Hans Christian Andersen’s Birthday, April 2nd, is also International Children’s Books Day. It’s also the thirtieth anniversary of the day when I, somewhat randomly, brought a bouquet of daisies into the childen’s room of my local library in commemoration of that fact, which bouquet a young redheaded library assistant effiecienty prepared and vased, which led to ta talk baout crossbows which led to … anyway thirty years later, we are still finding things to talk about.
But I digress. Hans Andersen was born dirt-poor in a Denmark so conservative the king still ruled by fiat. Insanity ran in his family, and the fear of it haunted him all his life. But he grew up in a family of storytellers. His cobbler father, and his grandparents, when they were sane, filled his head with folktales and snippets of history that the boy used to concoct his own compensatory dreams of glory. It was the beginning of a fairy tale.
When he was still a boy, he left Arhus for Copenhagen in hopes of making his living as a singer — he had a superlative voice — and on the way encountered a party of nobles who were impressed enough with him take him with them and present him to the king. He got a shot at some education through their help, and his fairy tale entered its second act.
In the third act, he became a dighter, a word for which there is no equivalent in English, but which means a writer with an elevated style. His plays and essays earned him little attention in Denmark at first, but his fairy tales translated into English made him a celebrity in Britain, and caused his own people to take a closer look at what they had.
Andersen spent the rest of his life collecting accolades. They saw his tales for what they were — satires on social conditions in Denmark, a country where there really were little match girls freezing to death in alleys. This only made him more important as Denmark began to change into the liberal, decent nation it has become.
He was vain, insecure, demanding and greedy. He fell desperately in love with unattainable men women and men, but finally only cared about himself. He wrote his autobiography twice, to construct a past he could live with.
He remains not just a great children’s author but a great author. he demonstrated that stories that are written for children don’t have to ignore or deny the problems, even the horrors, of the real world. Writers like Suzanne Collins can trace a line of descent from Andersen.
All of which may be something to think about when you’re asked, “When are you going to start writing for adults?”
