Kobi Yamada's "What Do You Do With An Idea?"
Kobi Yamada's "What Do You Do With An Idea?"
Much of what's wrong with the culture can be gleaned from a single children's book
It is easy for the unsuspecting to become entangled in the clutches of romantic thinking, so entrenched is the romantic worldview in the secular West. Well-meaning parents or grandparents may unwittingly read books to children that, although seeming to contain a “positive message,” are actually near-perfect distillations of the secular humanitarianism and self-absorption found in the literary writings of Jean-Jacques Rousseau.
Rousseau, in fact, happens to be one of the major influences behind children’s literature as a genre. Prior to the eighteenth century, there were no children’s books—and I’m starting to wonder if maybe the world would be better off without them (but no, I must remind myself that there are too many wonderful children’s books out there—so enriching and so helpful in forming the moral imagination!).
The opening lines of Rousseau’s Confessions set the tone for today’s children’s books:
“I know my own heart and understand my fellow man. But I am made unlike any one I have ever met; I will even venture to say that I am like no one in the whole world. I may be no better, but at least I am different.”
Ideas of self-importance, uniqueness, and at the same time disregard for moral standards, permeate literature—and not just for children. But it begins with children’s books grooming youngsters to believe that they are each and every one a beautiful snowflake who will, without any special effort, change the world.
To see what I mean, take a look at the books of New York Times bestselling children’s author Kobi Yamada. Yamada’s award-winning books wax on abstract, sentimental humanitarian themes.
I have already mentioned Yamada’s Maybe: A Story About the Endless Potential in all of Us as a juxtaposition with the wonderful books of Elsa Beskow. Here I take a closer look at another of Yamada’s books, What do you do with an Idea?
This book represents almost all that is wrong in the modern world.
This book tells the story of a boy’s big “idea” that is so wonderful, creative, and unique that the young lad is afraid even to tell his family about it. Looking like “a giant egg with a crown and bird legs,” as my second-grader described it, the “idea” becomes the boy’s beloved (and seemingly only) friend.
Nurturing and loving his “idea,” the protagonist believes that there is something magical about it and he feels “better and happier” when it is around. Afraid of what others will says, he eventually shows his idea to others, “though I was afraid of what they would say.”
“I almost listened to them, but then I realized, what do they really know? This is MY idea, I thought. No one knows it like I do. And it’s okay if it’s different, and weird, and maybe a little crazy.”
I am reminded of Rousseau asking in his Reveries, “Am I then the only wise man, the only man who has seen the light?” Yamada would say to the child, yes, you are the only wise one among all these stuffy old fogies clinging to their outmoded ideas. He echoes perfectly (probably without even knowing it) the central message of Rousseau’s Emile, that the child should be free to develop according to his own whims and apart from all that has preceded him.
Yamada wants children to “dream big” and not to listen to the naysayers (i.e. those who hold to traditional ways). The belief that children, “noble savages,” and any who are unsullied by civilization or orthodox religious beliefs have an innate instinct toward goodness is a classic romantic idea. Yamada and others of the Rousseauean cast of mind believe that each child has within him everything he needs to be a noble soul. Religion, the correction of parents, social norms and mores are unnecessary and only serve to distract or even corrupt the natural perfection of the child.
Yamada suggests to children that they can fantasize about any big ideas and that they should expect those around them to discourage their dreaming. It is almost as if Yamada wants to be in on the secret with your child that, over and against your mistaken sensibility, the child’s instinctive ideas are worthy and good. This may be true, sometimes, but more often than not, the impulsive, self-oriented child is not fit for dreaming big dreams (just look at the havoc that Greta Thunberg has wrought on the world, even as her concerned soul looks to build its eighth vacation home).
Yamada then takes the child (and your child) farther down the romantic road to the place where the protagonist decides that the opinions of his community don’t matter, and he should nourish his special idea and let it grow—“Yet I continue to believe in spite of them,” Rousseau declares in the third walk of his Reveries.
Looking up into a dreamlike sky, the child says, “I built it a new house, one with an open roof where it could look up at the starts—a place where it could be safe to dream.”
The visions that are so big and so far-reaching that the ordinary (and especially traditionally minded) folk cannot appreciate their worth is quintessential romantic thinking and, when indulged, can easily drift into megalomania (as it did with Rousseau). Yet today this type of thinking is being encouraged in children.
Certainly not all that is novel or daring is bad. The greatest minds have been highly original thinkers who were sometimes treated unjustly. The romantic fallacy is to hold forth the idea that anyone can be a creative genius simply by dreaming and emoting. Serving this idea to children is doing incredible harm to their ability to cope with reality. Greg Lukianoff and Jonathan Haidt illustrate in The Coddling of the American Mind the disservice done to children in leading them to believe that they are special snowflakes. The mental health crisis is keeping pace with romantic parenting strategies.
Yamada’s protagonist declares, “I liked being with my idea. It made me feel more alive, like I could do anything. It encouraged me to think big…and then, to think bigger.”
In all seriousness, the Jacobins and the Bolsheviks, drunk off the heady wine of their own expansive thoughts, came to mind.
The imagination is a powerful thing. When it is allowed to indulge in “big ideas” that are not tethered to reality by some experience or understanding of history, it can become delusional. The dreamer can easily become obsessed with his grand idea.
This is exactly what happens in Yamada’s story: “I couldn’t imagine my life without [my idea],” the boy says (or thinks? it is hard to say).
We are given a picture of a child attached to an abstract ideal the way that ordinary children are attached to their families—or the way that professional revolutionaries are attached to their utopian schemes.
This book seems to be written not for children but for adults who are into things like funko pops and strollers for dogs. And we wonder why young people are turning away from marriage and religion and toward video games and pornography. It is because utopian-dreaming is being foisted upon their developing minds as if it is worthwhile activity. As they realize that life is nothing like Yamada’s story, they turn to escapism.
The “climax” of this tale is when the boy beams up at the bright future ahead of him, depicted, truly, in the style of socialist realism: “Then, one day, something amazing happened. My idea changed right before my very eyes. It spread its wings, took flight, and burst into the sky.”
This story follows the romantic trajectory like a script: after holding fast to the beautiful dream and exerting no effort, suddenly, one day, the dream becomes a reality—and not just any, mundane reality, but enough to “change the world.”
In spite of all the frowns from friends and family, the romantic dreamer was right all along! His brilliant idea was enough to change the world. No hustle required. No ethical struggle or work to overcome one’s inner demons. Simply persisting in the dream is enough. And that, folks, is the romantic chimera in a nutshell.
Rousseau is again instructive. Lamenting in his Confessions that he is misunderstood and scorned by his fellow men, he says that his only solace was in his solitary walks, “during which,” he says, “I reflected on my great system.”
Despite all of the naysayers, Rousseau held fast to his vision of the world altogether changed. It was during this time that he had his revelation that the key to everything—to all social systems and to all of history—is the simple fact that original sin is a lie. This grand idea is the one which did change the world, but not for the better.
Yamada would do well to recognize that distinctions matter. Not all ideas are good ideas, and especially grandiose thoughts that occurs to the romantic dreamer. In fact, as the world has had the misfortune to learn firsthand, most visions that occur to these solitary walkers are not dreams but nightmares.
The protagonist in Yamada’s story takes much the same trajectory as the arch-romantic Rousseau. The boy is alone, dreams alone, and hides his idea from the people around him, who cannot appreciate its worth. The boy soon leaves their company and is happiest when he is alone with the idea.
From Book Nine of Rousseau’s Confessions:
“The impossibility of attaining the real persons precipitated me into the land of chimeras; and seeing nothing that existed worthy of my exalted feelings, I fostered them in an ideal world which my creative imagination soon peopled with beings after my own heart.”
The fictional boy is so attached to his grand idea that he would die without it. He lives alone with it as his only solace and friend until one day, for no reason at all, the idea suddenly bursts into bloom and changes the world.
But the real conclusion to the romantic dream is not the vision of a changed world but the power that falls into the hands of the dreamer. The will to power is built in. Give me the power to make this dream a reality—only I know how to implement it. From the constitution that Rousseau wrote for Poland (laughed out of town by the Polish) to Le Terreur of Robespierre to the five-year plan of Stalin, built into the beautiful dream is the need for the dreamer to implement the Plan For The Future, down to the finest detail.
The concluding picture from Yamada’s story is revealing:
The crown that once sat atop that chicken-legged egg is now sitting atop the boy’s head. The dénouement of Yamada’s book captures perfectly the romantic will to power. For the visionary, the dream holds the key to power.
None of this was, of course, intentional on the part of Yamada or his illustrator. There is a certain logic that romanticism and romantic thinking follows. For the unsuspecting, it can even take on the appearance of Christian beliefs. Borrowing from traditional-sounding language, the new romantic, secular humanitarian religion can sometimes have the appearance of mimicking Christian charity or neighborly love. I’ll explore the important differences between these two worldviews in a future post.
And Arnold Lobel again for the win:
If there is a children’s book that you’d like me to review (good or bad), leave a note in the comments!