The title character is the patriarch of the Pollit family, Sam. Or Sam the Bold, as he likes to refer to himself. He has a passel of children from his current marriage to Henny, who comes from a socially-prominent family and took a big step down to marry him. He also has one daughter from his first marriage (his first wife, his true love apparently, died). Sam likes to think of himself as fun-loving, principled, and right-thinking. He speaks to his children in incessant babytalk for some reason. Because he thinks it's cute? Because he is a child himself? Because the author really liked to write sentences that have to be sounded out to be understood, while at the same time making the reader feel like a fool for what he or she is now saying?
I cannot even think about this book any more. I understand where the author was going with it, but I got absolutely no pleasure, enjoyment, or enlightenment out of any of it. The lack of likable characters isn't a dealbreaker to me, but the ones in this book were so irritating to me that every page seemed like an eternity and even as the threads of the story came together, it all felt pointless.
Recommended for: masochists.
Quote: "But women have been brought up much like slaves, that is, to lie."
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never wanted between you and Jonathan Franzen, who knows?This book is not the tiny kernel of commonality between Jonathan Franzen and me. I loathed it. I loathed everyone in it. I loathed the way it was written. Every single thing about it, I hated.
The title character is the patriarch of the Pollit family, Sam. Or Sam the Bold, as he likes to refer to himself. He has a passel of children from his current marriage to Henny, who comes from a socially-prominent family and took a big step down to marry him. He also has one daughter from his first marriage (his first wife, his true love apparently, died). Sam likes to think of himself as fun-loving, principled, and right-thinking. He speaks to his children in incessant babytalk for some reason. Because he thinks it's cute? Because he is a child himself? Because the author really liked to write sentences that have to be sounded out to be understood, while at the same time making the reader feel like a fool for what he or she is now saying?
I cannot even think about this book any more. I understand where the author was going with it, but I got absolutely no pleasure, enjoyment, or enlightenment out of any of it. The lack of likable characters isn't a dealbreaker to me, but the ones in this book were so irritating to me that every page seemed like an eternity and even as the threads of the story came together, it all felt pointless.
Recommended for: masochists.
Quote: "But women have been brought up much like slaves, that is, to lie."
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LibraryThing member blackjacket
Started reading it, stopped at page 78. Have not given up yet, just that Sam's dialogue is annoying, e.g. "Tired-oo. Hot head. Spell till munchtime", "Isabel, wasabel-hasabel-possible", and so on. Currently not in the mood for 500 pages of this. I shall return to it later. Even Cloudsreet, another
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Australian classic, took a while to get used to the style. Show Less
LibraryThing member JandL
What a perfectly disturbing and most excellent book! What really got to me was how I started picking up Sam's speech patterns, how much that character stayed in my head! Strong writing. Give it another chance if it feels strange. It took me one false start before I was willing and able to stick
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with it. Show Less
LibraryThing member pewterbreath
This book is Running With Scissors before Running With Scissors--a fictionalized account of a dysfunctional family. The mother is the character I watch, electrifying every scene she's in. Basically it's about a man who keeps a group of children around him in order to be the expert--what at first
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seems nice ends up being him stroking his own ego. Show Less
LibraryThing member DanielSTJ
This book disappointed me. I expected something great from the rave reviews that I had read, as well as its status on Time's Top 100 Novels series, but I was left with a bittersweet taste on my literary taste. I don't quite understand why the novel was supposed to be engaging and it comes off as a
2 stars- not recommended.
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little melodramatic, overdone, and over appreciated. If you are looking for great novels from that list, I would recommend staying clear of this one. 2 stars- not recommended.
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LibraryThing member dogboi
I'll start by saying that I understand why many contemporary novelists are fans of this novel. The family dynamics in this novel are so life-like, I felt like a fly on the wall who is observing a real dysfunctional family. That being said, the novel suffers from a lack of critical editing. It could
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easily have been cut to half the length without any loss of resonance or truth. Still, I recommend it to anyone that writes about family dynamics and any fan of novels centering around those dynamics. Just be prepared to work hard to make it through the overly drawn out center of the novel. Show Less
LibraryThing member skavlanj
A Book Set Somewhere You’ve Always Wanted To Visit
Well, that's what I get for reading that Christina Stead, the author of The Man Who Loved Children, is from Australia and assuming the novel's setting followed suit. I have never been to the land down under. I have been to DC—where the novel is
Until the last chapter, this was a thoroughly deplorable book that left me wondering why it made the 1,001 BYMRBYD list. Some of my early review notes include the observation that Ms. Stead must have been disappointed that The Idiot was already taken by another, much better novel, because her main character displays all the traits of one. Another note, in response to the title of section 5 of chapter 8, "What Will Make Shut You Up," was: apparently, nothing. The preface to my copy credits Sam's annoying patois to various works I'm either entirely unfamiliar with or have only the barest knowledge of: Artemus Ward, Hiawatha, Uncle Remus. I struggled to believe pre-adolescent children would be as enthralled with their father's blathering as portrayed, given the mundane, juvenile nature of the letters they write to him while he is away.
Sam Pollit, the government bureaucrat at that heart of this tale of family disfunction, is an insufferable buffoon of a father who babbles in baby-talk-like gibberish to his children. His wife, Henny, debutant turned wretch, spends the bulk of her days hiding in her room from her verbally abusive husband. The first four hundred pages of the story paint a grim picture of their marriage. Sam takes a ten-month government trip to Singapore. Upon his return, he loses his position (for reasons which go largely unexplained). The family moves to a run-down house in Baltimore, where the unemployed Pollit spends his days in idiotic schemes and activities rather than seeking a way to support his family. Unsurprisingly, the family becomes destitute.
Then, in an inverse deus ex machina, all sorts of awful things happen in the final chapter, leading to an unexpected but long overdue ending which I won't spoil. This last chapter might have been stretched into an interesting novella if prefaced by a brief history of the family's unhappiness which spared readers from slogging through endless pages of Sam's "conversations."
Ultimately, The Man Who Loved Children is a portrait of an unkind father inflicting emotional distress on his hapless wife and children, and the price they all pay for his devotion. While the ending somewhat redeems the novel, I don't agree with the jacket blurb describing it as "one of the great literary achievements of the twentieth century."
Well, that's what I get for reading that Christina Stead, the author of The Man Who Loved Children, is from Australia and assuming the novel's setting followed suit. I have never been to the land down under. I have been to DC—where the novel is
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set—multiple times, and could have done without this visit.Until the last chapter, this was a thoroughly deplorable book that left me wondering why it made the 1,001 BYMRBYD list. Some of my early review notes include the observation that Ms. Stead must have been disappointed that The Idiot was already taken by another, much better novel, because her main character displays all the traits of one. Another note, in response to the title of section 5 of chapter 8, "What Will Make Shut You Up," was: apparently, nothing. The preface to my copy credits Sam's annoying patois to various works I'm either entirely unfamiliar with or have only the barest knowledge of: Artemus Ward, Hiawatha, Uncle Remus. I struggled to believe pre-adolescent children would be as enthralled with their father's blathering as portrayed, given the mundane, juvenile nature of the letters they write to him while he is away.
Sam Pollit, the government bureaucrat at that heart of this tale of family disfunction, is an insufferable buffoon of a father who babbles in baby-talk-like gibberish to his children. His wife, Henny, debutant turned wretch, spends the bulk of her days hiding in her room from her verbally abusive husband. The first four hundred pages of the story paint a grim picture of their marriage. Sam takes a ten-month government trip to Singapore. Upon his return, he loses his position (for reasons which go largely unexplained). The family moves to a run-down house in Baltimore, where the unemployed Pollit spends his days in idiotic schemes and activities rather than seeking a way to support his family. Unsurprisingly, the family becomes destitute.
Then, in an inverse deus ex machina, all sorts of awful things happen in the final chapter, leading to an unexpected but long overdue ending which I won't spoil. This last chapter might have been stretched into an interesting novella if prefaced by a brief history of the family's unhappiness which spared readers from slogging through endless pages of Sam's "conversations."
Ultimately, The Man Who Loved Children is a portrait of an unkind father inflicting emotional distress on his hapless wife and children, and the price they all pay for his devotion. While the ending somewhat redeems the novel, I don't agree with the jacket blurb describing it as "one of the great literary achievements of the twentieth century."
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LibraryThing member japaul22
Oh, this book. I went through many stages of hating this book. I read it because it was a group read for the 1001 books to read before you die group. First confusion was that I thought this was on the list as an Australian class and assumed it would be set in Australia. Nope - Washington,
In the end, the book kept my attention, but only because it was like watching a train wreck. I really wouldn't recommend it.
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D.C./Baltimore/Annapolis. My neck of the woods. This is in essence a family epic - a very large family scraping by in D.C. until the father loses his job and they become basically destitute. But the real problem here is the vitriolic hatred between the father, Sam, and mother, Henny. It's very disturbing to witness, especially consider the book is supposed to be semi-autobiographical. In the end, the book kept my attention, but only because it was like watching a train wreck. I really wouldn't recommend it.
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LibraryThing member stillatim
Why did I not know? How could it be? Stead, or at least this book, ranks with or above the other "all style, little to no story" masters/masterpieces of the century, right there with Joyce, Gass, and White. Her prose might actually be denser than theirs, her commitment to the sentence deeper.
MWLC
And Stead does much better than those esteemed gents at giving you some reason to keep reading, other than art for art's sake. Nobody will ever care whether Stephen and Bloom meet, but here I (at least) really wanted to know how this idiotic family would finally implode.
As with White (who blurbs this edition), Stead is perfect at dysfunctional relationships between individuals; unlike him, she can write about more than one person in any given scene. Like him, she traffics in dualities; but whereas his are abstract and philosophical, hers are rooted in history. Here, Henrietta (conservatism and aristocracy, but in the good way) faces off against Sam (progressive, but in the bad white-man-will-save-the-world way). It's a great portrait of early twentieth century American ideas.
And her rants are often better than Gass's. Consider, if nothing else, Henrietta on suicide:
"There are so many ways to kill yourself, they're just old-fashioned with their permanganate: do you think I'd take permanganate? I wouldn't want to burn my insides out and live to tell teh tale as well; itiots! It's simple. I'd drown myself. Why not put your head in a gas oven? They say it doesn't smell so bad..."
It continues for a page and a half, as she decides how she would, and wouldn't kill herself. It's glorious stuff.
MWLC
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is a flawed book in only one way: the first 100 pages are molasses slow, and to little obvious purpose. The whole thing is repetitive, but the first fifth. Oh boy. The repetition in the rest is earned; the first fifth is, I regret, dull. But much better that way than, as with Gass's 'Tunnel', White's 'Vivisector' or Joyce's everything, sticking the boring bits in the middle or end. And Stead does much better than those esteemed gents at giving you some reason to keep reading, other than art for art's sake. Nobody will ever care whether Stephen and Bloom meet, but here I (at least) really wanted to know how this idiotic family would finally implode.
As with White (who blurbs this edition), Stead is perfect at dysfunctional relationships between individuals; unlike him, she can write about more than one person in any given scene. Like him, she traffics in dualities; but whereas his are abstract and philosophical, hers are rooted in history. Here, Henrietta (conservatism and aristocracy, but in the good way) faces off against Sam (progressive, but in the bad white-man-will-save-the-world way). It's a great portrait of early twentieth century American ideas.
And her rants are often better than Gass's. Consider, if nothing else, Henrietta on suicide:
"There are so many ways to kill yourself, they're just old-fashioned with their permanganate: do you think I'd take permanganate? I wouldn't want to burn my insides out and live to tell teh tale as well; itiots! It's simple. I'd drown myself. Why not put your head in a gas oven? They say it doesn't smell so bad..."
It continues for a page and a half, as she decides how she would, and wouldn't kill herself. It's glorious stuff.
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LibraryThing member charlie68
A good if uncomfortable story of a dysfunctional family in 1930s Washington. Despite the title there is no paedophilic element to the story at all. A story about a toxic couple and their more endearing children. And some great writing to keep the writer company.
LibraryThing member TheWasp
After Sam Pollit's wife died leaving him with baby Louise,he married Henrietta, and produced another six children. Sam loved his children and used them to nourish his immature and egocentric nature. As his brood of children grew, Henny's ability to cope with her children and husband diminish to
Of all the children, we really only get to know Louise but her pain at being the stepchild to a mother who is nasty and a father who is obliviously hurtful is clearly potrayed.
Excellently written.
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either not talking and relaying messages to Sam via the children, or uncontrolled verbal screaming matches.Her ascerbic vitriol is also leveled at Louise. When circumstances reduce the family to poverty, there is no escape from the escalating destruction of the family's relationship.Of all the children, we really only get to know Louise but her pain at being the stepchild to a mother who is nasty and a father who is obliviously hurtful is clearly potrayed.
Excellently written.
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LibraryThing member Helenliz
At first I thought this was going to annoy me bvery much - and, in places, it did. Sam, the father of the family, is very annoying. He loves his children, he thinks he is great with them, but, in reality, he is self centred, foolish and stifles them. He is the child who has never grown up and so
Sam's wife if Henny and she is, in some ways, his opposite. Not just dark to his blond, she has an opposite personality, very much more earthbound, practical, more despondant than optomistic. She, however, is the one that gets the family into money troubles and can't get oiut of them, partly as Sam just declines to be involved in any serious conversation about their issues.
It is the children that I felt for the most. The oldest two are the most finely drawn, Louie (Louise) and Ernest. They are of different character and temprament Louie looks destined for the stage or literature, Ernest to be an accountant or financial whizz of some description. Both are subdued by their father and torn between the behaviour of the two parents. Not that Henny is entirely innocent either. The scene when Ernest finfs his money box has been emptied is a dreadful betrayal.
I can;t say I enjoyed this, the two main characters are far to unpleasant for that to be entirely true. However, it was well written. I felt it got into its stride more at ~ page 200, after Sam had returned from his voyage. The final chapters are a rollercoaster of emotion, although you do finsih feeling that at least Louie will be OK.
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has never learnt to cope with the adult world, and so never shoulders his parental responsibilities. This is reflected in the several conversations he has with Louie, the oldest child, on the cusp of womanhood, he contirnues to call her by her childhood nickname, to belittle her and to make feel worthless in comparison to him. Every conversation they have seems to come round to Sam and what he needs, it is never about meeting Louie's needs. His behaviour is clearly designed to show how much he is in tune with children, but it doesn;t work. The diminutives for the children work to some extent, but they ought to change as they grow older, and these don't. The private language that each family develops itself, immortalising mispronunciations and so on, again OK, that happens in any family, it's the way that the family language that only Sam uses is a mock baby talk that I found grating, it infantalises the children, probably as Sam is unable to deal with them as individuals that have their own needs and wishes - he sees them as an adjunct to him. Sam's wife if Henny and she is, in some ways, his opposite. Not just dark to his blond, she has an opposite personality, very much more earthbound, practical, more despondant than optomistic. She, however, is the one that gets the family into money troubles and can't get oiut of them, partly as Sam just declines to be involved in any serious conversation about their issues.
It is the children that I felt for the most. The oldest two are the most finely drawn, Louie (Louise) and Ernest. They are of different character and temprament Louie looks destined for the stage or literature, Ernest to be an accountant or financial whizz of some description. Both are subdued by their father and torn between the behaviour of the two parents. Not that Henny is entirely innocent either. The scene when Ernest finfs his money box has been emptied is a dreadful betrayal.
I can;t say I enjoyed this, the two main characters are far to unpleasant for that to be entirely true. However, it was well written. I felt it got into its stride more at ~ page 200, after Sam had returned from his voyage. The final chapters are a rollercoaster of emotion, although you do finsih feeling that at least Louie will be OK.
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LibraryThing member amerynth
I just couldn't get into Christina Steads' (the horribly titled) "The Man who Loved Children." I really wanted to like this book, but found myself just struggling to read it page after page. I think it was the writing itself that really made this difficult for me.
The Pollits are an extremely
Sam and Henny are both brutal characters in their own separate ways. I had a hard time with Sam, who talks in baby talk to his children and has a creepy way of interacting with them that I really disliked. I liked the ideas and the central story in this one, but not the way it was written, if that makes any sense.
The Pollits are an extremely
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dysfunctional family -- Henny and Sam haven't really spoken in years except to bark at each other. The impact of their circumstances is felt differently by each member of their large family. Sam and Henny are both brutal characters in their own separate ways. I had a hard time with Sam, who talks in baby talk to his children and has a creepy way of interacting with them that I really disliked. I liked the ideas and the central story in this one, but not the way it was written, if that makes any sense.
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LibraryThing member DeltaQueen50
I am not quite sure where to begin with The Man Who Loved Children by Christina Stead. Let’s just say this book will not make my list of favorite reads. The novel was originally published in 1940 and is about a highly dysfunctional family. It is difficult to say which character deadens the soul
The family begins the book living in a run-down Georgetown house in Washington, D.C. There is a distinct lack of money, sense and love in this family. Nevertheless, she pulls no punches and we read page after page of Sam’s baby talk and Henny’s bitter outbursts leaving the reader feeling like that have just gone through 10 rounds in a boxing ring. The loathing between Sam and Henny made this a very chilling read.
I was overwhelmed by this sprawling, exhausting story but I do admire how the author delivered these deeply flawed, highly unlikable characters and managed to mostly hold my interest. I understand that the author based the characters on her own family, with herself as the oldest daughter, Louisa. If this is true, than, believe me, she has my greatest sympathy. I would have preferred the book to have been shorter but The Man Who Loved Children did vividly and painfully display the structure and the inner life of a disintegrating family and in that, was rather brilliant.
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more, with the contest being between Sam Pollit, the father, who is a narcissistic egotist that talks to his children in highly annoying baby talk, and his wife, Henny, the mother, with her whiny negativity, resentments and many threats of suicide or infanticide.The family begins the book living in a run-down Georgetown house in Washington, D.C. There is a distinct lack of money, sense and love in this family. Nevertheless, she pulls no punches and we read page after page of Sam’s baby talk and Henny’s bitter outbursts leaving the reader feeling like that have just gone through 10 rounds in a boxing ring. The loathing between Sam and Henny made this a very chilling read.
I was overwhelmed by this sprawling, exhausting story but I do admire how the author delivered these deeply flawed, highly unlikable characters and managed to mostly hold my interest. I understand that the author based the characters on her own family, with herself as the oldest daughter, Louisa. If this is true, than, believe me, she has my greatest sympathy. I would have preferred the book to have been shorter but The Man Who Loved Children did vividly and painfully display the structure and the inner life of a disintegrating family and in that, was rather brilliant.
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LibraryThing member mahallett
slow start but got very interesting as it went along.
LibraryThing member wealhtheowwylfing
from Katha Pollitt and Marjorie Williams' discussion at Slate: "It is one of the greatest novels about childhood I have ever read. Actually, it is one of the greatest novels I have ever read -- it should be just as well-known as Ulysses or To the Lighthouse as a classic of twentieth-century
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literature in English. It is overwhelming, extravagant, glittering, bitter, and furious. Stead applies a gimlet eye to everything, from the beauties of the Maryland shore to the precise emotional flow of every single interaction of a household tearing its members apart." Show Less
LibraryThing member piemouth
This was another hard book to challenge myself, like Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy. I got to page 69 and I just wanted something to happen. I get it, everybody's miserable and they all hate each other.
I gave up. I didn't mind that the characters weren't likeable, but I wanted something to happen,
I just didn't see it as the masterpiece it's supposed to be. I'll read the Randall Jarrell introduction and the recent Jonathan Lethem essay in the NY Times. Maybe someday I'll be mature enough to appreciate it.
I gave up. I didn't mind that the characters weren't likeable, but I wanted something to happen,
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and I realized I was dreading opening it for my morning read on the exercise bike. So I started an easy book about trash pickers in New York (Mongo). Later I flipped through it (not even skimmed, it's too long) and read the ending. Huh.I just didn't see it as the masterpiece it's supposed to be. I'll read the Randall Jarrell introduction and the recent Jonathan Lethem essay in the NY Times. Maybe someday I'll be mature enough to appreciate it.
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LibraryThing member therebelprince
A masterpiece. A difficult, challenging, cruelly misanthropic, desperately hopeful (or hopefully desperate?), linguistic feat. Patrick White famously considered Christina Stead to be the greatest Australian novelist, and - although I think he was - Stead must be in the running. The dire situation
Stead must be read on her terms, especially in The Man Who Loved Children, but she will reward those who like their literature confronting, tangled, and inventive. (Also, if you're going to buy a used copy, buy the Penguin paperback from the 1960s with an introduction by Randall Jerrall! He almost single-handedly restored this forgotten 1940s novel to the public eye, and the introduction is a masterpiece of old-world criticism: even-handed, luxurious in its praise but fair in its criticisms, and masterful in its analysis of the central characters and themes.)
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of Henny and Sam's household was based in part on Stead's own childhood (the reason why she fled Australia) and you feel the needle-sharp accuracy of her characterisations. Surely neither of these people can be real. Yet they also feel so true. Yet they also feel so literary. Stead must be read on her terms, especially in The Man Who Loved Children, but she will reward those who like their literature confronting, tangled, and inventive. (Also, if you're going to buy a used copy, buy the Penguin paperback from the 1960s with an introduction by Randall Jerrall! He almost single-handedly restored this forgotten 1940s novel to the public eye, and the introduction is a masterpiece of old-world criticism: even-handed, luxurious in its praise but fair in its criticisms, and masterful in its analysis of the central characters and themes.)
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Awards
Language
Original publication date
1940
Physical description
528 p.; 7.8 inches
ISBN
0140181822 / 9780140181821