Art imitates life, then life imitates art, but “artist” Mary Walling Blackburn has written a children’s book so ghoulish as to inspire the worst dystopian nightmares our society has ever dreamed.
In the book, little Lee is looking for his (or her) sister.
Lee asks Papa, “Is my sister in that tree?”
“You could find a sister in the tree if you wanted to,” muses Papa.
Lee is Papa and Mama’s only child for now, although there once was a sister.
But Papa and Mama could not keep her. Where does Sister live now?
Lee alternately looks for his sister as an apple, or as a pig, with Papa dispensing such wisdom as,
“If you would like the apple to be your sister…”
“But, the winter is long and you would have to eat her!”
You’d think maybe the book is simply dealing with the grief of a child whose sister died before she was born, but it’s not. The book is advocating and indoctrinating children into the life of choice: abortion as killing without remorse.
You need only read the dedication to see that:
To Little Friends, earthly and unwordly.
Masochists, look elsewhere; between these pages you will not find the “luxury of grief,” culpability’s sharp sting or salty guilt.
Lee comes to the conclusion that her aborted sister is “a happy ghost.”
Papa remembers that the sister ghost is on Lee’s mind.
“Lee, you have some good reasons to not have a sister right here right now.
Maybe you will have another sister when there is more time, and there is more money.”
Lee might not be listening. Or perhaps Lee is speechless.
Lee does not understand—there is no answer. Lee calls out: “Is it time for lunch?!”
Papa understands that Lee is confused, and also hungry. It’s time for lunch.
And there you have it. Abortion on demand, for no other reason than momma wants one, and aborted sister is just a happy ghost. I’m sure that Lee will grow up well-adjusted, with no further questions (“why didn’t you abort me, mommy?” “do you love me more than sister?”) or concerns in the world.
Ms. Blackburn, along with a panel of—I don’t know what to call them—discussed the book.
…the kid’s book as problematized radical device; the adult artist as ally/obstacle to the infant-provocateur; and finally the child-ghost as absconder, stranger, and clandestine leader in hostile realms. In the US, whence became of the politicized children’s photo books of the 1970s? What of the unborn antagonist—does she spook the form? Finally, we will search for the moment when the fictive child crosses the threshold into the real as secessionist, as underground revolutionary leader.
What the $%*@ is that? The “fictive” child as an underground revolutionary leader?
This book reminds me of another, written 83 years ago, as a warning, by Aldous Huxley. In that book, the fictive Savage crosses his own threshold into the real—in a world where “mother” is a profanity, infants are decanted instead of born, and everyone dies at 30 years old to deprive them of the “luxury of grief, culpability’s sharp sting or salty guilt.”
“Art, science—you seem to have paid a fairly high price for your happiness,” said the Savage, when they were alone. “Anything else?”
“Well, religion, of course,” replied the Controller.
“It’s a subject,” he said, “that has always had a great interest for me.” He pulled out a thick black volume. “You’ve never read this, for example.”
The Savage took it. “The Holy Bible, containing the Old and New Testaments,” he read aloud from the title-page.
[The Controller reading aloud from Cardinal Newman’s book] “We are not our own any more than what we possess is our own. We did not make ourselves, we cannot be supreme over ourselves. We are not our own masters. We are God’s property. Is it not our happiness thus to view the matter? Is it any happiness or any comfort, to consider that we are our own?”
Surely such sentiments are hopelessly archaic to parents who would read “Sister Apple, Sister Pig” to their children. Truly they sacrifice their humanity along with their children at the altar of convenience and—art.
I pray for these sad zombies, led by death merchants like Mary Walling Blackburn, who have constructed and crossed into their own Brave New World, making gods of themselves.
(crossposted from sgberman.com)