The Enchanted Hour

by Meghan Cox Gurdon

  Dedication

  For Hugo and the Chogen

  Epigraph

  The soul is contained in the human voice.

  —JORGE LUIS BORGES

  Love doesn’t just sit there, like a stone. It has to be made, like bread: re-made all the time, made new.

  —URSULA K. LEGUIN

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Introduction

  1. What Reading to Children Does to Their Brains

  The new science of storybooks, why printed books trump the screen, and why all children need and deserve the cognitive boost now.

  2. Where It All Began: Once Upon a Time in the Ancient World

  The long and lovely legacy of reading aloud, from rhapsodic recitation in classical Greece to the joy of audiobooks.

  3. Reading Together Strengthens the Bonds of Love

  How sharing books aloud sparks the chemistry of togetherness, strengthens connections, and draws people together, even, amazingly, when they may be physically far apart.

  4. Turbocharging Child Development with Picture Books

  Reading with babies and toddlers accelerates the development of trust, empathy, early language, attention span, self-regulation, and healthy, happy routines.

  5. The Rich Rewards of a Vast Vocabulary

  Books read aloud expose listeners to millions of words they might never otherwise read, hear, or learn. How interactive reading gives children the language keys they need to unlock the world, with startling long-term effects.

  6. The Power of Paying Attention—and Flying Free

  Complicated and mysterious things happen when we give children and teenagers time to listen. Escaping the here and now, they can soar in imagination, explore in intellect, and meet complex and sophisticated works of literature as equals.

  7. Reading Aloud Furnishes the Mind

  Art, beauty, and cultural literacy: the enchanted hour is a time to build a wealth of knowledge, pass on the classics, and nurture a child’s aesthetic senses.

  8. From the Nursery to the Nursing Home: Why Reading Aloud Never Gets Old

  Loneliness, love, and a generational promise: how the melding of book and voice enhances the intellectual lives and emotional well-being of adults, too.

  9. There Is No Present Like the Time

  And there’s no time like the present: practical strategies for establishing a daily read-aloud—plus the astonishing true story of what happened when one young family went from zero reading to sixty minutes a day.

  Afterword

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  Notes

  Read-Aloud Books Mentioned in The Enchanted Hour

  More Suggested Stories for Reading Aloud

  Index

  About the Author

  Permissions

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Introduction

  THE TIME WE spend reading aloud is like no other time. A miraculous alchemy takes place when one person reads to another, one that converts the ordinary stuff of life—a book, a voice, a place to sit, and a bit of time—into astonishing fuel for the heart, the mind, and the imagination.

  “We let down our guard when someone we love is reading us a story,” the novelist Kate DiCamillo once told me. “We exist together in a little patch of warmth and light.”

  She’s right about that, and explorations in brain and behavioral science are beginning to yield thrilling insights into why. It’s no coincidence that these discoveries are coming during a paradigm shift in the way we live. The technology that allows us to observe the inner workings of the human brain is of a piece with the same technology that baffles and addles and seems to be reshaping the brain. In a culture undergoing what’s been called “the big disconnect,” many of us are grappling with the effects of screens and devices, machines that enhance our lives and at the same time make it harder to concentrate and to retain what we’ve seen and read, and alarmingly easy to be only half present even with the people we love most. In this distracted age, we need to change our understanding of what reading aloud is, and what it can do. It is not just a simple, cozy, nostalgic pastime that can be taken up or dropped without consequence. It needs to be recognized as the dazzlingly transformative and even countercultural act that it is.

  For babies and small children, with their fast-growing brains, there is simply nothing else like it. For that reason, I’ve devoted a substantial proportion of this book to the young. They respond in the most immediately consequential ways when someone reads to them, and as a result they are the subject of most research on the topic. As we shall see, listening to stories while looking at pictures stimulates children’s deep brain networks, fostering their optimal cognitive development. Further, the companionable experience of shared reading cultivates empathy, dramatically accelerates young children’s language acquisition, and vaults them ahead of their peers when they get to school. The rewards of early reading are astonishingly meaningful: toddlers who have lots of stories read to them turn into children who are more likely to enjoy strong relationships, sharper focus, and greater emotional resilience and self-mastery. The evidence has become so overwhelming that social scientists now consider read-aloud time one of the most important indicators of a child’s prospects in life.

  It would be a mistake, though, to relegate reading aloud solely to the realm of childhood. The deeply human exchange of one person reading to another is, in fact, human, which means that its pleasures and benefits are open to everyone. Teenagers and adults who are read to, or who do the reading themselves, may not win the same degree of scientific interest, but there’s no question that they benefit, too, in ways intellectual, emotional, literary, and even spiritual. For frazzled adults in midlife, whose attention is yanked in a thousand directions, taking the time to read aloud can be like applying a soothing balm to the soul. For older adults in later life, its effects are so consoling and invigorating as to make it seem like a health tonic, or even a kind of medicine.

  We have everything to gain and no time to waste. In the tech era, we can all benefit from what reading aloud supplies, but with children, the need is urgent. Many young people are spending as many as nine hours a day with screens. They are surrounded by technology—it informs their world, it absorbs their attention, it commandeers their hands and eyes—and they need the adults in their lives to read books to them not despite that but because of it.

  In our cultural adaptation to the Internet, we have gained and we have lost. Reading aloud is a restorative that can replenish what technology leaches away. Where the screen tends to separate family members by sending each into his own private virtual reality, reading together draws people closer and unites them. Sitting with a book and a companion or two, we are transported to realms of imagination in warm physical proximity to one another. For children, contemplating the illustrations in picture books quietly and at length helps to inculcate the grammar of visual art in a way that really can’t happen when the pictures are animated or morphing or jumping around. Where the infinite jostling possibilities of the touch screen make us feel scatterbrained, a story read aloud engages our minds in deep, sustained attention. The language of stories helps babies develop the linguistic scaffolding for early speech, and helps young children work toward fluency. When children are older, novels read aloud give them access to complex language and narratives that might otherwise be beyond them. The experience bathes children of all ages in torrents of words, images, and syntactical rhythms that they might not get anywhere else. It brings joy, engagement, and profound emotional connection for children, teens, adults—everybody. Reading out loud is probably the
least expensive and most effective intervention we can make for the good of our families, and for the wider culture.

  The Enchanted Hour is for anyone who loves books, stories, art, and language. It is for everyone who wants to give babies and toddlers the best possible start in life, everyone who cares about the tenderhearted middle-schooler and the vulnerable, inquisitive teenager, and for everyone who has yearned for an encounter with literature that breaks through what Virginia Woolf called “the cotton wool of daily life.” It is for people who have never tried reading out loud. It is for people who’ve read aloud for years. Most of all, perhaps, this book is for everyone who has felt the dulling of emotional connection and the muddying of once-clear ideas and priorities in an era of noisy ephemera, technological enthrallment, and an overbearing news cycle.

  In these pages, you will find enthrallment of a simpler kind. At its heart is the modest act of one person reading to another. It might be a teacher reading to a class, a mother reading to her children, a husband reading to his wife, or even a volunteer reading to a rescue dog. The act is simple, but its repercussions are complex and magnificent. In the chapters that follow, I will lay them out. We’ll explore how sharing books enhances child development and why picture books are better than any tech or toy in giving young children what they need to flourish. We’ll go back in time to an epoch when all reading was performed aloud, to gain a sense of the historical intertwining of voice and writing. We’ll talk about audiobooks and podcasts. Then we’ll explore the stupendous power of the spoken syllable to impart language, grammar, and syntax, and the ways that it can set the listener free from the confines of space and time. The reading voice has been a quiet source of entertainment by a thousand crackling fires and a bridge between generations. In a very real way it has also offered a ladder out of ignorance and an escape route from suffering and bondage—and it still does. It also helps listeners to discover what moves them, awakens an awareness of art and beauty, and equips young people to fulfill their potential as openhearted, curious, cultured adults.

  My hope is that you will find the arguments, anecdotes, and research so exciting that you’ll want to rush off to read aloud to the ones you love most. If that happens, I will have done my part in a great cultural relay race that began for me, as it does for many of us, when I was too young to know what was happening.

  Was I three? Four? At the very edge of memory, I can hear my mother reading Stan and Jan Berenstain’s The Big Honey Hunt and Dr. Seuss’s Green Eggs and Ham. My grandmother’s voice is in there, too, reading The Story About Ping, by Marjorie Flack. The adults in my life stopped reading to me once I was able to read on my own, which is often what happens (and is cause for regret, as we shall see), and then I grew up and the subject went away.

  I didn’t give a thought to reading aloud one way or another for decades, though the idea of it, the beauty and importance of it, had evidently lodged itself in my consciousness. That slumbering idea woke up suddenly one evening when my then-fiancé and I went to a dinner party at the house of our friends Lisa and Kirk, who had a passel of small boys. During cocktails, as everyone was chatting, Lisa excused herself and disappeared upstairs. She was gone so long that eventually someone asked Kirk if there was something amiss. “Oh, no,” he said. “She’s just reading to the boys.”

  She’s just reading to the boys. Any chagrin we might have felt at being stranded by our hostess was replaced, for me, by stunned admiration and a vow to do the same for my own children, if I ever had any. I would put reading aloud first for them, too.

  So it was, twenty-four years ago, that when my husband and I arrived home from the hospital with our first baby, one single bright idea stood out in my bewildered postpartum mind like a neon sign in the fog. I must read to this baby. The moment the front door of our apartment clicked shut behind us, I carried the infant to a rocking chair and picked up a book of fairy tales. It was all very new, very strange, and very disorienting. I propped the book open and began to read.

  “‘Once upon a time,’” I told the baby, Molly, “‘there lived a widower who had one daughter. For his second wife, he chose a widow who had two daughters. All had very jealous natures, which was unfortunate for the gentleman’s daughter, because they made her stay at home and do all the hard work while they put on their finest dresses and went to garden parties . . .’”

  Hot summer sun was slanting though the window. My voice sounded false and stagey in my ears. The baby did not seem to be aware of what was happening.

  “‘The Prince was dancing a minuet with the elder of the stepsisters, when suddenly the music stopped and—’”

  Was she even listening?

  Was I supposed to show her the pictures?

  Wait, was she asleep?

  With a sudden sense of personal failure sharpened by exhaustion and the realization that the whole spectacle was absurd—what kind of maniac reads Cinderella to a newborn?—I felt my throat tighten and tears rush to my eyes.

  It was a messy, inauspicious start to what would become our most beloved family ritual. The Enchanted Hour springs from those early tremulous days and the years that followed as Molly was joined by a brother, Paris, and three sisters: Violet, Phoebe, and Flora. I read to them for an hour or so every night—and I’m still reading today. In the wild time of their extreme youth, settling in after a long turbulent day for our evening retreat with books felt like reaching a life raft. Gratitude and relief would wash over me. We’d made it! Now we could relax. Now was the great part.

  Was the time always enchanted? Certainly not. Reading aloud is often a sacrifice and sometimes a nuisance. Even for a zealot, it’s not always easy to find the time or patience. There were nights when I felt half frantic with wanting to get everyone settled, and nights when the books we chose didn’t satisfy any of us. Sometimes I squinted at the page through eyes smarting with fatigue. I read through head colds and sore throats and once, stupidly, right after oral surgery (and popped a stitch halfway through “How the Rhinoceros Got His Skin”). There were times I couldn’t bear to pronounce every florid description and shortened paragraphs on the fly (sorry, Brian Jacques). There were books that so moved me that I cried, and made my listeners cry, too, because their mother was crying.

  Shortly before Flora arrived in the fall of 2005, I became the children’s book critic for the Wall Street Journal. Overnight, our house was flooded with new children’s books. Fresh titles entered our reading rotation alongside classics and old favorites. For years I was knee-deep in children’s books, hip-deep in children, and up to my neck in the parenting world.

  Then came the first bittersweet departure. In early adolescence, Molly left our enchanted reading circle. A few years later, Paris did, too. Phoebe jumped the line and went third. It was Violet’s decision to go a few years ago, at fifteen, that spurred me to write this book. As I was finishing it, I could see the first tentative signs in Flora that she was readying herself to move on. I’m still knee-deep in children’s books, but soon I won’t be reading them out loud, yet that sound you hear is not a suppressed sob of misery or wistfulness. It’s the thwack of the baton as I pass it on to you.

  Family life can be a hectic and flailing business. Sometimes it’s a struggle to keep everyone afloat, let alone to haul them onto a read-aloud raft at bedtime. Yet it’s an effort worth making, especially now that almost everyone’s raft is tossing on a wide and often lonely sea of pixels. Young and old, we need what reading aloud has to offer. If I were Glinda the Good Witch from The Wonderful World of Oz, I’d wave my wand and bestow the gift on every household, everywhere. Since I am only myself, and wandless, I hope this book will cast the persuasive spell instead.

  Chapter 1

  What Reading to Children Does to Their Brains

  In the great green room

  There was a telephone

  And a red balloon

  And a picture of—

  The cow jumping over the moon

  And there were three little bear
s sitting on chairs . . .

  —Margaret Wise Brown, Goodnight Moon

  In 1947, Christian Dior introduced the New Look to women’s fashion, Jackie Robinson signed with the Brooklyn Dodgers to become the first African American player in the major leagues, and a company called Harper & Brothers published a quiet little bedtime story entitled Goodnight Moon.

  It was a consequential year! Dior’s innovation sparked an exuberant postwar fashion renaissance, Robinson’s dignity and athleticism inspired the world, and the quiet little picture book went on to become the single most cherished text of modern babyhood. Since its first appearance, Goodnight Moon has sold what I believe is known in the trade as a gazillion copies. Generations of children have listened as a grown-up reads the droll, crystalline verses by Margaret Wise Brown that describe a little rabbit’s bedtime routine of bidding goodnight to the things in his room. Innumerable small fingers have touched Clement Hurd’s color-saturated illustrations of the great green room, with its framed pictures, crackling fire, and wide windows with green-and-gold curtains. Innumerable pairs of eyes have lingered over the oddments that make the scene so delectable and distinctive: the rabbit’s tiger-skin rug, the comb and the brush and the bowlful of mush, and the kittens playing with a skein of wool belonging to “the old lady whispering hush.” As the pages turn and the evening ticks on, a tiny mouse moves from place to place and the bright moon rises in a starry sky outside.

  When my children were small, Goodnight Moon was a big part of the evening ritual. I don’t suppose we read it every night, but at this remove it seems as though we did. The cadence of the verse became as familiar and comforting to us as an old stuffed animal. The pictures, though, always had an element of novelty, because we were always looking for something new in them. At some point when Molly was a toddler, she and I invented a game that we called “quizzes.” In the game, it was my job to try to stump her, and later her siblings, by asking them to seek and find obscure things in books such as Goodnight Moon. When the children were very small, it was enough of a challenge for them to spot “the bowl” or “the flames” or “the pair of slippers” in Clement Hurd’s artwork. As they got older, I had to find more exotic objects and use more obscure language to keep the game going.