A Tree Grows in Brooklyn: Betty Smith

So, erm, wow.

When I finished this book, I decided to write two letters.

Dear marketing team at Random House, did you actually read this book before deciding to print on the cover ‘in the best-selling tradition of Angela’s Ashes? Because, y’know, one is a work of art, and one is not; one is fiction and one is memoir, and something can’t be in the best-tradition of something else, if it was written forty years before it, can it?

Dear Secretary of State for Education, it seems like every American reads A Tree Grows in Brooklyn in high school, and if I had discovered this book at forteen it would have made my soul explode with joy.  Please can you put it on the National Curriculum so that forteen year old girls in future don’t just have to read Pride and Prejudice over and over again?   (Also, there should probably be an Official Book Chooser and I’m available at very reasonable hourly rates.)

Normally, while I’m reading, I fold over corners and put in notes for myself so that I can remember what I was thinking about for when I come to review it.  But I loved A Tree Grows in Brooklyn so much that I immediately gave it away to my best friend.  And then I promised my sister she could have it next.   So I am left with my impressions rather than my thoughts.

However, I don’t feel too bad about not properly reviewing this because you’ve probably read it already anyway.

I can’t ever remember reading a book which had such a compelling teenage female protagonist.  Or which was so clear-eyed and unsentimental about the effects of poverty.  Or which really communicated what it’s like to have an alcoholic parent who still deeply loves you.  Or which wrote about social problems without wearying or depressing you.  Or where each character is more compelling and more human for being flawed, and which explains and understands, but does not judge or moralise about these people.  Or which juggles different viewpoints and voices so successfully.  Or which is so truthful and honest and realistic; so generous and whole-hearted and open to both the glories and horrors of family life; so uplifting without being trite.  And you honestly won’t believe that it was written in 1943.

I did not read this book, I devoured it.  It’s beautiful.  Read it, please.

Shout out to Kathy, Bailey and Melody who told me that this book changed their world as teenagers.  It’s never too late.  Thanks guys!