Form Follows Function: The Relationship Between Structure and Content in Three of Karen Hesse's Novels

Louis Sullivan, mentor to Frank Lloyd Wright, once noted that, in architecture, form should follow function; a building should be designed to suit its purpose. When designing a home for a family, for example, it makes sense to create open spaces for gathering and to provide ample storage. These choices encourage family interaction and maintain some semblance of order in the midst and bustle of life. Similarly, a museum that houses large-scale paintings requires a much different setting than one geared toward the display of portraiture; with each, presentation space must be used to meet the demands of the art. Perhaps, more importantly, the resulting ambiance and sense of scale affect the viewer's impressions. Standing in the vast, open corridor of the Louvre and viewing David's larger-than-life portrayal of the coronation of Napoleon feels different from sitting on a warm couch in a small, salon-style room and seeing Rembrandt's intimate self-portrait. To place the one painting in the setting of the other would detract from the power of the piece.

This same premise holds true in literature. Authors make form-related decisions that affect both the structural and thematic integrity of their work. Understanding content may be of the utmost importance in making meaning of a literary text; form, however, should not be ignored. A work without structure is no work at all, as form is driven by content. In fact, an author's choice of form in the creation of a novel may reveal as much or more than the content itself.

Several young adult authors have written works that demonstrate this connection between content and form. Walter Dean Myers, Monster; Ellen Wittlinger, Hard Love, and Liz Rosenberg, 17; for example, have chosen to share, with great success, one of their narratives through a non-narrative form. Karen Hesse, however, has experimented with form in almost every novel she has written; it has helped to define her as an author. She is a risk-taker who recognizes this pattern in her writing, as well as her pleasure in it, as evidenced by her claim, "It seems that the projects I choose demand a different way of telling than the regular prose narrative, but they are very satisfying when you get them right" (Hendershot and Peck 858). Although several of Hesse's novels serve as models of the power that results when form and function collide in literature, three-Letters from. Rifka, The Music of Dolphins, and Out of the Dust-represent the unique personal forms in which Hesse has chosen to ground her stories. By employing personal forms-letters, diary, poetry-in these novels, Hesse celebrates introspection and reaches adolescent readers, in particular, who find relevance in such personal exploration given their reflective nature. Hesse recognizes the needs of her audience and selects forms that will best help them find their way-and themselves-in her stories.

Letters from Rifka

The Plot

Believable characterization and well-developed themes make Hesse's novel, Letters From Rifka (1992), a welcome contribution to the world of adolescent literature. The critics agree. The novel's acclaim is evidenced by its selection as a School Library Journal Best Book of the Year, Horn Book Book of the Year, and recipient of the National Jewish Book Award. As Hesse notes in the novel's foreword, the work is historical and draws largely on the memories of Lucy Avrutin, Hesse's great-aunt. In a collection of letters to her Russian cousin, Tovah, Rifka describes her family's migration from Russia to the United States from 1919 to 1920. We follow her on her tumultuous journey, witnessing the inhumane treatment Russian Jews such as Rifka suffer at the hands of their countrymen, the illness that plagues the family members on their trek, the isolation that Rifka experiences when forced by disease to stay behind, and, eventually, the reunion that grants Rifka her dream of freedom. Letters from Rifka is a powerful work of historical fiction. It is unique in form without being inaccessible, and emotional without being melodramatic. The characterization is complex, and the themes are cogent and richly realized. Lucy Avrutin lived a life far removed from that of many readers, but Hesse has succeeded in conveying her story in a way that is comprehensible, although amazing to imagine.

Correspondence (and Hope) through Letters

In Letters from Rifka, Hesse adopts the use of letters as the structural means through which to tell her story. Rifka writes these letters to her sixteen-year-old cousin, Tovah, who remains in Berdichev. The epistolary form allows Rifka to reflect on "memories of what she has left behind, including the fierce racist persecution" she and her family face (Rochman, 1931). Because she leaves Russia with only a few possessions, Rifka records her correspondence in the margins of a collection of poetry by Alexander Pushkin. As a result, the letters are not sent as they are completed; Rifka, instead, hopes to be reunited with her cousin, at which point she plans to share her experiences.