When It Comes to Abridged Books, Just Say No

I t is my firm and unyielding opinion that abridged books are a detriment to society. We have this strange idea that books must be dumbed down in order for children to enjoy and understand them. Frankly, this is insulting to both the child and the author, and harmful to the literary world and the child’s mind. There are numerous reasons why abridged books should be avoided, but for now, I humbly submit three for your consideration: They diminish a child’s vocabulary, they turn reading into a box-checking activity, and they rob children of a story’s full delight.

Green Ember author S. D. Smith recently sent an email to subscribers, with an essay that warns teachers and parents: “Explain up, don’t dumb down” when using more complicated words with children. As I wrote in the Children’s Literature Supplement (CLS) for the Washington Review of Books:

[Smith] posits that there are two reasons why we try to simplify language for them, the first being compassion — wanting to be completely clear and understandable; the second being laziness — we’re just too tired to explain yet another meaning. He believes neither of these points should deter us, and invites parents and teachers to take “the fear out of learning new words and new things,” and reminds us how beautiful vocabulary can help widen “our capacity for imagination and, therefore, faith.” He quotes a powerful passage from Clay Clarkson, saying, “Vocabulary is critical to an active imagination. A child’s ability to imagine things beyond their own senses is directly related to the depth and breadth of their vocabulary.”

This emphasis on vocabulary reminded me of the wisdom my mom acquired and passed on at home: If we asked her what a word meant or how to spell it, she wouldn’t say, “Look it up in the dictionary,” since the hassle of thumbing through the dictionary might dissuade us from using interesting words. Instead, she would define words and spell them for us whenever we asked, even writing out correct spellings on essay edits. In this way, Mom encouraged our interest in better, stronger words (and promoted interesting lexical discussions) — to lasting effect. The same goes for literature. We often deplore the state of language these days, and the slang and abbreviations thrown around in normal conversation and writing. Why not give children a higher bar to aim for when it comes to language, and why not be enthusiastic ourselves and join them in that quest?

My second beef with abridged books is that they encourage a box-checking mentality in readers. The thought seems to be: There are so many classics and so little time — we must give children everything now, even if it’s not the real, whole, and true deal, so they can say they’ve read it. As I said in the CLS:

This is vastly unfair to all parties involved. Wonder and imagination take time. By handing a child an abridged tale, you’re telling them, in part, that this is a box they need to check, something they should know just to know, and this is a quick way to get through it. This is insulting to both the child and the author, the latter of whom spent time crafting words and plot in very particular ways. If a child isn’t ready for certain stories and vocabulary, then just wait until they are, rather than shortchanging them.

The idea of abridging something already meant for a child is patently absurd. Why on earth would you shorten Tom Sawyer, Black Beauty, or Heidi? They were written for children already, and it’s demeaning to them to take away the chance for them to be challenged when presented with “old-fashioned” words.

Finally, handing a child an abridged book “takes something away from the child,” as I said in the CLS. “They are led to believe they’ve read the full tale, when in fact, they’ve been given but a shadow.” Rather than being abridged, children’s stories should be given to children at the appropriate age and reading level — or read aloud as a family. If you see abridged versions of The Count of Monte Cristo or The Last of the Mohicans, run quickly in the other direction. Then, as Cheri Blomquist stresses throughout her wonderful book Before Austen Comes Aesop, once they have these friends from children’s literature firmly in their hearts and minds, they’ll be prepared for the treasures served up by Dickens, Eliot, and Dante.

I’m well aware that angry comments and emails might come my way over this, stressing how one person or another found great comfort and solace in an abridged classic. But unless they then went on and read the entire book, they’re still missing something key. Simply “reading” something isn’t the point. What matters is wrestling with and delighting in a story’s characters and language.

And before I’m called a hypocrite for some of my earlier National Review essays, my definition of an abridged book is what you see in the Great Illustrated Classics series. These are different from retellings (such as Charles and Mary Lamb’s Tales from Shakespeare) or story Bibles (see Emily Stimpson Chapman’s incredible new publication in this line). In the case of the Lambs, they retain as much language and as many quotations as possible, all while giving children a thread to hold when reading Shakespeare’s full plays. The story Bible also helps children see the connections between what they hear at church each Sunday and the realities of salvation history. In both instances, these authors have sought to enrich children’s experience of Shakespeare and Scripture and prepare them for a lifelong study of both. This is completely different from taking stories already written for children and shortening them even more, or giving them abbreviated adult classics that they have no business reading yet.

I’ve never advocated book-burning, and I won’t start now, but the abridged section of the library is one you and your children would do well to skip. Life is too short to miss out on the total delight of The Swiss Family Robinson, Little Women, and Hans Brinker.