Reading with my Kids: The Jungle Books by Rudyard Kipling

Source of book: I own both Jungle Books

As regular followers of this blog recall, I participate in an online book club, hosted by my friend Carrie at readingtoknow.com. This is our second year, and we are focusing on classics - an even mix of adult and children’s books. This month’s selection was the The Jungle Book by Rudyard Kipling. Although only the first book was officially selected, I and others decided to read both books..

My first experience of The Jungle Book came as a small child, when my mother read “Rikki-Tikki-Tavi” to us. With all the good sound effects.

I believe this was before I had even seen the Disney movie based on the stories. (Yes, back in the dark ages when I was a kid, Disney movies were re-released in the theaters occasionally, but were difficult to find - even as video rentals - otherwise. Now, Disney has realized that immense sums of money can be made off of their back library.)

I later read through both books a couple of times. This time, I decided to read them to the kids.

The books were a little bit of a stretch for my two youngest, but the older kids thoroughly enjoyed them.

Kaa in particular was popular with my snake-loving older son. He was laughing uproariously during the scene in “Kaa’s Hunting” when Kaa paralyzes the chattering monkeys.

Kaa glided out into the center of the terrace and brought his jaws together with a ringing snap that drew all the monkey’s eyes upon him.

“The moon sets,” he said. “Is there yet light to see?”

From the walls came a moan like the wind in the tree-tops: “We see, O Kaa.”

“Good. Begins now the Dance - the Dance of the Hunger of Kaa. Sit still and watch.”

He turned twice or thrice in a big circle, weaving his head from right to left. Then he began making loops and figures of eight with his body, and soft, oozy triangles that melted into squares and five-sided figures, and coiled mounds, never resting, never hurrying, and never stopping his low, humming song. It grew darker and darker, till at last the dragging, shifting coils disappeared, but they could hear the rustle of the scales.

In the Disney cartoon, Kaa’s hypnotic powers are used against Mowgli, of course, rather than the monkeys; but they took inspiration from the book. (See below.)

In general, those expecting Kipling’s original to resemble the cartoon will be disappointed. Kipling isn't generally known for being a humorist. There are moments here and there, but in general one is more likely to find excitement and earnest adventure than comic relief. This isn’t a bad thing. Kipling writes a good short story, and his novels are also fun - particularly for boys. (I’ll particularly recommend Captains Courageous and Kim for children. Puck of Pook’s Hill for high schoolers - an underrated book.)

Also, the books are roughly half “Mowgli” stories, and half other, unrelated stories. Some of the stand-alone stories are set in India, while others are set in the Arctic - which seems a bit funny for a “jungle” book, but there you are. With the exception of “Rikki-Tikki-Tavi,” I think the Mowgli stories are stronger than the others.

An Adjutant Bird, which features in “The Undertakers.”

Because I think it is a really cool bird.

Ones I particularly like are “Letting in the Jungle,” “Her Majesty’s Servants,” and “The King’s Ankus.” I appreciated “Red Dog” more than I did when I was young, and was rather surprised that the kids liked it. It is pretty darn scary, and has more death in it than most of the others. That whole scene with the bees, though. That is one well written and paced, tension filled tour-de-force. Perhaps too dark for Disney, but that seems made for the movies.

The kids, though, adored the unforgettable mongoose. I think I did the sound effects pretty well. Maybe as well as my mom. Maybe. The kids liked them well enough. Again, filled with suspense and danger - and some pretty good trash talking too.

I will have to complain just a little, though, about having to explain Colonialism to the kids. I didn’t pay that much attention when I was little to the constant use of the term “white man.” Kipling is well known, of course, for his Colonialist attitudes. He was even a bit controversial in his own day. Still, it felt weird the way that “white man” stood in for “English.” He used that term too, but often, the color was enough to denote all the glory of the British Empire. Likewise, he tends to use his opportunities to contrast the civilized English with the “savage” ways of the Indians. He’s not entirely wrong. I could write quite a bit on India’s ongoing and longstanding problems with class and gender. (From the Caste system, which still classifies some as “untouchable” to the custom of “Suttee” and the modern gang rapes which make headlines. Also, for a compelling account of the transition from British rule to self government, I highly recommend Nirad Choudhury’s second autobiography, Thy Hand, Great Anarch. Hands down one of the best non-fiction works I have read in the last five years.)

Still, it seems a bit gratuitous in the context of the stories. (I particularly dislike “The White Seal” - in which it is the white seal that leads his darker brethren to paradise, because they lack the ability to look beyond their day-to-day life to the possibilities of establishing a civilization.)

I’ll also complain about the fact that in “Quiquern” - and, come to think of it - the only females who get names are the mothers. It is Kotuko and “the girl,” even though she is a key part of the adventure. Couldn’t she at least get a name?

On the other hand, Kipling does create imaginative renderings of his animal characters. (One of the reasons I like “Her Majesty’s Servants” is the way he translates the animal characteristics into personalities and dialogue. You really can imagine each animal talking that way. Likewise, in the advice and illustrations Baloo and Bagheera and Kaa give fit with their natural characteristics. Here is some of “The Outsong,” the poem of the final words given to Mowgli as he leaves the jungle.

Kaa:

Anger is the egg of Fear--

Only lidless eyes are clear.

Cobra-poison none may leech.

Even so with Cobra-speech.

Open talk shall call to thee

Strength, whose mate is Courtesy.

Send no lunge beyond thy length;

Lend no rotten bough thy strength.

Gauge thy gape with buck or goat,

Lest thine eye should choke thy throat,

After gorging, wouldst thou sleep?

Look thy den is hid and deep,

Lest a wrong, by thee forgot,

Draw thy killer to the spot.

East and West and North and South,

Wash thy hide and close thy mouth.

(Pit and rift and blue pool-brim,

Middle-Jungle follow him!)

Wood and Water, Wind and Tree,

Jungle-Favour go with thee!

In fact, the poems are an underrated facet of this book. Kipling was a skilled poet, and his best poems are memorable. As with the stories, some have aged poorly, but ones like “If,” his paean to stoical self control and dedication to principle are still relevant today.

The Jungle Books are imaginative and original, and do make a good read-aloud selection for older kids. Like Tom Sawyer, they also can spark a bit of a discussion about race and privilege; and also the importance of separating out the messages from the excellent writing. Because Kipling really does write very well. A little critical thinking can tease out the thrill of the story and the excellent ideas of honor, loyalty, truth, and disregard for the false promises of wealth from the cultural dross.

And really, go read your kid “Rikki-Tikki-Tavi” today. Rikk-tikk-tikki-tikki-tchk!

Note on Sterling Holloway:

Kaa has always been my favorite character from the Disney movie. (My mom’s too. She talked about him before we got to see the movie in its theater re-release.) Here is the key scene:

I love how Kipling’s vision of the coils which are ever changing in shape are rendered in the animation.

The character is voiced by Sterling Holloway, who is probably my favorite voice actor of the era. (Yeah, even beating out Mel Blanc by a hair. Maybe. I’m on the fence.)

In addition to Kaa (and his counterpart, Sir Hiss from Robin Hood), Holloway also voiced the grownup Flower in Bambi, the original Winnie-the-Pooh, Roquefort in The Aristocats, and the Cheshire Cat in Alice in Wonderland. That’s a pretty unforgettable bunch. And they will always sound like Sterling Holloway in my head.

Note on “The White Man’s Burden”:

Probably this poem caused more problems for Kipling’s reputation than any of his other works. (Indeed, this poem brought the phrase into the lexicon.) He wrote it as an encouragement to Theodore Roosevelt to colonize the Philippines. There is one school of thought that says that he intended it more ironically than it appears on its face. However, the bulk of Kipling’s work would tend to support the idea that he meant it exactly as it reads: fully in favor of the White Man’s duty to dominate the world.

Opinions differ on whether American involvement in the Philippines was predominantly negative or positive, of course; particularly in light of the prior Spanish colonization. History is messy in any case, and the “what ifs” can never truly be answered. Regardless, the poem is pretty striking in its arrogance. Read it for yourself and make up your own mind.

Take up the White Man's burden--

Send forth the best ye breed--

Go bind your sons to exile

To serve your captives' need;

To wait in heavy harness,

On fluttered folk and wild--

Your new-caught, sullen peoples,

Half-devil and half-child.

Take up the White Man's burden--

In patience to abide,

To veil the threat of terror

And check the show of pride;

By open speech and simple,

An hundred times made plain

To seek another's profit,

And work another's gain.

Take up the White Man's burden--

The savage wars of peace--

Fill full the mouth of Famine

And bid the sickness cease;

And when your goal is nearest

The end for others sought,

Watch sloth and heathen Folly

Bring all your hopes to nought.

Take up the White Man's burden--

No tawdry rule of kings,

But toil of serf and sweeper--

The tale of common things.

The ports ye shall not enter,

The roads ye shall not tread,

Go mark them with your living,

And mark them with your dead.

Take up the White Man's burden--

And reap his old reward:

The blame of those ye better,

The hate of those ye guard--

The cry of hosts ye humour

(Ah, slowly!) toward the light:--

"Why brought he us from bondage,

Our loved Egyptian night?"

Take up the White Man's burden--

Ye dare not stoop to less--

Nor call too loud on Freedom

To cloke your weariness;

By all ye cry or whisper,

By all ye leave or do,

The silent, sullen peoples

Shall weigh your gods and you.

Take up the White Man's burden--

Have done with childish days--

The lightly proferred laurel,

The easy, ungrudged praise.

Comes now, to search your manhood

Through all the thankless years

Cold, edged with dear-bought wisdom,

The judgment of your peers!

Note on “If”:

I can’t leave a review of Kipling on a sour note. I really do love reading his works, both prose and poetry. I loved “If” the first time I read it, and still think that we would do well to impress its thoughts on our sons - and our daughters too.

IF you can keep your head when all about you

Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,

If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,

But make allowance for their doubting too;

If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,

Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,

Or being hated, don't give way to hating,

And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;

If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;

If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster

And treat those two impostors just the same;

If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken

Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,

Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,

And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings

And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,

And lose, and start again at your beginnings

And never breathe a word about your loss;

If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew

To serve your turn long after they are gone,

And so hold on when there is nothing in you

Except the Will which says to them: 'Hold on!'

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,

Or walk with Kings - nor lose the common touch,

If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,

If all men count with you, but none too much;

If you can fill the unforgiving minute

With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,

Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,

And - which is more - you'll be a Man, my son!

Gitanjali by Rabindranath Tagore

Source of book: I own a beautiful hardback edition of this book. See below.

Rabindranath Tagore lived from 1861 to 1941, and is best described as a Bengali Renaissance Man. He had a breathtaking range of knowledge, and wrote well in many genres, and in multiple languages. It would not be exaggeration to say that he brought the romance of India to the Western world more than any other figure, perhaps even Ghandi himself. (Thy Hand, Great Anarch, which I previously reviewed, has a fascinating chapter on this remarkable man.)

Tagore received the Nobel Prize in literature for Gitanjali, the first Indian national to do so. He later repudiated the prize after the British opened fire on a crowd, an event which probably was decisive in triggering the Indian Independence movement. (Tagore may or may not have appreciated that the Nobel Prize committee is awarded by a Swedish, not English, committee.)

Gitanjali means “song offerings,” a title which captures its essence fairly well. The work is a series of 103 poems which are largely devotional in nature, and which combine and synthesize the divine with both nature and romantic love. This is not exactly a new idea, of course, nor one limited to any particular religious tradition. (The Old Testament, for example, contains numerous beautiful examples of both. I might use both Song of Solomon and Psalms as a comparison.) Rather, this work exemplifies a universal, eternal, longing of the human spirit: that of unity and fellowship with the Creator.

At the outset, I would like to offer two observations: first, poetry is not the ideal medium for the exposition of clear theological thought and argument. Poetry at its best does convey truth, and often truth that cannot be thought, but rather felt. However, one should not try to parse every word of the poet and build a systematic school of thought from it. I would thus urge the reader to read this collection, not with the goal of agreeing or disagreeing with the details of the theology or worldview, but with the goal of finding common ground in the “groanings that cannot be uttered.”

Second, this is, without a doubt in my mind, one of the most beautiful collections of introspective poetry ever written. I am not a scholar, so I can merely guess that Tagore, with his wide range of knowledge and experience, intentionally made use of language that his English speaking (and largely Christian) audience would find familiar. Thus, there are references that those familiar with the Bible (and the Greek philosophers) would recognize. If anything, this renders the sentiments more universal and resonant.

I can only quote a few excerpts, but will note that there are few weak poems in this collection. Tagore arranges them in a rough arc from youth to death, and each poem builds and follows on the last.

Gitanjali opens as follows:

I

Thou hast made me endless, such is thy pleasure. This frail vessel thou emptiest again and again, and fillest it ever with fresh life.

This little flute of a reed thou hast carried over hills and dales, and hast breathed through it melodies eternally new.

At the immortal touch of thy hands my little heart loses its limits in joy and gives birth to utterance ineffable.

Thy infinite gifts come to me only on these very small hands of mine. Ages pass, and still thou pourest, and still there is room to fill. 

The poet responds to this inspiration from the deity with a wish for simplicity of worship.

VII

My song has put off her adornments. She has no pride of dress and decoration. Ornaments would mar our union; they would come between thee and me; their jingling would drown thy whispers.

My poet's vanity dies in shame before thy sight. O master poet, I have sat down at thy feet. Only let me make my life simple and straight, like a flute of reed for thee to fill with music. 

Or this:

LVIII

Let all the strains of joy mingle in my last song---the joy that makes the earth flow over in the riotous excess of the grass, the joy that sets the twin brothers, life and death, dancing over the wide world, the joy that sweeps in with the tempest, shaking and waking all life with laughter, the joy that sits still with its tears on the open red lotus of pain, and the joy that throws everything it has upon the dust, and knows not a word.

I love how the poet focuses on worship expressed as Joy and Love.

LXV

What divine drink wouldst thou have, my God, from this overflowing cup of my life?

My poet, is it thy delight to see thy creation through my eyes and to stand at the portals of my ears silently to listen to thine own eternal harmony?

Thy world is weaving words in my mind and thy joy is adding music to them. Thou givest thyself to me in love and then feelest thine own entire sweetness in me. 

Tagore also writes a number of beautiful lyrics about nature and its relationship to life and the divine. There are many good examples, but I am partial to this one:

XXI

I must launch out my boat. The languid hours pass by on the shore---Alas for me!

The spring has done its flowering and taken leave. And now with the burden of faded futile flowers I wait and linger.

The waves have become clamorous, and upon the bank in the shady lane the yellow leaves flutter and fall.

What emptiness do you gaze upon! Do you not feel a thrill passing through the air with the notes of the far-away song floating from the other shore? 

I also liked this musing on separation:

LXXXIV

It is the pang of separation that spreads throughout the world and gives birth to shapes innumerable in the infinite sky.

It is this sorrow of separation that gazes in silence all nights from star to star and becomes lyric among rustling leaves in rainy darkness of July.

It is this overspreading pain that deepens into loves and desires, into sufferings and joy in human homes; and this it is that ever melts and flows in songs through my poet's heart. 

It was interesting, too, to contrast Tagore’s worldview with that of New Testament theology. To me, Tagore is always expressing a longing for a knowledge he will never have, at least until death. He wants to call the unnamed deity a friend, but feels a sense of distance. He is always longing, but never finding fulfillment. He is ever reaching toward his desire, but that desire only comes to him while asleep, and he ends up missing the connection he longs to have. This lack of a two-way relationship lends a bittersweet feeling to many of the poems.

It is only in death that the poet expects to find fulfillment.

 

XCII

I know that the day will come when my sight of this earth shall be lost, and life will take its leave in silence, drawing the last curtain over my eyes.

Yet stars will watch at night, and morning rise as before, and hours heave like sea waves casting up pleasures and pains.

When I think of this end of my moments, the barrier of the moments breaks and I see by the light of death thy world with its careless treasures. Rare is its lowliest seat, rare is its meanest of lives.

Things that I longed for in vain and things that I got---let them pass. Let me but truly possess the things that I ever spurned and overlooked. 

Tagore comes closer to the Apostle Paul’s view of grace in several other poems. He notes the universal tendency of humans to attempt to reduce the divine to a set of rules and regulations. He resists the attempts at bondage, but looks to the love of the Divine as the higher calling.

XXXII

By all means they try to hold me secure who love me in this world. But it is otherwise with thy love which is greater than theirs, and thou keepest me free.

Lest I forget them they never venture to leave me alone. But day passes by after day and thou art not seen.

If I call not thee in my prayers, if I keep not thee in my heart, thy love for me still waits for my love. 

This freedom he longs for is not just personal, but national. Indeed, if any country has suffered as a result of its blind traditions (the Caste system, widespread corruption), it is India. Tagore’s vision remains unfulfilled, but it is still a most noble vision, shared by luminaries such as Milton. This is my personal hope for myself and those I love: that our world may not be continually narrowed, but that it may be ever expanded into the infinite goodness and truth of the divine. Simply one of the best of the collection.

XXXV

Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high;

Where knowledge is free;

Where the world has not been broken up into fragments by narrow domestic walls;

Where words come out from the depth of truth;

Where tireless striving stretches its arms towards perfection;

Where the clear stream of reason has not lost its way into the dreary desert sand of dead habit;

Where the mind is led forward by thee into ever-widening thought and action---

Into that heaven of freedom, my Father, let my country awake. 

One more poem spoke to me in a personal way. In I Corinthians 13, the Apostle Paul speaks of the three truly eternal things that will remain after all else passes away: Faith, Hope, and Love. Of these, of course, the greatest is love. Everything else will pass away, and we will be left with Love, as personified in the Divine. “For now we see only a reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known.” This is the ultimate hope and longing. This is the true meaning of fulfillment.

Tagore expresses this in a way that encompasses both the aspiration and the knowledge that, in this life at least, we fail. In the end, I will give myself up, through love, into His hands.

XVII

I am only waiting for love to give myself up at last into his hands. That is why it is so late and why I have been guilty of such omissions.

They come with their laws and their codes to bind me fast; but I evade them ever, for I am only waiting for love to give myself up at last into his hands.

People blame me and call me heedless; I doubt not they are right in their blame.

The market day is over and work is all done for the busy. Those who came to call me in vain have gone back in anger. I am only waiting for love to give myself up at last into his hands.

Note on the edition: My brother, who is also a book junkie, has always had a knack for finding outstanding gifts for me. He located this hardback edition of Gitanjali, published by Floating World Editions, a small, artsy publisher of Asian works. This book is a pure pleasure to hold, to feel, and to read. It is a perfect size (8 x 5) for a poetic work, the materials are high quality, and the layout is beautiful. The illustrations by Mark W. McGinnis are interesting and apropos without being overwhelming or distracting from the text. 

 Mark W. McGinnis' illustration for VII, quoted above.

My only quibble is that there are a couple of obvious typographical errors. (For example, at one point, “now” is printed where “know” is the obviously correct word.) Regardless of this, the book is a joy to own and read.

Note on the translation: This is Tagore’s own translation of his work. Interestingly, it is not a direct translation from the original Bengali work. Tagore edited, omitted, and combined the poems to make a new work. Many Bengalis consider William Radice’s later translation to be more accurate to the original. I would be interested in reading that version. However, Tagore’s own translation is excellent for what it is, whether it is “authentic” or not. The English version can be simply regarded as a separate work in its own right, equally representing Tagore’s artistry.