Sterilising works of art and meddling with genius you couldn’t begin to replicate is like replacing Monet with Damian Hirst and then claiming what you lose in beauty, you gain in less discriminatory ink splats.
Like most children of the 1980s, I was introduced to the pleasure of reading primarily by Roald Dahl. That books authored by him have sold 300 million copies worldwide and been translated into 63 languages is a testament to the man’s genius: his wit, his creativity, and perhaps most of all, his profound understanding of the darker side of humanity. When researching his life I was delighted to discover he had rejected the offer of an OBE back in 1986, because he was holding out for the knighthood which would have made his wife ‘Lady Dahl.’ Sadly, he died in 1990, before those wishes could be honoured.
Still, that cuts little ice with the censors, who have decided to sanitise the Dahl canon in a bid to “eliminate words deemed inappropriate” and to “cut potentially offensive language.” To be honest, I’m surprised that leaves him with more than the odd pronoun. The changes come from Dahl’s publisher, Puffin Books, which has decided to accompany all future editions of his books with the following ghastly cacophony:
Words matter. The wonderful words of Roald Dahl can transport you to different worlds and introduce you to the most marvellous characters. This book was written many years ago and so we regularly review the language to ensure that it can continue to be enjoyed by all today.
The review involves an overhaul of any passages relating to weight, mental health, gender, and race, and was conducted in collaboration with ‘sensitivity readers’ from Inclusive Minds, “a collective for people who are passionate about inclusion, diversity, equality and accessibility in children’s literature, and are committed to changing the face of children’s books.”
The Roald Dahl Story Company, which runs the author’s estate, was keen to explain the current review began in 2020—a year before the rights to Dahl’s books were acquired by Netflix—as company spokesman, Rick Behari, emphasised:
When publishing new print runs of books written years ago, it’s not unusual to review the language used alongside updating other details including a book’s cover and page layout. Our guiding principle throughout has been to maintain the story lines, characters, and the irreverence and sharp-edged spirit of the original text.
However, Netflix’s staggering payment of $686 million, coupled with the company’s notorious embrace of ‘wokery,’ leaves me with little doubt from where the sudden need for revision has emanated. In any case, the precise origin of the mutilation is almost irrelevant compared to the shameful cowardliness of it.
Charlie Bucket’s cohort, Augustus Gloop, is now “enormous” instead of “enormously fat”; witches posing as ordinary women have been upgraded from “cashiers” and “typists” to “top scientists,” while “mothers” and “fathers” have been downgraded to “parents” or just “family.” And the terrible tractors from Fantastic Mr. Fox are still “murderous, brutal-looking monsters,” but fortunately no longer “black,” which is of course infinitely preferable. Sterilising works of art and meddling with genius you couldn’t begin to replicate is like replacing Monet with Damian Hirst and then claiming what you lose in beauty, you gain in less discriminatory ink splats.
The desecration of Dahl is the latest campaign in the Left’s relentless assault on history: the erasure of white men for the crime of not being black, gay or female enough; the toppling of the statues of 17th century philanthropists who do not live up to modern ‘woke’ standards, and the boarding up of Winston Churchill to avoid offence. With history successfully airbrushed, they are now rewriting fiction.
The desecration of art is justly a crime. But the rewriting of a work sans authorial consent, particularly for specious ends, is egregious—worse than plagiarism, copyright theft, or even book-burning, which at least has the grace to object to the original openly before its destruction.
The mutilation of Dahl’s work has rightly provoked criticism from the great and the good. Sir Salman Rushdie tweeted the following: “Roald Dahl was no angel but this is absurd censorship. Puffin Books and the Dahl estate should be ashamed.” The comedian Andrew Doyle was pithier, opting for: “These aren’t Dahl’s books. Buy the old versions. Even Prime Minister Rishi Sunak called it correctly for once (assuming it wasn’t his advisers): “When it comes to our rich and varied literary heritage, the prime minister agrees with the BFG that we shouldn’t gobblefunk around with words.”
Roald Dahl was real, warts and all just like the rest of us. That, I believe, is his fundamental appeal—he understands the nastier side of human nature, in all its burping, whizzpopping, nose-picking glory. As the author himself once commented, “I never get any protests from children. All you get are giggles of mirth and squirms of delight. I know what children like.”
Roald Dahl’s biographer, Matthew Dennison, confirmed that Dahl fiercely resisted anyone tampering with his work. Often focusing on individual words or expressions when editing, Dahl “continued to use elements of the interwar slang of his childhood, and aspects of his vocabulary up to his death.” Dennison added that Dahl “resisted unnecessary sanitising,” and would recognise that alterations to his work “reflected adult sensibilities rather than children’s misgivings.” It is a shame that Dahl is not alive to defend his work, but then again, perhaps it is just as well.
One wonders where the censors will turn next, and whether they will inevitably run out of art to object to? How about boycotting Black Beauty on the grounds of animal cruelty? The Mr. Men books for mansplaining? Or Peter Rabbit for bullying? Oh wait, they already did those.
The way the wind is blowing, Roald Dahl’s original works will have died out within a few generations, but presumably books will soon be illegal anyway. One can only entreat the overly sensitive to leave Dahl alone and go back to deconstructing Robin DiAngelo.
Dahl is arguably the finest children’s author of all-time, as he was voted back in 2013, impressively ahead of J.K. Rowling. His legacy should not be damaged by these killjoys, and one can only pray that the general public continues to view him this way. On a positive note, I can’t wait for the snowflake version of The Quran—that should come in a few pages lighter.
Frank Haviland is the editor of The New Conservative, a regular columnist for various UK publications, and the author of Banalysis: The Lie Destroying the West.
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The Desecration of Dahl
Like most children of the 1980s, I was introduced to the pleasure of reading primarily by Roald Dahl. That books authored by him have sold 300 million copies worldwide and been translated into 63 languages is a testament to the man’s genius: his wit, his creativity, and perhaps most of all, his profound understanding of the darker side of humanity. When researching his life I was delighted to discover he had rejected the offer of an OBE back in 1986, because he was holding out for the knighthood which would have made his wife ‘Lady Dahl.’ Sadly, he died in 1990, before those wishes could be honoured.
Still, that cuts little ice with the censors, who have decided to sanitise the Dahl canon in a bid to “eliminate words deemed inappropriate” and to “cut potentially offensive language.” To be honest, I’m surprised that leaves him with more than the odd pronoun. The changes come from Dahl’s publisher, Puffin Books, which has decided to accompany all future editions of his books with the following ghastly cacophony:
The review involves an overhaul of any passages relating to weight, mental health, gender, and race, and was conducted in collaboration with ‘sensitivity readers’ from Inclusive Minds, “a collective for people who are passionate about inclusion, diversity, equality and accessibility in children’s literature, and are committed to changing the face of children’s books.”
The Roald Dahl Story Company, which runs the author’s estate, was keen to explain the current review began in 2020—a year before the rights to Dahl’s books were acquired by Netflix—as company spokesman, Rick Behari, emphasised:
However, Netflix’s staggering payment of $686 million, coupled with the company’s notorious embrace of ‘wokery,’ leaves me with little doubt from where the sudden need for revision has emanated. In any case, the precise origin of the mutilation is almost irrelevant compared to the shameful cowardliness of it.
Charlie Bucket’s cohort, Augustus Gloop, is now “enormous” instead of “enormously fat”; witches posing as ordinary women have been upgraded from “cashiers” and “typists” to “top scientists,” while “mothers” and “fathers” have been downgraded to “parents” or just “family.” And the terrible tractors from Fantastic Mr. Fox are still “murderous, brutal-looking monsters,” but fortunately no longer “black,” which is of course infinitely preferable. Sterilising works of art and meddling with genius you couldn’t begin to replicate is like replacing Monet with Damian Hirst and then claiming what you lose in beauty, you gain in less discriminatory ink splats.
The desecration of Dahl is the latest campaign in the Left’s relentless assault on history: the erasure of white men for the crime of not being black, gay or female enough; the toppling of the statues of 17th century philanthropists who do not live up to modern ‘woke’ standards, and the boarding up of Winston Churchill to avoid offence. With history successfully airbrushed, they are now rewriting fiction.
The desecration of art is justly a crime. But the rewriting of a work sans authorial consent, particularly for specious ends, is egregious—worse than plagiarism, copyright theft, or even book-burning, which at least has the grace to object to the original openly before its destruction.
The mutilation of Dahl’s work has rightly provoked criticism from the great and the good. Sir Salman Rushdie tweeted the following: “Roald Dahl was no angel but this is absurd censorship. Puffin Books and the Dahl estate should be ashamed.” The comedian Andrew Doyle was pithier, opting for: “These aren’t Dahl’s books. Buy the old versions. Even Prime Minister Rishi Sunak called it correctly for once (assuming it wasn’t his advisers): “When it comes to our rich and varied literary heritage, the prime minister agrees with the BFG that we shouldn’t gobblefunk around with words.”
Roald Dahl was real, warts and all just like the rest of us. That, I believe, is his fundamental appeal—he understands the nastier side of human nature, in all its burping, whizzpopping, nose-picking glory. As the author himself once commented, “I never get any protests from children. All you get are giggles of mirth and squirms of delight. I know what children like.”
Roald Dahl’s biographer, Matthew Dennison, confirmed that Dahl fiercely resisted anyone tampering with his work. Often focusing on individual words or expressions when editing, Dahl “continued to use elements of the interwar slang of his childhood, and aspects of his vocabulary up to his death.” Dennison added that Dahl “resisted unnecessary sanitising,” and would recognise that alterations to his work “reflected adult sensibilities rather than children’s misgivings.” It is a shame that Dahl is not alive to defend his work, but then again, perhaps it is just as well.
One wonders where the censors will turn next, and whether they will inevitably run out of art to object to? How about boycotting Black Beauty on the grounds of animal cruelty? The Mr. Men books for mansplaining? Or Peter Rabbit for bullying? Oh wait, they already did those.
The way the wind is blowing, Roald Dahl’s original works will have died out within a few generations, but presumably books will soon be illegal anyway. One can only entreat the overly sensitive to leave Dahl alone and go back to deconstructing Robin DiAngelo.
Dahl is arguably the finest children’s author of all-time, as he was voted back in 2013, impressively ahead of J.K. Rowling. His legacy should not be damaged by these killjoys, and one can only pray that the general public continues to view him this way. On a positive note, I can’t wait for the snowflake version of The Quran—that should come in a few pages lighter.
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