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Coming of Age Novels
I wonder if coming of age stories ever really stop appealing to us. As I find myself still in the process of youth I'm conscious to the fact that these books and stories may hold deeper direction and meaning for me than say someone who is in their 30s.

I'm thinking of this as I just picked up a collection of F. Scott Fitzgerald short stories and quickly fell in love with the first one about the high school years of a certain Basil Lee.

Fifteen is of all ages the most difficult to locate--to put one's fingers on and say, "that's the way I was." The melancholy Jacques does not select it for mention, and all one can know is that somewhere between thirteen, boyhood's majority, and seventeen, when one is a sort of counterfeit young man, there is a time when youth fluctuates hourly between one world and another--pushed ceaselessly forward into unprecedented experiences and vainly trying to struggle back to the days when nothing had to be paid for.

The entire story was filled with amazing little passages of truth like that. I hadn't read Fitzgerald for some time and was immediately struck at the honesty and natural identity to the text. That he described childhood as a time when nothing had to be paid for resounded strongest in me and seems to capture the essence of an entire age. While reading the short story it was easy to put my own life up for introspection next to the main character's and fit myself into Fitzgerald's own adolescent timeline even though we are separated by nearly a century. Does that constitute truth then? That despite time, technology, war, and change, the venture into maturity and manhood hasn't really changed?

Maybe the coming of age novel only seems so novel to me because I haven't ventured much beyond that point. I haven't experienced life bloom as it only can when we're older. So maybe I can only truly relate to the feelings hidden inside these types of works. Surely it is feasible that as I grow older and maturer, other books will shape and shift and become more meaningful to my current place.

To inch closer to an abstract abyss, maybe all books are somehow about coming of age. Really the only thing that term means is change and growth, and isn't that always part of the human condition? So what makes the coming of age story special? Well, in the coming of age story the whole process is sped up and can be captured in the span of only a few years. The change is so rapid and the emotional is so intertwined with the physical, that I'm sure it is hard for the author to shy away from such ripe (if you will) material.

As I am clearly on one edge of the spectrum, perhaps some of you wizened and aged old timers might toss in your own feelings about coming of age stories and perhaps list some of your favorites.

A few that come to mind :
catcher in the rye
to kill a mockingbird
Just a thought: How is the coming-of-age story different from the Bildungsroman (the formation-novel, or novel of a youth's education)?  Is it?

Even in literatures other than German, the Bildungsroman usually retained its connection to a humanistic notion of culture -- not culture as an entity, but culture as the process we might call 'cultivation.'  Bildung is not education in the contemporary, specialized sense, but the culture or self-culture of an individual.

The coming-of-age story seems to be more specifically about a marked transition from youth to adulthood (or childhood to adolescence, etc.).  Maybe you can find strongly marked transitions in earlier examples of the genre, but it seems to me that this concept of coming-of-age might be a particularly 20th-century notion, and maybe specially American.  Yes, one can find ritual markings of adulthood in all sorts of societies; but I wonder if as a literary phenomenon this is more specific than we might imagine.  In these stories, some kind of ordeal must be overcome before the character can be an adult.  In Wilhelm Meister, Great Expectations, or Sentimental Education, I don't recall such transitions, especially not traumatic ones.  Even if there are stages in the formation of the individual, there's no threshold that bears the weight of the novel.  With Joyce (A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man), there are still stages, but the history of the individual becomes more discontinuous, marked by epiphanies.

Your examples (The Catcher in the Rye, To Kill a Mockingbird) narrate more violent encounters between the individual and society, often organized by sexuality.  Formation of the self becomes a matter of accepting this violence, or adapting to it, or understanding it.  Maybe this change in literature coincides with an expansion of the idea of adolescence.  At any rate, the social awkwardness of adolescence seems to be what Fitzgerald is naming in that passage from "He Thinks He's Wonderful."

One arena of violence that the individual must enter is the market.  Dickens certainly wrote about this, but I don't think he ever imagined childhood as a time when you didn't have to pay for anything.  I like Fitzgerald's phrase.  How American and middle-class is his economic definition of childhood, I wonder?

(By the way, it sounds like you might have run across the story in a general anthology of Fitzgerald; just in case you haven't seen it, I'll mention that there's a collection called The Basil and Josephine Stories.)

Postscript (July 8, 2009 at 8:30 PM):
You also asked for people's favorites.  I'm probably forgetting a lot, and if the distinction I drew is valid, then not all of these are coming-of-age stories.  But here are a few of my favorites:

- I'll mention Joyce again, though I've always loved the stories of childhood in Dubliners more than A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man.
- I'm in the middle of re-reading The Picture of Dorian Gray.
- The Tin Drum
- Tom Jones  (why not?)
- Sentimental Education
- Billy Budd  (does this count?)
- The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn
- The Ghost Writer, and also Goodbye, Columbus

As a representation of modern adolescence, I'm very fond of the film The 400 Blows.
Postscript (July 8, 2009 at 10:34 PM):
A couple more of my favorites:

- Invisible Man  (I don't usually think of it in this context, but why not?)
- And I recently read Memories of Peking: South Side Stories by Lin Hai-Yin (1969), a story sequence/memoir that is among other things a marvelous, subtle account of a girl's maturation.
As counterpoint here is a beautiful passage from Woolf's The Waves in which one of the "characters" sets off home from school for the summer holidays:

"I sit snug in my own corner going North," said Jinny, "in this roaring express which is yet so smooth that it flattens hedges, lengthens hills. We flash past signal-boxes; we make the earth rock slightly from side to side. The distance closes for ever in a point; and we for ever open up the distance wide again. The telegraph poles bob up incessantly; one is felled, another rises. Now we roar and swing into a tunnel. The gentleman pulls up the window. I see reflections on the shining glass which lines the tunnel. I see him lower his paper. He smiles at my reflection in the tunnel. My body instantly of its own accord puts forth a frill under his gaze. My body lives a life of its own. Now the black window glass is green again. We are out of the tunnel. He reads his paper. But we have exchanged the approval of our bodies. There is then a great society of bodies, and mine is introduced; mine has come into the room where the gilt chairs ae. Look -- all the windows of the villas and their white-tented curtains dance; and the men sitting in the hedges in the cornfields with knotted blue handkerchiefs are aware too, as I am aware, of heat and rapture. One waves as we pass him. There are bowers and arbours in these villa gardens and young men in shirt-sleeves on ladders trimming roses. A man on a horse canters ove the field. His horse plunges as we pass. And the rider turns to look at us. We roar again through blackness. And I lie back; I give myself up to rapture; I think that at the end of the tunnel I enter a lamp-lit room with chairs into one of which I sink, much admired, my dress billowing round me. But behold, looking up, I meet the eyes of a sour woman, who suspects me of rapture. My body shuts in her face, impertinently, like a parasol. I open my body, I shut my body at will. Life is beginning. I now break into my hoard of life."


Ok, it's always impossible to follow Woolf but nonetheless wanted to say a couple of things.
Mark, I would say that each age comes with its riddles and its gifts: like Jinny's image of the train, each moment allows one to see things which then disappear.  These novels you mention, after all, weren't written by people aged fifteen. So just to state the obvious, whether or not you feel yourself yet in the place of authority, don't mistrust what you see -- sometimes distance gives a certain clarity as well.

Jeremy, I think your distinction between the sort of existential exit from childhood and the complex process of becoming a participant in or initiate of culture (even if this is a dramatic or dark process) is a very useful one. In the first camp, I'd put for instance A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, and Woolf's flawed but marvelous Melymbrosia. Hesse's Demian is probably in the second, and perhaps the Picture of Dorian Grey?

Also, it's been awhile since I read Sentimental Education but I remember great disillusionments -- were there really no climactic scenes but just a kind of slow sinking? Oh, there's not enough time in the world.
Books Discussed
Virginia Woolf: " Mrs.Dalloway " , " To the Lighthouse " , " The Waves "
by Virginia Woolf
A Tree Grows in Brooklyn (P.S.)
by Betty Smith
Melymbrosia: A Novel
by Virginia Woolf
Demian
by Hermann Hesse
The Picture of Dorian Grey (Boni & Liveright/Modern Library)
by Oscar Wilde


In response to Mia Vialti
Thanks Mia -- Melymbrosia especially looks interesting.  I wasn't even aware of this manuscript.  Strange that it has such an obscure publisher!
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