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I began my career as a library journalist with Flowers in the Attic. SLJ editor Lillian Gerhardt had asked me in 1983 to become their YA columnist, and the first thing I wrote about was Andrews, in the essay (named by Lillian), “Passion Power.” As with Twilight, the Andrews books were all about forbidden and forestalled love. (Although less forestalled than Meyer: Chris and Cathy do the deed on page 337 of this new edition, and I would like to thank Elissa Gershowitz for her help in determining this fact.) Flowers in the Attic, although putatively aimed at the adult market, reached precisely the same demographic as Twilight, females aged 10 and up. Through the time of the series’ height, I worked in two very different libraries, a conservative exurb of Chicago and then a poor neighborhood in the inner city, but the craze respected no boundaries–we could not buy enough copies. I wrote then that girls sought these books out because they acknowledged something girls knew–sex was exciting, scary and dark–in a way that the hygienic sex-is-a-wonderful-expression-of-love themes of the the YA problem novels of the day did not. Plus, it’s really hard to miss–probably because reading is generally a solitary act–with a book about secrets.

This was of course all pre-Internet. I wonder how the craze would have played out today?

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“The young miller is naive, vulnerable and over-enthusiastic, with a poetic imagination, but not psychotic! As to the cycle’s ending, his death in the brook makes me think of the Philip Pullman trilogy His Dark Materials. Pullman imagines death as a dispersal into the universe, an absorption into the cosmos, and that’s very much the sense we have here.”

–Tenor Mark Padmore talking about Schubert’s Die schone Mullerin in the November issue of Gramophone.

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And Jon Scieszka leads off the Library of Congress’s Exquisite Corpse adventure. (Thanks to Leila for the tip.) I’m not sureI am down with the LC reading software but my eyes are old.

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No word yet whether or not Baby Einstein foretells a playdate with Old Sparky.

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I got a reminder of simpler terrors this morning on the subway, where I was listening to the new audio edition of Mary Downing Hahn’s Wait Till Helen Comes. The narration was not great, sounding kind of like an irritating fifth-grader who insists on reading aloud for a period longer than her audience has patience for, but it made me wonder if the stark frights of this book are best conveyed from the page directly into the reader’s head, no batteries required. As it was, I was still scaring myself silly. Too many children’s-book-ghosts are funny, or misunderstood, but not the one in this book. And I can’t think of another children’s book that actually has its heroine confront fears of mortality and existential obliteration. (Well, there is that scene in Seven Little Australians where the girl dies screaming about her fear of death. No Beth March, she.)

The fact that Helen so consistently wins children’s-choice awards across the country gives me hope for the future: kids who can handle it are exactly the kind I want around to take care of things when the lights go out.

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