Tom Perrotta's thirty-ish parents of young children are a varied and surprising bunch. There's Todd, the handsome stay-at-home dad dubbed "The Prom King" by the moms of the playground; Sarah, a lapsed feminist with a bisexual past, who seems to have stumbled into a traditional marriage; Richard, Sarah's husband, who has found himself more and more involved with a fantasy life on the internet than with the flesh and blood in his own house; and Mary Ann, who thinks she has it all figured out, down to scheduling a weekly roll in the hay with her husband, every Tuesday at 9pm.
They all raise their kids in the kind of sleepy American suburb where nothing ever seems to happen-at least until one eventful summer, when a convicted child molester moves back to town, and two restless parents begin an affair that goes further than either of them could have imagined. Unexpectedly suspenseful, but written with all the fluency and dark humor of Perrotta's previous novels, Little Children exposes the adult dramas unfolding amidst the swingsets and slides of an ordinary American playground.
|Publisher:||St. Martin's Press|
|Edition description:||First Edition|
|Product dimensions:||5.50(w) x 8.20(h) x 1.00(d)|
About the Author
Tom Perrotta is the author of Bad Haircut, The Wishbones, Election, and Joe College. He lives in Belmont, Massachusetts.
Date of Birth:August 13, 1961
Place of Birth:Summit, New Jersey
Education:B.A. in English, Yale University, 1983; M.A. in English/Creative Writing, Syracuse University, 1988
Read an Excerpt
THE YOUNG MOTHERS WERE TELLING EACH OTHER HOW TIRED they were. This was one of their favorite topics, along with the eating, sleeping, and defecating habits of their offspring, the merits of certain local nursery schools, and the difficulty of sticking to an exercise routine. Smiling politely to mask a familiar feeling of desperation, Sarah reminded herself to think like an anthropologist. I'm a researcher studying the behavior of boring suburban women. I am not a boring suburban woman myself.
"Jerry and I started watching that Jim Carrey movie the other night?"
This was Cheryl, mother of Christian, a husky three-and-a-half-year-old who swaggered around the playground like a Mafia chieftain, shooting the younger children with any object that could plausibly stand in as a gun--a straw, a half-eaten banana, even a Barbie doll that had been abandoned in the sandbox. Sarah despised the boy and found it hard to look his mother in the eye.
"The Pet Guy?" inquired Mary Ann, mother of Troy and Isabelle. "I don't get it. Since when did passing gas become so hilarious?"
Only since there was human life on earth, Sarah thought, wishing she had the guts to say it out loud. Mary Ann was one of those depressing supermoms, a tiny, elaborately made-up woman who dressed in spandex workout clothes, drove an SUV the size of a UPS van, and listened to conservative talk radio all day. No matter how many hints Sarah dropped to the contrary, Mary Ann refused to believe that any of the other mothers thought any less of Rush Limbaugh or any more of Hillary Clinton than she did. Every day Sarah came to the playground determined to set her straight, and every day she chickened out.
"Not the Pet Guy," Cheryl said. "The state trooper with the split personality."
Me, Myself, and Irene, Sarah thought impatiently. By the Farrelly Brothers. Why was it that the other mothers could never remember the titles of anything, not even movies they'd actually seen, while she herself retained lots of useless information about movies she wouldn't even dream of watching while imprisoned on an airplane, not that she ever got to fly anywhere?
"Oh, I saw that," said Theresa, mother of Courtney. A big, raspy-voiced woman who often alluded to having drunk too much wine the night before, Theresa was Sarah's favorite of the group. Sometimes, if no one else was around, the two of them would sneak a cigarette, trading puffs like teenagers and making subversive comments about their husbands and children. When the others arrived, though, Theresa immediately turned into one of them. "I thought it was cute."
Of course you did, Sarah thought. There was no higher praise at the playground than cute. It meant harmless. Easily absorbed. Posing no threat to smug suburbanites. At her old playground, someone had actually used the c-word to describe American Beauty (not that she'd actually named the film; it was that thing with Kevin what's his-name, you know, with the rose petals). That had been the last straw for Sarah. After exploring her options for a few days, she had switched to the Rayburn School playground, only to find that it was the same wherever you went. All the young mothers were tired. They all watched cute movies whose titles they couldn't remember.
"I was enjoying it," Cheryl said. "But fifteen minutes later, Jimmy and I were both fast asleep."
"You think that's bad?" Theresa laughed. "Mike and I were having sex the other night, and I drifted off right in the middle of it."
"Oh, well." Cheryl chuckled sympathetically. "It happens."
"I guess," said Theresa. "But when I woke up and apologized, Mike said he hadn't even noticed."
"You know what you should do?" Mary Ann suggested. "Set aside a specific block of time for making love. That's what Lewis and I do. Every Tuesday night at nine."
Whether you want to or not, Sarah thought, her eyes straying over to the play structure. Her daughter was standing near the top of the slide, sucking on the back of her hand as Christian pummeled Troy and Courtney showed Isabelle her Little Mermaid underpants. Even at the playground, Lucy didn't interact much with the other kids. She preferred to hang back, observing the action, as if trying to locate a seam that would permit her to enter the social world. A lot like her mother, Sarah thought, feeling both sorry for her daughter and perversely proud of their connection.
"What about you?" It took Sarah a moment to realize that Cheryl was talking to her.
"Me?" A surprisingly bitter laugh escaped from her mouth. "Richard and I haven't touched each other for months."
The other mothers traded uncomfortable looks, and Sarah realized that she must have misunderstood. Theresa reached across the picnic table and patted her hand.
"She didn't mean that, honey. She was just asking if you were as tired as the rest of us."
"Oh," said Sarah, wondering why she always had so much trouble following the thread of a conversation. "I doubt it. I've never needed very much sleep."
Morning snack time was ten-thirty on the dot, a regimen established and maintained by Mary Ann, who believed that rigid adherence to a timetable was the key to effective parenting. She had placed glow-in-the-dark digital clocks in her children's rooms, and had instructed them not to leave their beds in the morning until the first number had changed to seven. She also bragged of strictly enforcing a 7 P.M. bedtime with no resistance from the kids, a claim that filled Sarah with both envy and suspicion. She had never identified with authority figures, and couldn't help sensing a sort of whip-cracking fascist glee behind Mary Ann's ability to make the trains run on time.
Still, as skeptical as she was of fanatical punctuality in general, Sarah had to admit that the kids seemed to find it reassuring. None of them complained about waiting or being hungry, and they never asked what time it was. They just went about the business of their morning play, confident that they'd be notified when the proper moment arrived. Lucy seemed especially grateful for this small gift of predictability in her life. Sarah could see the pleasure in her eyes when she came running over to the picnic table with the others, part of the pack for the first time all day.
"Mommy, Mommy!" she cried. "Snack time!"
Of course, no system is foolproof, Sarah thought, rummaging through the diaper bag for the rice cakes she could have sworn she'd packed before they left the house. But maybe that was yesterday? It wasn't that easy to tell one weekday from the next anymore; they all just melted together like a bag of crayons left out in the sun.
"Mommy?" An anxious note seeped into Lucy's voice. All the other kids had opened Ziploc bags and single-serving Tupperware containers, and were busy shoveling handfuls of Cheerios and Goldfish crackers into their mouths. "Where my snack?"
"I'm sure it's in here somewhere," Sarah told her.
Long after she had come to the conclusion that the rice cakes weren't there, Sarah kept digging through the diaper bag, pretending to search for them. It was a lot easier to keep staring into that dark jumble of objects than to look up and tell Lucy the truth. In the background she heard someone slurping the dregs of a juice box.
"Where it went?" the hard little voice demanded. "Where my snack?"
It took an act of will for Sarah to look up and meet her daughter's eyes.
"I'm sorry, honey." She let out a long, defeated sigh. "Mommy can't find it."
Lucy didn't argue. She just scrunched up her pale face, clenched her fists, and began to hyperventilate, gathering strength for the next phase of the operation. Sarah turned apologetically to the other mothers, who were watching the proceedings with interest.
"I forgot the rice cakes," Sarah explained. "I must have left them on the counter."
"Poor thing," said Cheryl.
"That's the second time this week," Mary Ann pointed out.
You hateful bitch, Sarah thought.
"It's hard to keep track of everything," observed Theresa, who had supplied Courtney with a tube of Go-gurt and a box of raisins.
Sarah turned to Lucy, who was emitting a series of whimpers that were slowly increasing in volume.
"Just calm down," Sarah pleaded.
"No!" Lucy shouted. "No calm down!"
"That'll be enough of that, young lady."
"Bad mommy! I want snack!"
"It's not here," Sarah said, handing her daughter the diaper bag. "See for yourself."
Fixing her mother with an evil glare, Lucy promptly turned the bag upside down, releasing a cascade of Pampers, baby wipes, loose change, balled-up Kleenex, books, and toys onto the wood-chip-covered ground.
"Sweetie." Sarah spoke calmly, pointing at the mess. "Clean that up, please."
"I...want...my...snack!" Lucy gasped.
With that, the dam broke, and she burst into piteous tears, a desolate animal wailing that even made the other kids turn and look, as if realizing they were in the presence of a virtuoso and might be able to pick up a few pointers.
"Poor thing," Cheryl said again.
Other mothers know what to do at moments like this, Sarah thought. They'd all read the same book or something. Were you supposed to ignore a tantrum and let the kid "cry herself out"? Or were you supposed to pick her up and remind her that she was safe and well loved? It seemed to Sarah that she'd heard both recommendations at one time or another. In any case, she knew that a good parent would take some sort of clearheaded action. A good parent wouldn't just stand there feeling clueless and guilty while her child howled at the sky.
"Wait." It was Mary Ann who spoke, her voice radiating such undeniable adult authority that Lucy immediately broke off crying, willing to hear her out. "Troy, honey? Give Lucy your Goldfish."
Troy was understandably offended by this suggestion.
"No," he said, turning so that his body formed a barrier between Lucy and his snack.
"Troy Jonathan." Mary Ann held out her hand. "Give me those Goldfish."
"But Mama," he whimpered. "It's mine."
"No backtalk. You can share with your sister."
Reluctantly, but without another word of protest, Troy surrendered the bag. Mary Ann immediately bestowed it upon Lucy, whose face broke into a slightly hysterical smile.
"Thank you," Sarah told Mary Ann. "You're a lifesaver."
"It's nothing," Mary Ann replied. "I just hate to see her suffer like that."
Not that they would, but if any of the other mothers had asked how it was that Sarah, of all people, had ended up married, living in the suburbs, and caring full-time for a small child, she would have blamed it all on a moment of weakness. At least that was how she described it to herself, though the explanation always seemed a bit threadbare. After all, what was adult life but one moment of weakness piled on top of another? Most people just fell in line like obedient little children, doing exactly what society expected of them at any given moment, all the while pretending that they'd actually made some sort of choice.
But the thing was, Sarah considered herself an exception. She had discovered feminism her sophomore year in college--this was back in the early nineties, when a lot of undergraduate women were moving in the opposite direction--and the encounter had left her profoundly transformed. After just a few weeks of Intro to Women's Studies, Sarah felt like she'd been given the key to understanding so many things that were wrong with her life--her mother's persistent depression, her own difficulty making and keeping female friends, the alienation she sometimes felt from her own body. Sarah embraced Critical Gender Studies with the fervor of a convert, taking from it the kind of comfort other women in her dorm seemed to derive from shopping or step aerobics.
She enlisted at the Women's Center and spent the second half of her college career in the thick of a purposeful, socially aware, politically active community of women. She volunteered at the Rape Crisis Hotline, marched in Take Back the Night rallies, learned to distinguish between French and Anglo-American feminism(s). By senior year, she had cut her hair short, stopped shaving her legs, and begun attending Gay, Lesbian, and Bisexual dances and social events. Two months before graduation, she dove headlong into a passionate affair with a Korean-American woman named Amelia, who was headed for med school in New York City in the fall. It was a thrilling time for Sarah, the perfect culmination to her undergraduate voyage of self-discovery.
And then--suddenly and with astonishing finality--college was over. Amelia moved back to Westchester to spend the summer with her family. Sarah stayed in Boston, taking a job at Starbucks to pay the rent while she figured out what to do next. They visited each other twice that summer, but for some reason couldn't recapture what had so recently been an effortless rhythm of togetherness. On the day before Sarah was supposed to visit her in her new dorm, Amelia called and said maybe it would be best if they didn't see each other anymore. Medical school was overwhelming; she didn't have the space in her life for a relationship.
Sarah had nothing in her life but space, but she didn't get involved with anyone else for almost a year, and when she did it was with a man, a charismatic barista who did stand-up comedy and said he liked everything about her but her hairy legs. So Sarah started shaving again, got fitted for a diaphragm, and spent a lot of time in comedy clubs, listening to tired jokes about the difference between men (they won't ask for directions!) and women (they want to talk after sex!). When she tried to explain her objections to humor based on sexist stereotypes, Ryan suggested that she extract the metal rod from her ass and lighten up a little.
Along with dumping Ryan, applying to graduate school seemed like the perfect solution for escaping the rut she was in--a way to recapture the excitement of college while also making a transition into a recognizable version of adulthood. She cultivated an image of herself as a young professor, a feminist film critic, perhaps. She would be a mentor and an inspiration to girls like herself, the quiet ones who'd sleepwalked their way through high school, knowing nothing except that they couldn't possibly be happy with any of the choices the world seemed to be offering them.
Within a couple of weeks of starting the Ph.D. program, though, she discovered that she'd booked passage on a sinking ship. There aren't any jobs, the other students informed her; the profession's glutted with tenured old men who won't step aside for the next generation. While the university's busy exploiting you for cheap labor, you somehow have to produce a boring thesis that no one will read, and find someone willing to publish it as a book. And then, if you're unusually talented and extraordinarily lucky, you just might be able to secure a one-year, nonrenewable appointment teaching remedial composition to football players in Oklahoma. Meanwhile, the Internet's booming, and kids we gave C pluses to are waltzing out of college and getting rich on stock options while we bust our asses for a pathetic stipend that doesn't even cover the rent.
Sarah could see that it was all true, but she didn't really mind once she adjusted her expectations. Graduate school didn't have to lead anywhere, did it? Wouldn't it be worthwhile just to spend a couple of years reading and thinking, reawakening her mind from a long stupor induced by too many espresso drinks and lame one-liners? She could just get her master's, maybe teach in a prep school after that, or join the Peace Corps, or even figure out a way to climb onto the Internet gravy train like everybody else.
What did her in was the teaching. Some people loved it, of course, loved the sound of their own voices, the chance to display their cleverness to a captive audience. And then there were the instructors like herself, who simply couldn't communicate in a classroom setting. They made one point over and over with mind-numbing insistence, or else they circled around a dozen half-articulated ideas without landing on a single one. They read woodenly from prepared notes, or got lost in their muddled syntax while attempting to speak off the cuff. God help them if they attempted a joke. The faces looking back at them might be bored or confused or hostile, but mostly they were just full of pity. That's what she got from her two semesters of teaching: enough pity to last her a lifetime.
Broke and demoralized, Sarah quit school and landed back at Starbucks, this time with a seriously diminished sense of herself and her future. She was a failure, a twenty-six-year-old woman of still-ambiguous sexuality who had just discovered that she wasn't nearly as smart as she'd thought she was. I am a painfully ordinary person, she reminded herself on a daily basis, destined to live a painfully ordinary life.
As if to illustrate this humbling lesson, her old lover Amelia walked into Starbucks one chilly afternoon that fall. She looked absolutely radiant, with a strong-jawed Korean husband standing proudly beside her, and a plump, wide-eyed baby strapped to her chest in a forward-facing contraption. The two women recognized each other right away. Amelia froze in the doorway, exchanging a searching look with Sarah across the length of the floor.
Sarah smiled sadly, trying to acknowledge the strangeness and emotional richness of the moment, but Amelia didn't smile back. Her face--it was fuller, less girlish, with a touch of fatigue around the eyes--didn't betray the slightest sign of desire or regret or even simple surprise. All Sarah could find on it was a familiar look of pity, as if Amelia were just another bored freshman who didn't know what the hell the teacher was going on about. She whispered something to her husband, who cast a quick, startled glance at Sarah before mouthing the word, Really? Amelia shrugged, as if she didn't understand how it was possible that she even knew this pathetic woman in the green apron, let alone that they'd once danced to Aretha Franklin in their underwear and collapsed onto a narrow bed in a fit of giggles that seemed like it would never stop. At least that's what Sarah hoped Amelia was remembering as the perfect little family retreated out the door, leaving her to fake a smile at the next person in line and explain for the umpteenth time that there was no such thing as "small" at Starbucks.
That, she would have explained to the other mothers, was my moment of weakness. Except that it wasn't really a moment. It lasted all through that winter and into the following spring, which was when Richard stepped up to the counter one tedious morning--he was a regular, a middle-aged man with a neatly trimmed beard and an air of quiet authority--and asked if she was having as bad a day as he was, which for some reason felt like the first kind thing anyone had said to her in years. And that was how she'd ended up at this godforsaken playground.
Sarah knelt down and began slowly gathering up the vast assortment of crap that had been disgorged from the diaper bag. She knew she should have asked Lucy to help--at three, a child was old enough to begin taking responsibility for the messes she'd created--but asserting this principle was hardly worth the risk of provoking another tantrum.
Besides, the less help she got, the longer she could stay on the ground, away from the accusatory faces of the other mothers, letting the sharp edges of the wood chips dig even deeper into her kneecaps, inflicting a dull pain Sarah thought she probably deserved and might even begin to enjoy in a second or two.
Her copy of The Handmaid's Tale was lying cover down, on top of The Berenstain Bears Visit the Dentist, and the sight of the two books filled her with an odd sense of shame. She felt a sudden burst of kinship for those medieval flagellants who used to walk through town, publicly thrashing themselves to atone for their sins. Pretty soon she'd be packing a whip in the diaper bag.
"Maybe you should make a checklist," Mary Ann told her. "Tape it to the door so it's the last thing you see before leaving the house. That's what I do."
I am not long for this playground, Sarah thought. She looked up and forced herself to smile.
"Thank you," she said. "That's a really helpful suggestion."
Reading Group Guide
Born in Summit, New Jersey, Tom Perrotta developed his eye for the world amidst the songs of Bruce Springsteen and beneath the glow of dark American movies - The Graduate, Chinatown, Taxi Driver - that graced the Sixties and Seventies. He earned a B.A. in English from Yale University and then received an M.A. in English/Creative Writing from Syracuse University. In 1994, Tom published his first book, Bad Haircut: Stories of the Seventies, a collection of shorts stories that The Washington Post called "more powerful than any other coming-of-age novel."
On the heels of Bad Haircut came two more novels focused on the clash of adolescence and adulthood: The Wishbones and Election, both published to much acclaim, though it was the latter that would prove to be his breakout success. A high school election gone awry, a teacher-student affair, teenagers on the verge of adulthood - Election was a captivating satire that was instantly picked up for film and turned into a popular Paramount movie starring Matthew Broderick and Reese Witherspoon.
Following Election, Tom continued to write about the humor and delight in everyday social interactions, only he shifted his focus to an older - though just as troubled - cast of characters: first with Joe College, a comic journey into the dark side of higher education, love, and food service; and then most recently with Little Children, his most ambitious novel that explores the psychological depths beneath the surface of suburbia. Little Children has been chosen for numerous "Best Books of 2004" lists - including The New York Times Book Review, Newsweek, National Public Radio, and People magazine - and has garnered tremendous praise from all fronts, calling Tom "an American Chekhov" (New York Times) and a "rare writer equally gifted at drawing people's emotional maps...and creating sidesplitting scenes" (People).
Currently, Tom lives with his wife and two children in Belmont, Massachusetts, and is working on the screenplay for Little Children writer/director Todd Field (In the Bedroom), as well as a second screenplay with ex-Frasier writer, Rob Greenberg. He plans to start his next novel when he completes those projects.
1. Compare Mary Ann and Sarah. What do they have in common? Discuss how each mother interacts with her child and how each woman's mothering style would work in the real world.
2. What role do sports – skateboarding and football – play in the novel and, in particular, in Todd's life? Even though Todd is a primary caregiver, he still seems to find free time; what outlet does Sarah have? How can the portrayal of Sarah and Todd be extended to the role of women versus men in society, and does the book do a fair job in representing the two genders?
3. Very few criminals in our culture are more vilified than pedophiles. What do you make of the portrayal of Ronnie McGorvey? Is he a uniquely evil character in the novel, or is he more similar to some of the other characters than they would like to admit? Is he treated fairly by the people in the town?
4. When Sarah and Mary Ann argue about Madame Bovary at the book group, what are they really arguing about? How do Sarah's and Mary Ann's personalities color their arguments about Madame Bovary?
5. Consider Richard and Sarah's marriage: how could two people who are apparently incompatible end up together, and at what point should their unhappiness with their marriage outweigh the commitment they have made to each other and to their child? How harmful is each betrayal to their marriage: Sarah's relationship with Todd, and Richard's obsession with Kay? What would you do in each of their situations?
6. Clearly both Sarah and Todd had delusions about the nature of their relationship; what did each truly expect from the other and how were these expectations met/broken? Were each character's expectations realistic? Were you surprised and/or disappointed by the ending?
7. Which characters do you empathize most with in the novel, and why? Which characters are the least sympathetic? Do your sympathies/empathies shift over course of the novel, and if so, how did the ending change your opinion of the various main characters?
8. What do you make of the motley gathering in the playground at the end of the novel – with Mary Ann, Sarah, Larry Moon, and McGorvey?
9. Is Little Children an appropriate or deceptive title for this novel? What are the different ways the phrase is employed within the book? To what characters does it best apply? In the end, is the title simply descriptive, or does it work on multiple levels?
10. A critic has suggested that "all the noncriminal [characters] in this story are better off in the end than they were at the start." Is this true? Can you think of any exceptions?
11. Critics have differed a great deal in characterizing the tone of the novel. One called it a "gentle satire," while another claimed that "Perrotta has moved into the suburbs with a wrecking ball." Which critic do you agree with? How do you account for this discrepancy in these descriptions?
Most Helpful Customer Reviews
A guy wrote this book? Hmmm... I liked the story but was trying not too because of the "cheating" message. I don't like the idea of people thinking this could actually happen but it was a good book. This is the story of Todd (a stay at home dad) who meets Sarah (a mom) at a local playground. Sarah's husband, Richard is more into the internet sex fantasies he is having rather than his family and Kathy (Todd's wife) is jealous that she can't stay home. This book was hard to put down. I wanted Sarah to leave her husband before she met Todd.
I started reading this book to distract myself before taking my grad school comprehensive exams and did not put it down until I had finished the whole thing in one day. I liked how multi-dimensional the characters were, and how it was hard to try and fit them into a mold (I tried when I first started reading it; the bored wife, the jock, the child molester, but they always kept changing). The plot itself always kept moving, and I liked how it would leave you hanging on one story, talk about another story, and then come back to it to build the tension.
while not an outstanding example of literature, the author develops his characters very well in this 300 page book. the characters in this book are unlikeable and the subject matter is unlikeable but somehow 'little children' will bring great discussion for a book club group and it will be liked.
i heard so much positive feedback from people who have read little children or had heard thru the grapevine, that i was actually excited to read it. i soon realized my expectations were too high. it was readable , but not consuming.it bored me. i couldn't wait to be done with it.
I found the characters in this book so annoying I counldn't finish it. The more I read the more irritated I became with these characters. Perhaps that was the authors intention but it doesn't make for pleasant reading
I bought this book because of the many 5 star reviews, but was disappointed. Mediocre read, cliched characters, obligatory underdog-team-beats-top-team sports event, yawn. Yuppie romantic crisis, yawn. Passes the time, but characters neither intrigue nor stir the reader's emotions. Glad when I finished it.
I am not interested in flawless heroic characters, but thought this book took selfish characters to a new level. Excellent representation of people I knew while living in cities, but not representative of my suburban experience at all. I did not find the satirical elements very sharp, and thought there were too many plot crutches used to further the story. Complex character development might have made the effort more worthwhile.
I thought I would be drawn to this book because I'm a 30ish year old suburban parent of young kids. Although, I finished this book in 6 hours on a Saturday night, I found it sad and disturbing that our American Society have way too many people who can relate to these selfish characters, basically lost in life and purpose, and especially lacking in parenting skills. There were a couple moments where I laughed because of some of the sterotypes Perrota described are soo true. I was hoping to read an amazing ending, but that didn't realize at the end. Despite that, Perrota's command of writing is actually quite enjoyable.
The premise of this book seemed so promising, but ended up being really predictable. The story did have some colorful characters which obviously transferred well to the big screen. Maybe that was Perotta's idea to begin with. The characterization of the playgroup commando mom's was pretty funny and sadly, accurate. But overall, the book was full of very selfish people who put aside their parenting. This book was a good way to spend time at the beach without having to think too much.
This was an entertaining read. It's a good page turner with interesting story lines. I didn't give it a 5 because it's not among the best literature I've read, but it's definately worth a read.
This story has rich characters, prose, and a great plot. I was so impressed with Perrotta. He sucked me in with the voice of his characters from the first page. And the way he changed my sympathies toward the different characters throughout the novel was astonishing. Also, his voice was so objective...he didn't say what was right or wrong and he portrayed each character fairly...displaying their positive and negative qualities without judgment. Finally, the title is fabulous. I thought about the title throughout the book and tried to apply it to the characters and plot. I personally loved the ending...the last paragraph is beautifully written and I love that it doesn't wrap everything up in a nice little package...it stayed true to the themes and characters.
I read reviews of this book, both good and bad, I thought it would be something I would truly enjoy. The drama between Todd and Sarah was what I thought I needed to read. However, I found the story lacking. I needed to believe that Todd and Sarah would indeed both come to their senses and make their marriages work. Having enjoyed their little fling, they would realize that infidelity didn't fullfill all their needs. The relationship between the ex-felon and his mother was simply disturbing to me. He is degrading to her and she keeps coming back for more, ever hopeful he will repent and become the person she wants him to be. Not one of the characters marriage's were ideal. Maybe that was the author's intent. To show the reader that no marriage is perfect, you can be easygoing, or plan everything out, but you can't control the other person. I found myself skimming the last few chapters just so I could have closure for the characters and move on to another book. I am sure some people will like the way the chapters switch from one character to another, I found it distracting.
I've been a fan of this movie for quite some time and finally decided to read the book. Both are excellent, although, naturally I wish I had read the book first. I'm a pretty slow reader and this book is such an easy read; it went by almost too quickly. It's the first Tom Perrotta book I've read, but I feel the need to read more now.
nothing really stood out in this book, other than the characterizations - suburbia must be a lot duller than I remember it
This book was written through the perspective of multiple characters, which is a great way to follow and understand the story line.
Unfortunately, the story was beliveable because some of it happens in everyday society.
The cover didn't really make too much sense to me either. It would have been better if it was a picture of a swing set from the park.
Read the book BEFORE you see the movie. I felt that the movie was a bit flat in comparison to the book.
I really expected this book to be special, especially when I heard about the movie and saw the great reviews given to it. I just didn't think the story was that interesting. The story seems to be about a bunch of people trapped in unhappy marriages or bored with their lives. Well, isn't that what happens sometimes, as we get older? I found it very sad to read about these people just longing for more when I think most of the characters had a lot to be thankful for to start with. Just making excuses to play around if you ask me.
I wanted to read the book after hearing great hype over the movie. Story was entertaining and I couldn't put it down simply because I wanted to see how it ended. I did think that there were large parts of the book that went on and on in endless circles. Do yourself a favor and skip most of the football game chapters.
I could not put down this wonderful book. Perrotta named the sad and at times frustrating truth of life in the suburbs and the difficulty modern men and women have growing up. Every person in the book is a little child--and struggles to discover what it means to grow up. I recognized myself and others and felt like we were seen, named, but not despised. Perrotta has a gift for taking you into his characters and his scenes so that you feel you are right there.
Rather mediocre throughout. The author would have gained an extra star from me if he had pursued the morality-tale ending it looked like he was setting up early in part iv, however he ended up shying away from it instead.
This has got to be one of my favorite books. Tom Perrotta is a great writer -so satirical and hilarious that if you have not read his books, you are really missing out on a treat. He is sarcastic and witty, but truly seems to love his characters and craft them with care. Set during a long hot summer, the novel focuses on several middle aged suburbanites and their relationships with each other. There are affairs, fights, romantic encounters and break-ups enough to make this seem like a soap opera, but the characters are so fine and believable it is far better than any sordid soap opera you will find on t.v. I enjoyed reading this novel and look forward to more!
May's storyline and the how Perrotta ended the novel are the only things that saved this book for me. I considered not finishing it a couple of times, but I'm glad I stuck with it to the end. The last scene was a perfect conclusion.
Good - now I really want to see the movie.
Perotta is haunting and complex. Wonderful writer. This book (and the movie) are so richly presented, you feel right in that world. Also shows how our minds and choices can wreak havoc on our lives.
This book had potential. I loved the fact that it referred to Madame Bovary and might have been a modern version of a great tragedy. However everything is slightly wrong: Sarah is too educated (although you would never guess by her behaviour) and Todd is too ditsy and dependent. The evolution of their relationship and their entourage is nonetheless well done and culminates in perfection. Why then introduce the element of the molester? What was the purpose of this by-line that does not really tie into the main theme? The final scene is certainly a great one, full of shadows and gray zones - an image of the human soul, but it's too little too late. I found that the various bits were dispersed and that the overall story lacked serious structure. A shame because the novel is well-written and the characters are interesting and dynamic.
Little Children starts (and ends) on a playground in the suburbs. On the very first page, we meet the bored, discontented, overeducated Sarah:"The young mothers were telling each other how tired they were. This was one of their favorite topics, along with the eating, sleeping and defecating habits of their offspring, the merits of certain local nursery schools, and the difficulty of sticking to an exercise routine. Smiling politely to mask a familiar feeling of desperation, Sarah reminded herself to think like an anthropologist. I'm a researcher studying the behavior of boring suburban women. I'm not a boring suburban woman myself."As soon as I read this opening paragraph, I knew I was going to love this book. After all, it is set in my world: boring suburbia where I myself am one of the boring suburban women (who tries to break out of this boring world by blogging and writing book reviews like this one). I suspect any stay-at-home mom with a small child has moments of panic and desperation like Sarah. Although you love your children and there are moments of great joy, there are many many moments of brain-numbing boredom, self-doubt and isolation. But back to the plot synopsis...Sarah's world detours into a far more interesting (and dangerous) tangent when she impulsively kisses the Prom King (aka Todd, the attractive stay-at-home dad who is the object of lust and curiosity among the playground moms). This leads to an unexpected affair between Sarah and Todd and causes them to question everything they thought was true about themselves, their lives and their marriages.Unfolding alongside this new and illicit love affair is the arrival of a convicted child molester, Ronnie McGorvey, who moves back home with his mother after his release from jail. Ronnie's presence doesn't sit well with the townsfolk, and he and his long-suffering mother become the target of subtle and not-so-subtle attempts to drive him away from the "safe" life that suburbia supposedly offers.Little Children is a wonderfully rich, deeply satisfying read. It is funny, heart-breaking, suspenseful and utterly believable. Perrotta gets all the little details right, and you get inside the heads of Sarah and Todd, and I found myself simultaneously rooting for them and against them. I thought the ending was just as it should be; anything else would have felt like a cop out. My only real quibble with the book was the subplot with Sarah's husband Richard, who gets increasingly involved with an online fantasy woman called Slutty Kay. This was the only area that didn't ring true to me, and I wish Perrotta had taken Richard in another direction. Other than that, I was utterly entranced with this novel. If you want an introduction this gifted author, then I think Little Children is the perfect start and may possibly be his best book.Excerpt from Todd: He'd told Sarah he didn't know what had gone wrong, but that wasn't precisely true. He knew, he'd just never been able to put it into words. Something had happened to him over the past couple of years, something to do with being home with Aaron, sinking into the rhythm of a kid's day. The little tasks, the small pleasures. The repetition that goes beyond boredom and becomes a kind of peace. You do it long enough, and the adult world starts to drift away. You can't catch up with it, not even if you try.Rating: 4.5 stars