Gary Paulsen produced a few sterling novels in the 1970s (notably Tiltawhirl John and The Foxman), but the '80s were the launch of his golden era, a decade that saw him win three Newbery Honors. Debuting in 1988, The Island combines the wilderness magic of Hatchet and the plainspoken wisdom of the author's novels from the '70s into a simmering pot of stew like nothing else I've tasted. You have to meditate on a book like The Island to get the most out of it. A superficial read-through is likely to leave you as high and dry as Wil's parents, not understanding what others see in the story any more than the main character's mother and father comprehend his relationship to the island. I encourage you to marinate in Gary Paulsen's words, to see the ether of life as Wil sees it, quietly observing to learn all there is to know, knowledge beyond our brain's capacity to store or process. Let the thoughts fill you like wild birds perching together on a wire with no predators around to bother them, and you'll finish The Island with a new peace about the world and your place in it, an urge to get to know the world you thought you met years ago but were never truly more than passing acquaintances with. If you favor stories of deep philosophy, you might end up saying The Island is the best book of Gary Paulsen's career.
Wil Neuton at age fourteen isn't so different from other kids. He's tall—over six feet—but he's no transcendentalist before moving with his parents from Madison, Wisconsin, to the rural northern part of the state when his father lands a promotion within the highway department. Wil misses his friends and the girl he liked who never showed interest in him, but leaving Madison isn't a huge deal. Besides the local handyman, a frightful-looking oldster named Emil Aucht, the new town is easy to adjust to. Wil meets Susan, a girl his age who lives on a dairy farm, and they settle into an easy friendship despite Wil's typical lack of social grace for a boy of fourteen. His parents are laid-back, so Wil can take off on his bike all day to explore, and he has time for that and more as summer rolls in. Then he comes upon the U-shaped island out on Sucker Lake, and a small minnow boat to ferry him there, and Wil's life changes. It's not Susan behind the change so much as the island, but she's in the mix too, every experience in Wil's life helping it happen. His first day on the island Wil watches the loons out on the water, eyeing him warily in case he turns out to be a threat. Wil occasionally makes too much noise and the island's animals scurry for cover, but he doesn't want to scare them off, and learns quickly how not to. Sitting on the island, just him and the animals, the change is already setting in. On his way back to shore that evening, Wil knows he'll return to his island. The realization is as natural as can be.
Any boy-girl awkwardness with Susan fades when she recognizes that Wil is no longer the shy boy he was when they met only a few days ago. His trips to the island are a sacred venture she doesn't intrude on without permission, hailing him from shore to ask if he'll pick her up and take her back there with him. Wil hardly knows how to explain what he's doing on the island every day, sometimes writing his parents a note saying he's going to camp there for a day or two at a time. Sitting silently and watching the island creatures without judgment or motive, he absorbs a small, priceless portion of their essence, the miracle of life, and hungers for more. Yet who can know anyone or anything perfectly, even after a lifetime in their presence? Wil's desire for more, to know the animals, know himself, know his family and friends and strangers, is insatiable, but it calms down on the island, surrounded by wildlife in its most unencumbered form. He explains what he sees to himself by drawing pictures, though he's not a talented artist, and by writing what he feels in his notebook. Susan can't fathom what Wil's doing until he allows her an intimate peek into his new life: the notebooks, the sketches, depicting an inner fulfillment Wil never knew until he stepped on the island, tuned out the world's cacophony, and began listening to his own reflections about the drama of nature happening around him. The unpretentious beauty of Wil's recorded thoughts, conjured into existence for no reason but that such thoughts are worth having, chokes Susan up with emotion. She's never met a boy like Wil, with the patience to find himself in the majesty of solitude and not wave the quiet away in favor of mindless entertainment. It's barely a surprise to her when Wil confides his intention to stay on the island as long as necessary to learn what he's meant to find here. He won't step foot off it until then, fearful of this feeling being gone by the time he returned to reconnect with the earth's ancient spirit. Susan leaves to inform Wil's parents, and promises to bring food and writing/drawing supplies for as long as he stays. Susan visits every day, and still the boy watches and learns.
"Perhaps when I am grown I will not know anything. Perhaps that is the way it works, the way it is with growing. When you grow, you start to unlearn things."
—The Island, P. 127
Finding himself can't be that easy, of course. Wil's parents arrive in a motorboat, grim and unhappy, insisting their wayward son go home with them. They don't know why Wil is bivouacking on a strange island; is it drugs? Is he doing drugs in secret? Has he hooked up with a cult? Is that why he speaks of meditating out here alone, and won't come home? Wil could lose every piece of the puzzle that he's assembled inside himself if he's forced to vacate his island now. His mother and father see only a rebellious teen, but that's not what this is about. He wishes they could reconcile themselves to what he must do out here, but even if they can't, he's not going back. Weird news travels rapidly, and before long there are other anxieties for Wil: a bully who inflicts damage with his fists and can't seem to express himself any other way; a journalist fascinated by a teen living alone on an island, wanting to get the scoop, to know why he's really here, aware that she isn't seeing the whole picture at first; television news reporters who shoot footage of Wil to broadcast to even more people, most of whom have zero chance of grasping why he'd want to be alone on his island. But his parents are the only hurdle that matters, the only ones besides Susan who he cares if they understand his ambiguous quest. Attaining peace means knowing the people who belong to you, and Wil hopes the island's insights can bridge the gap between parent and child as they stand on opposite sides and coax each other to join them on their side. Resolving the impasse may be the island's final lesson for Wil, though he'll never truly stop learning from it. However it happened, he, the island, and its animals are as one now. The transformation occurred the first moment he stepped on its sandy shore.
The Island has no flashy plot twists, but its wisdom is as deep as anything by Gary Paulsen, a bold claim to those who've read him. The story is a mineshaft that seems to extend down forever, the soil and rock packed with revelatory thought like jewels of inestimable value. Wil observes the blue heron in action, performing its graceful dance above the water and striking at frogs under the surface for a meal, and he knows he could devote his life to understanding the heron, to just understanding one frog it ate, and he'd never come close to even that. Serious readers go at literature the same way, hoping to gain some personal epiphany from the lives of the characters. Yet it's impossible to be familiar with every book, impossible even to absolutely know one book, though you read it a hundred times and glean more each time through. That's the mystery of creativity, the practically infinite nuance of everything, a wonder of drama and design. Non-readers don't get why we're passionate about books, clinging to them like life preservers on the rough ocean, but it's because they are life preservers; without them we'd be tossed about by whatever waves take us, with no power to defend ourselves. Our own inertia, the discouragement of others, pressure to conform to societal prejudices, are waves that would drown us if we had no literature to buoy us with challenges to the way we think, innovative philosophy, and hopeful words to keep our heads above water. We'll never exhaustively know ourselves, but without stories, we'd scarcely know ourselves at all.
Many Gary Paulsen novels leave a tenacious residue of thought, The Island more than most. When Wil and his parents move in to their new house in upper Wisconsin, his mother plasters on a fake smile and "We'll get by somehow" cheerfulness, a habit that annoys her son and husband more than it alleviates stress. As Wil sees it, "(Y)ou didn't want somebody running around smiling and saying, 'We'll get by,' when the house was on fire; you wanted somebody to yell 'fire!'" I've never heard that criticism phrased quite so adroitly, and I'll remember it when I encounter people who lean on synthetic positivity in suboptimal circumstances. Each chapter of The Island opens with a short essay by Wil, presumably written while he's voluntarily marooned on his island, and some of the book's better insights are found here. "Adults can be strange", he starts one. "It's almost as if they have their own natural laws that have nothing to do with the natural laws the rest of us use." He tells about his uncle who called him a fool for playing Dungeons & Dragons for an entire weekend at a friend's house. Yet that uncle once spent the same amount of time playing poker with Wil's father and a few other guys for pennies. What's a less foolish way to invest your hours, D&D or poker? Adults tend to have a superiority complex toward kids, assuming their own activities are naturally better, because what do kids know? Wil's anecdote exposes that as the soft and all-too-common bigotry of adulthood. Another essay comments on blind faith in the tradition of growing up, getting a job, and working until retirement. Wil buys into that concept when a favorite teacher emphasizes it to his students, but Wil's resolve wavers one spring day when his friend Petey invites him to go fishing. Why should he wile away his prime years at a thankless job when he could do something rewarding instead? To be financially secure, the teacher answered, "To have leisure time when he got old". For what? "Well, he said, to go fishing." "But I can go fishing now," Wil replied. It makes you reevaluate the tenets of society we unquestioningly accept. Is a few years of comfortable retirement when you're old worth mortgaging the precious years of your youth? It's something to think long and hard about.
The endless variety within a single creature first dawns on Wil when he imitates the pristine grace of the blue heron, first by moving his own body to match it and then attempting to capture the bird's essence in a series of drawings and essays. "And he realized he could sit and write and draw and dance the heron, just the heron, for all the pages of all the rest of his life and not understand it. He could spend all of what he was just on the heron...I can try but I cannot know it. And there was some fear in the knowledge but also satisfaction that there could be mystery like that, a mystery that he could spend his life on and not understand." When you fall in love, you feel the sweet, stifling urgency in your chest to know that person inside and out, to have them as they can only be yours after you know all there is to know about who they are. But a soul can't be apprehended; you could reach out forever and never take hold of it. That unsatisfiable passion is what draws you to your beloved after you settle into relational normality. As Wil watches the heron, trying to distill its life energy into something he can intellectually grab hold of, a new way of looking at the bird comes to him. "But it was not enough to see him as he is and then I decided that the way to look at him, to look at blue herons with all their beauty, might be to see where they aren't; to look for the shadow of them instead of the body of them." Wil grasps the heron in his mind by seeing its reflection in the water at its feet; by seeing the wind that sways the reeds but doesn't move the heron, poised in the water hunting for food; by seeing the sky it fills with its elegant form, and the golden morning sun. "I could see the heron in all the things the heron was, without seeing the heron at all, and it changed me, made me look at all things that way, made me see in a new way and, finally, made me look at myself in that new way. Not at what I was, not at what I looked like or could see of myself but at what I wasn't that made me what I was. I saw...myself in my friends, saw myself in Susan, saw myself in the faces of my parents and the way my mother smiled or my father yelled—in all that I wasn't I found myself...At the end, I could see myself in the heron." Is there a better way to see the true person than looking at how they affect others? Seeing how people fit around them in a crisscross of emotional ties, how they influence, enrich, and grieve those people. It's all part of the story, revealing the person we're dying to know, and by seeing ourselves through the places we aren't, we can see our own struggle in any creature that exists. The impact we have on others writes the story of who we are.
By the time Wil's parents get involved in his stay on the island, we've seen what the place means to him, and fret at the possibility of him being forcibly removed. Wil has found something that allows him quiet happiness, which everyone says they're in search of but too often tear down when someone finds it in a place that doesn't make sense to them. How could his parents think nothing of stealing his serenity? Wil's mother and father aren't given to overreaction, but his recent discovery of self and the marvels of life won't translate for his parents. "(T)here was something this time they couldn't get past, some part of what he was doing they couldn't see, and he knew only that he had to do it. More than anything in his life he had to do this." His parents become histrionic as he calmly refuses to go with them. His father says he won't make him leave immediately, "Because he wasn't sure that would help Wil, to make him leave, help him with whatever his problem was, whatever it turned out to be. Something psychological, he said—it was something psychological, the problem." Isn't it amazing how people react if we find solace in a lifestyle that doesn't compute for them? You can be smart, rational, ready to explain why you feel as you do, but if your choices strike them as unnatural or improper, the hostility levied against you is likely to be intense. What does it matter if no else one can see the beauty of the island you've discovered, as long as you enjoy it? Violent reactions by others can make you doubt, as noted in Wil's stream of thought. "When [his parents] were gone, Wil stood a moment, looking across the bay, wondering if there were really something 'psychological' about him, a problem he could not know about because if he knew, it wouldn't be a problem—one of those weird things. But as he stood, the loons came back around...and into the bay; then when the motor sound was completely gone the bird sounds came back, and he decided it didn't matter. He was not what he had been before, and his parents were not what they had been, and a great sadness was there, was part of that knowledge, but still it was so. He was what he was, and if he was wrong or had mental problems, that was still the way he was, the way he had to live. He was what the island had made him and continued to make him." You can't empirically know if your refuge, the unexpected source of undying joy in your life, is as real as you perceive it or the delusion of a mind desperate for something more to life, but what is there for us but to live as our heart tells us we must? Our island may be the best thing we'll ever know, and we must not let anybody evict us from it. It would rend the soul from flesh, bone, and blood, a trauma from which there is dim prognosis of recovery. The time is at hand to explore your island. Don't let anyone talk you out of doing so.
It isn't only animals and his own family that Wil wants to know. He listens intently as Susan tells him all about her mother, a woman he met only once. Susan spills more details than she remembered knowing, of her mother's stressful adolescence and long road to happiness with Susan's father. What brought about change for her? Susan guesses it was finding the love of her life, but Wil senses it's more than that. Marriage was the result of change, not the change itself. Wil figures out what it was. "And in the end I could only guess, could only hope to see a tiny part of it. It comes down to core. The center of Susan's mother was her, was always her, and when things didn't work right around the center she would change them but keep the center, keep the core. She and Susan had the same core. I think. The same center so that when the gold light hit them they were the same person because the gold somehow lighted the center of them, lighted the core of them. And I thought that if I could know the center of her, of Susan's mother, then I would know Susan. So I tried but I think now it's something you can't do. You can't really know it but only try to know it and that's perhaps what living with other people is about, trying to learn the center of them, learn what they are, learn their core when they are in the golden dusty light of a kitchen window." The people we love and depend on are indispensable, but maybe we're still something without them, even when they exit our lives and the light fades with them. We put our all into loving them, convinced they're the greatest good we can know, but maybe there's quality stuff in our core that helps us adapt to losing them, repurposing the energy of our sorrow to find life again after crushing loss. It's the core that sustains us, the core of himself and others that Wil is pursuing on the island. His search will never be over, but life is about trying to find that core even as it hovers perpetually just out of reach. We'll never run out of islands to explore.
Subtlety in teen lit isn't rare, but The Island takes it to a new level. You'll make it to the end and think not much happened if you're not attuned, so take your time digesting this story. As long as I've gone on about it in this review, I'm not sure I've captured its magic, but that's the point: no bird, close friend, or novel can be absolutely assimilated. Enigma will remain regardless of how hard we try, and that's not a bad thing. For novels of profound thought, that means with each read we can expect to learn more, and The Island certainly merits a few rereads. I'd give it three and a half stars, and considered rounding to four. This book will influence my philosophy for the long haul, and I'm glad for that. May it do the same for you.