Good
Night, Good Knight
by
Emily Lloyd
Before we got hitched, my partner and I asked ourselves what
one thing each could do that would cause the other to leave forever.
Her answer? "Cheat." Mine? "Not give me enough time to read."
If you'd asked me why I was put here, then, "to read" would've
been my answer. Half a decade later, I realize the truth is far
more specific, if no less grand: I was put here to read one book — and
to read it (egads!) aloud.
I love best those books that affect me viscerally — sneak
into my speech, get into my figurative pants. I dropped (actually,
threw) Mark Z. Danielewski's creepy House of Leaves more
than once, and wanted to bind it with bungees and lock it away
while I slept. A '50s novel with a character called "Comfort
Goodpasture" propelled me to the mall to purchase white underwear.
I couldn't finish Daniel Woodrell's amazing The Death of Sweet
Mister before buying a sweating six-pack to knock back with
the rest of those salty-dark paragraphs.
No other title, though, could have prepared me for my gut response
to Shelley Moore Thomas's Good Night, Good Knight — the
most memorable reading experience I've had in a decade.
A Dutton Easy Reader, Good Night, Good Knight tops my
list of what can only be called Kick-Ass Books for Storytime.
It's a short list. As a children's librarian with a storytime
group made up of forty two- to six-year-olds, I've got weighty
demands. A plot simple and silly enough for a two-year-old to
grasp and delight in, smart and twisty enough for a six-year-old
to sit rapt for. Plain illustrations: while some of the most
intricate new art can be found in picture books, books that hinge
on it are meant to be pored over with one kid at a time — not
two score.
I want parts to read veryquicklyallinonebreath and words to
land with a floor-shaking thud. A passage to whisper. A chance
to invite the kids to make noise. And, preferably, countless
excuses to not remain seated (I'm not that kind of librarian).
So I find this book with all of the above. A good knight stands
guard in a crumbly-tumbly tower. He hears a roar, jumps on his
horse, cries "Away!," gallops through the king's forest in search
of the source, and finds a dragon... in pajamas, wanting a glass
of water. Pours the glass, goes back to the castle, hears a roar,
jumps on his horse, cries "Away!," gallops through the king's
forest, finds another dragon... in pajamas, wanting a bedtime
story. Reads the story, goes back to the castle....
I decide to read this book to my group. But when storytime
comes, I don't quite read it. I start to, but then I'm possessed,
and the story takes over. I'm striking poses I've never struck
and speaking in tongues that just happen to be the text of Good
Night, Good Knight. This book is so electric, so performable,
so pin-the-groove-on-the-librarian, that the kids respond like
adults at a Robin Williams concert: they're awestruck, and a
bit worried for my heart.
There's smoke coming off me. Think Bono; think John Leguizamo;
think Cookie Monster. Even Doubting James, a blond boy known
to interrupt tales with a withering "Like that could happen," sits
back and lets me do my thing.
As soon as I finish, I want to do it again. This is it, I think,
my niche, my calling, my metier. Alice B. Toklas heard bells
when she met Gertrude Stein; my ears ring after reading this
book to these kids. The performance of my life has taken place
in Dolley Madison Community Library's meeting room. My greatest
hope at this moment is that I'll be asked for an encore next
storytime.
Some people are here to teach, some to raise families, some
to make art that stands Time still or moves it along, some to
hurt people and some to heal them. I'm here to read Shelley Moore
Thomas's Good Night, Good Knight to two- to six-year-olds.
In need of a reference? Please see Doubting James.
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