The classic French fairytale, Puss in Boots, is translated into English and illustrated by the marvelous Marcia Brown in this lovely picture book. ComThe classic French fairytale, Puss in Boots, is translated into English and illustrated by the marvelous Marcia Brown in this lovely picture book. Coming to the youngest of three sons as an inheritance, the eponymous feline hero manages to transform his human's fortunes through his clever schemes. Reinventing his human as the Marquis de Carabas, Puss manages to convince the king of France that his master is a great and wealthy nobleman, eventually winning the estate and castle of an ogre for him, as well as the hand of the king's daughter...
Published in 1952, Puss in Boots is a translation of the original tale, Le Maître chat ou le Chat botté, as written by seventeenth-century French author Charles Perrault, whose work has also given us popular versions of Cinderella, Little Red Riding Hood and Sleeping Beauty. Brown's telling here is engaging, and her accompanying artwork delightful. It's easy to see why this was a Caldecott Honor book in 1953! As with Brown's Cinderella; or, The Little Glass Slipper, which won the Caldecott Medal in 1955, I found the artist's use of color here appealing, and appreciated her elegantly stylized figures. Recommended to young fairy and folktale lovers, and to any picture book readers looking for retellings of the traditional story of Puss in Boots....more
Cinderella; or, The Little Glass Slipper, retold and illustrated by Marcia Brown.
Three-time Caldecott medalist and six-time Caldecott honoree Marcia BCinderella; or, The Little Glass Slipper, retold and illustrated by Marcia Brown.
Three-time Caldecott medalist and six-time Caldecott honoree Marcia Brown retells that most famous of fairy-tales in this lovely picture book from 1954. A loose translation of Charles Perrault's original French story, in which a beautiful and good young maiden named Cinderella is aided by her fairy godmother in attending the prince's ball and in winning her heart's desire, is paired with Brown's own artwork, and the result is a delight, both from a narrative and artistic standpoint...
It is not difficult to see why Brown's Cinderella; or, The Little Glass Slipper was awarded the Caldecott Medal in 1955. Her artwork here is lovely, capturing the magic of the story and the changing emotions of the titular heroine, while making use of a beautiful array of colors, and featuring elegantly stylized figures. I don't know how faithful the conclusion is to the Perrault original, having not read that in some time, but I also greatly appreciated the fact that Cinderella forgives her stepsisters, and sees that they are provided for. I've nothing to say against versions in which the stepsisters are punished, but it's also nice to see one that shows the heroine staying true to her kind nature. Recommended to young fairy and folktale lovers, and to any picture book readers who enjoy Cinderella retellings. My favorite in this vein will always be the version done by Evelyn Andreas and Ruth Ives (the standard of my childhood), but this is another that I hold in high regard....more
Chinese-American children's author Andrea Wang, whose previous picture-books include the Chinese New Year's tale The Nian Monster, and the biograpChinese-American children's author Andrea Wang, whose previous picture-books include the Chinese New Year's tale The Nian Monster, and the biographical Magic Ramen: The Story of Momofuku Ando, turns to her own childhood in this deeply felt and immensely moving tale of a young girl who is embarrassed by her family. Passing a wealth of watercress by the side of the road one day, the girl's parents stop the car, and the entire family is enlisted to harvest the plants. Uncomfortable and ashamed - what if other people from her Ohio town see her in the muddy ditch? why can't their family have food from the store, like everyone else? - the girl's resentment builds, finally finding its expression at the dinner table. It is then that her mother does something she never has before: she gets out a family photograph, and shares the story of her own childhood experience, during a terrible famine in China - a famine that claimed the life of her younger brother. Ashamed of her shame, the girl finally eats the watercress, discovering its sharp pleasure, and making a new memory with her family...
I was close to tears on a number of occasions, while reading Watercress, and suspect that I will be thinking of it for some time to come. Simply but powerfully told, Andrea Wang's story addresses issues of poverty, feeling different, family relationships, and the all-pervasive influence of the past. This last, in particular, stood out to me, and is addressed by Wang in her afterword, as she discusses how important it is for immigrant families to share their stories with the younger generation, so that understanding and compassion can replace resentment and shame. The accompanying watercolor artwork from the marvelously talented Jason Chin, who won a Caldecott Honor for his Grand Canyon, perfectly captures the emotional register of the story, from the girl's acute embarrassment at the side of the road, to her overflowing resentment at the dinner table, to her consternation and grief, when she learns her mother's story. This is a story rooted in the Chinese and Chinese-American experience - although not mentioned specifically, it's clear that the famine experienced by the girls' parents was the Great Chinese Famine of 1959-1961, caused by the disastrous "Great Leap Forward" that was inflicted by the Chinese Communists on their country - but it is also universal, something Chin notes in his own afterword. His artwork captures the feeling of the story and its protagonist, while also situating it in a specifically American context, neatly capturing the two strands of the girl's identity.
Moving, thought-provoking, and immensely beautiful, Watercress is a book that I highly recommend, and gained one of my rare five-star ratings. Of the picture-books I have read thus far, that were published in 2021, it is my top contender for the Caldecott Medal....more
Spending their first Easter at Grandmom's farm in the country, Katy and Carl join in the Easter Egg Hunt with their cousins, but find that they're notSpending their first Easter at Grandmom's farm in the country, Katy and Carl join in the Easter Egg Hunt with their cousins, but find that they're not very successful at tracking down those brightly colored treats. Then Katy finds her way to the attic, where she discovers an old hatbox full of gorgeously decorated eggs, made by Grandmom when she was a little girl. Painted in traditional folk styles, these eggs are so lovely that the children ask to be taught how to create them themselves, and when they have learned the skill, create enough to make a gorgeous egg-tree...
Originally published in 1950, and awarded the Caldecott Medal in 1951, The Egg Tree is a lovely book, one which pairs an engaging story of Pennsylvania Dutch (German-American) Easter traditions with beautiful folk-art illustrations. Before picking the book up, I was unaware of the German Ostereierbaum (Easter Egg Tree) tradition, but apparently it is many centuries old, and was brought by German immigrants to the United States. Although I have some German ancestry on my father's side, this tradition is unknown in my family, so I was happy to learn of it. Apparently, the most well-known example of an Ostereierbaum is the one in Saalfeld, Thuringia, which is decorated every year with thousands of eggs:
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In any case, I found the story here sweetly appealing, enjoyed learning about a new-to-me Easter tradition, and found the folk-style artwork beautiful. Recommended to picture-book readers looking for Easter stories, or for tales with a Pennsylvania Dutch cultural backdrop....more
Visiting the city zoo in this rhyming romp of a picture-book, young Gerald McGrew imagines what he would do, if he were in charge. Setting free all ofVisiting the city zoo in this rhyming romp of a picture-book, young Gerald McGrew imagines what he would do, if he were in charge. Setting free all of the "boring" animals like lions and tigers, he would go on a worldwide hunt for more unusual creatures, from a ten-footed lion to an Elephant-Cat. What follows is an ever more imaginative list of fictional creatures that Gerald would track down and capture, to make McGrew's Zoo the best in the world...
Originally published in 1950, and awarded a Caldecott Honor in 1951, If I Ran the Zoo was Dr. Seuss' eighth picture-book, and feels very much akin to the earlier McElligot's Pool, published in 1947, and also awarded a Caldecott Honor (in 1948). Both books contain a wildly creative list of fictional creatures - fish and other aquatic life in McElligot's Pool, terrestrial and avian species in If I Ran the Zoo - all dreamt up by the young boy-narrator. Both also feature Seuss' strikingly expressive cartoon-style artwork that makes such excellent use of color and form to create a visual landscape full of both wonder and humor. In McElligot's Pool, the artwork alternated to great effect between black-and-white drawings and full-color watercolor paintings, whereas here, the illustrations are done in black line, with full color accents. This latter may take the form of colorful figures against a white page, or it may consist of a page that is itself a deep color - the black background on the page with the Iota, or the red background behind the family of deer with interconnected horns (AKA antlers) - but in either case, the result is far more colorful than in many of the artist's previous titles. It's easy to see why both of these books received the Caldecott Honor, and it's tempting to read them as companions to one another, although I am aware of the subsequent If I Ran the Circus (1956), which might also be considered a companion.
The text in If I Ran the Zoo seems to offer a further development of Dr. Seuss' wordplay, as there are far more made-up creatures here than in any previous titles - Joats, Lunks, Iotas, Thwerlls, Chuggs, Tufted Mazurkas, and so on - and more onomatopoeic adaptations of existing words: "And, speaking of birds, there's the Russian Palooski, / Whose headski is redski and belly is blueski. / I'll get one of them for my Zooski McGrewski." Unlike so many of Seuss' other books, I never read this one as a child - this is, in fact, my first encounter with it - but if I had, I can imagine that I might well have loved it for its inventiveness. Then again, I might well have loathed it for its blithe acceptance of the idea of hunting down and imprisoning the marvelous, or for its snide attitude toward some of the people Gerald encounters. More on that anon. I chose to finally pick it up at this moment in time because I am currently undertaking a Seuss retrospective, in which I will be reading and reviewing all forty-four of his classic picture-books, in chronological publication order. This is a project that I began as an act of personal protest against the suppression of six of the author/artist's titles - this one, as well as And to Think That I Saw It on Mulberry Street, McElligot's Pool, Scrambled Eggs Super!, On Beyond Zebra! and The Cat's Quizzer - by Dr. Seuss Enterprises, an action I consider both absurd and ill-judged.
I am opposed to this decision on the part of Dr. Seuss Enterprises both on principle - the effects of self-censorship on the part of publishers and news media being every bit as deleterious to a culture of free expression, as anything a tyrannical government could enact - and, in the case of And to Think That I Saw It on Mulberry Street and McElligot's Pool, reviewed previously, on the merits of the individual books themselves. Although there were caricatures in these two earlier titles that I found to be racially and culturally insensitive, they lacked the kind of animus I would think necessary for them to be judged racist, or for any kind of action to reasonably be taken against them (assuming one believed that such an action should ever be taken in the first place). That is, of course, a subjective judgment, and I understand it is by no means universal. As I mentioned in my review of And to Think That I Saw It on Mulberry Street, it is not my place to tell others what they should find offensive or hurtful in the books they read, any more than it is their place to tell me. Unlike some of the self-appointed guardians of morality out there who seem to be applauding this development in censoriousness, I myself was not offended by the titles in question, and did not find them hateful. Sadly, I cannot say the same with this one.
Unlike the aforementioned caricatures in And to Think That I Saw It on Mulberry Street and McElligot's Pool, I found the ostensibly offensive elements in If I Ran the Zoo truly objectionable. I think the difference is that in the earlier books, the depictions in question - the Chinese man with sticks in And to Think That I Saw It on Mulberry Street, the "Eskimo" (AKA Inuit) man next to his igloo in McElligot's Pool - were not demeaning, even though they were satirical, and relied upon stereotype (the Chinese person with chopsticks, the Inuit person in the furry anorak). One could argue that all of Seuss' work is satirical, and that everyone depicted in his books is a bit of a caricature, whatever their racial and cultural background. Here however, the non-European characters are all depicted in ways that not only draw attention to their racial status - the Asian helpers who, according to the text, "all wear their eyes at a slant" - but also invariably show them in subservient roles, or else equate them to animals. The aforementioned Asian helpers who go marching along, carrying a cage on their heads, with Gerald McGrew confidently riding along on top. The tribal chieftain from the Desert of Zind, who, like his Mulligatawny steed, would make a good addition to the zoo, in the narrator's opinion. The eight Persian Princes carrying the Gusset, Gherkin, Gasket and Gootch, whose names (unlike those of the animals they carry) don't need to be remembered. The two little beings - apparently meant to be Central African pygmies? - who carry the Tufted Mazurka from the African island of Yerka, whom I didn't even realize were meant to be human at first, given their depiction. All of these scenes were deeply distasteful to me, and so too was the overarching story-line. The idea of scouring the world for the most wondrous and magical of creatures, only to shove them into tiny cages, would have deeply distressed me as a child, and makes me faintly queasy even now, as an adult.
Clearly, If I Ran the Zoo isn't destined to become one of my favorites, when it comes to Dr. Seuss' work, and I can understand why other readers have found it so offensive, given my own reaction to it. As mentioned above, I am opposed to the suppression of this or any other book, through any form of censorship (including self censorship on the part of the publisher or copyright holder), and I certainly did not approach it with any predisposition to disapprove of it. Nevertheless, disapprove of it I did, and I would not choose to recommend it to, nor to share it with young people, nor would I condemn others - parents, teachers, librarians, storytellers - from following that same course. By the same token however, I would not condemn those who continue to read the book, either to themselves or to the children in their care, and I cannot approve of that choice being taken away from them. They are not bound by my opinions, or by the opinions of any other. In a free society it is no one's place to tell them what they should and should not read, and how they should interpret what they do read. I have seen the argument advanced that the suppression of these Dr. Seuss books is meant, like all forms of (supposedly) benign censorship, to prevent harm, but I think the harm created by the suppression of any work of art and/or literature far outweighs any potential harm created by the consumption of that work of art or literature. People like to decide these things for themselves. I know I do, and I reject outright the idea that I should substitute another's judgment for my own. Thus far in my reading project, I have found two cases where I didn't agree with the critics, and one where I did. I will continue to read, and to think for myself, and hope others will as well. Those who would deny me that right would do well to recall that forbidding something, even obliquely, through suppression rather than outright ban, is to give it great power. In the end, censorious acts are not just totalitarian in nature, but ultimately both stupid and futile....more
Young Bartholomew Cubbins and King Derwin of Didd return in this amusing follow-up to their initial adventure, The 500 Hats of Bartholomew CubbinsYoung Bartholomew Cubbins and King Derwin of Didd return in this amusing follow-up to their initial adventure, The 500 Hats of Bartholomew Cubbins. Now a page in the king's castle, Bartholomew is dismayed when the foolish King Derwin decides that snow, sun, rain and fog are boring, and that he wants something new to fall from the sky. Summoning his court magicians, the king commands them to create something new, in the way of weather, and that sinister cabal complies, brewing up a sticky, gooey green substance known as ooblek. Soon everyone in the castle and kingdom is stuck in greenish goo, from the humblest farmer to the king himself, paralyzed on his throne. It falls to Bartholomew to point out the obvious - that this is all the king's fault - and to demand an apology. For mysterious reasons, the simple words "I'm Sorry" have a magic all their own...
First published in 1949, some eleven years after the first story featuring Bartholomew Cubbins and King Derwin, Bartholomew and the Ooblek was Dr. Seuss' seventh picture-book, and it was awarded a Caldecott Honor in 1950. It was a perennial favorite in my childhood home, and many are the nights when I asked for it to be read to me, or read it on my own, once I was able. Something about that gooey, sticky ooblek was fascinating to me, as a girl - striking me as simultaneously frightening and funny. My present reread was prompted by my recently undertaken Dr. Seuss retrospective, in which I plan to read and review all forty-four of his classic picture-books, in chronological publication order. It is a project I began as an act of personal protest against the suppression of six of the author/artist's titles - And to Think That I Saw It on Mulberry Street, McElligot's Pool, If I Ran the Zoo, Scrambled Eggs Super!, On Beyond Zebra! and The Cat's Quizzer - by Dr. Seuss Enterprises. See my review of And to Think That I Saw It on Mulberry Street, to be found HERE, for a fuller exploration of my thoughts on that matter.
In any case, I found Bartholomew and the Ooblek every bit as engaging as I remembered, during this current reread. The story highlights the foolish hubris of King Derwin - also a theme in The 500 Hats of Bartholomew Cubbins - who imagines that he can improve upon nature, and have a better form of weather created through artificial means. One could read it as the hubris of humanity, so frequently thinking we can outdo nature, or the hubris of the elite - kings and other leaders imagining it is their right to make such far-reaching decisions by themselves. However one reads it, the consequences of the king's decision demonstrate that such actions have the potential to be immensely destructive, while the conclusion of the story highlights the important role that humility and repentance can play, in restoring harmony to human society, and to the wider world. Learning to admit our mistakes, and to apologize for them, is a difficult lesson sometimes, even for adults, so Dr. Seuss' entertaining little fable, which presents this process in such an amusing way, is most welcome. The accompanying artwork, done in black and white, with a sole color accent - green, for the ooblek - is immensely expressive. The limited color scheme really highlights the outlandish and surprising nature of the ooblek, and brilliantly complements the story. I can easily see why this was awarded a Caldecott Honor, despite the fact that it seems at first glance to be a retreat from Dr. Seuss' more colorful style, first seen in McElligot's Pool. Highly recommended to all picture-book readers, whether they enjoy unusual fairy-tale-style stories, or are fans of the creator....more
That imaginative young boy from Dr. Seuss' very first picture-book, And to Think That I Saw It on Mulberry Street, published in 1937, returns in tThat imaginative young boy from Dr. Seuss' very first picture-book, And to Think That I Saw It on Mulberry Street, published in 1937, returns in this second adventure, full of all of the make-believe and whimsy that one would expect. Advised that he is unlikely to catch anything in the eponymous McElligot's Pool, which serves as a sort of trash dump for the farmers thereabouts, Marco demurs, certain that there is a possibility, at the very least, of catching some interesting fish. What follows is a wondrous catalogue of all of the unlikely fish that might be swimming up the theoretical underground spring connecting the pool to the sea. From dogfish with floppy ears (chasing catfish, of course), to fish with checkerboard bellies; from sunburnt tropical fish to anorak-wearing arctic fish (more on this anon); from two-headed eels to roughneck lobsters - the possibilities are as limitless as one's own imagination, leading Marco to conclude that he is no fool at all, for fishing in McElligot's Pool...
A delightful pean to the power of the imagination, McElligot's Pool was first published in 1947, ten years after Marco's previous adventure, and seven years after Seuss' (then) most recent picture-book, Horton Hatches the Egg. Between 'McElligot' and 'Horton' lie seven years of war (World War II) and its immediate aftermath. Seuss, who was active as a cartoonist during this period - his adult war work has been criticized as racist propaganda, and was something that he himself apparently regretted, in later years - did not publish any children's books between 1940 and 1947. Although it was never a personal favorite in my childhood home, I do recall that we owned a copy of this book, when I was a girl, and that I read and enjoyed it many times. I picked it up for this reread as part of a recently undertaken Dr. Seuss retrospective, launched as an act of personal protest against the recent decision from Dr. Seuss Enterprises to suppress six of the author's titles, because they contain outdated and potentially offensive elements. Those titles include this one, McElligot's Pool, as well as And to Think That I Saw It on Mulberry Street, If I Ran the Zoo, Scrambled Eggs Super!, On Beyond Zebra! and The Cat's Quizzer.
McElligot's Pool was chosen as a Caldecott Honor Book in 1948, and it is not difficult to see why, given its entertaining text and magical artwork, which work so well together. Dr. Seuss continued to develop and improve his wordplay in the book, which, like its immediate predecessor (Horton Hatches the Egg), displayed a rhythmically rhyming text not seen in his first three children's books. His artwork also continued to evolve here, utilizing far more color than in previous titles, where the black-and-white drawings were often relieved by a single color accent (The King's Stilts), or a limited range of color accents (And to Think That I Saw It on Mulberry Street). Here the illustrations alternate between black-and-white spreads, and full-color ones utilizing a wide variety of shades, to marvelous effect. The sheer inventiveness of Marco's catalogue of wondrous fish is delightful, and the accompanying artwork beautiful. In short: a wonderful picture-book! What then has caused Dr. Seuss Enterprises to stop publishing it, despite its undeniably good qualities, its status as a classic of American childhood, and the fact that it has been a perennial bestseller?
The trouble lies chiefly with the aforementioned "arctic fish," which are described in the text as "Eskimo Fish," and which are seen swimming past a stereotypical "Eskimo," complete with igloo and furry anorak. The fish too are depicted in this style, with a furry collar around their faces, suggesting anoraks of their own. The two-page spread depicting this scene directly follows another, depicting tropical fish swimming past a stereotypical tropical islander, shown taking a siesta underneath a palm tree. I haven't seen much commentary on the latter image, although it's entirely possible I've missed it. In any case, there is no doubt that the word "Eskimo" is now considered outdated, and even offensive to some, and that terms like Inuit and Yupik are preferred. At the time of original publication, obviously, this was not the case, and "Eskimo" was considered by most to be a neutral word, used to describe a human demographic group, in much the same way that "Negro" once was. We don't use the latter word today, save in a historical sense - referring to the Negro League, for instance - and I had always assumed that "Eskimo" was the same. I own a collection of folklore from Inupiaq storyteller Lela Kiana Oman, for instance, that was originally published in 1959, and is entitled Eskimo Legends. It would simply never occur to me that it should be banned and suppressed, as a result. To be fair, it would never occur to me that any book should be banned or suppressed, regardless of the circumstances. Far more recently, in 1990, Ka-Ha-Si and The Loon: An Eskimo Legend was published. While I didn't care for the book myself - one of my main critiques, as it happens, was the use of the term "Eskimo," which I found unacceptably vague in a folktale retelling, as it leaves the reader in the dark when it comes to the cultural origin of the story - I certainly wasn't calling for it to be pulled from library shelves. Are we supposed to just discard every book that contains outdated vocabulary, or words that were considered unexceptional in their own day, but offensive in ours? How far should we take it?
So much for the word "Eskimo." But what about the image? Here, I can understand some readers' discomfort, as the artwork certainly does feel very much like a caricature. Then again, it doesn't seem any more like a caricature to me than the figure of the somnolescent tropical islander, or the hayseed farmer who initially warns Marco, at the beginning of the book. Dr. Seuss is an artist whose work relies upon caricature, of all kinds, and I don't perceive any more malice behind this particular example, than behind any others of his that I have seen. That is, of course, a matter of personal experience and perception, and I am alive to the fact that the "Eskimo" image exists as part of a larger trend of stereotypical depiction, rather than in isolation, as a single example. As I mentioned in my review of And to Think That I Saw It on Mulberry Street, it is not my place to tell other readers what they should or should not find offensive and/or hurtful in the books they encounter, just as it is not their place to tell me. I have no argument with those who, seeing this single two-page spread, decide they would rather avoid the book altogether, and choose not to share it with the children in their lives. The world is wide, and there are many books in it. Readers looking for children's books with a culturally authentic depiction of Inuit peoples, by the by, can do no better than turn to Inhabit Media, an Inuit-owned publisher based in Nunavut, Canada, whose children's catalogue is almost universally excellent. But I digress. It is possible to acknowledge that there are some outdated and potentially insensitive elements in McElligot's Pool, but to still believe, either that the book still has something to offer, or that it should, as a matter of principle, be left up to the individual whether to read it. I happen to believe both of these things, and I find the decision to suppress it deeply disturbing and offensive.
I have seen a number of false arguments put forward around this issue, both in the commentariat and by private citizens on the internet. The first is that these books have no artistic and/or literary merit, and would be small loss if they disappeared. This is demonstrably false, both in the case of And to Think That I Saw It on Mulberry Street, which I reviewed a few days ago, and here, with McElligot's Pool. These are marvelous books of high quality, books which have enchanted and entertained generations of readers, becoming a part of our culture and our heritage in the process. Which brings me to the second false claim: to whit, that these books are not particularly popular, do not sell well, and will not be missed. Here again, I must disagree. I have worked in the book business for thirty years now, and have never known a time when Seuss books - including these six titles - didn't sell steadily. There is a consistent demand for them, and the reaction of the public to the news of this recent decision by Dr. Seuss Enterprises - at least fifteen Seuss titles have shot onto Amazon's bestseller list in the past week, and library requests have skyrocketed (42 outstanding hold requests for McElligot's Pool at the NYPL, as I write this) - demonstrates that the bulk of the citizenry is either uncomfortable with, or deeply opposed to this development. In the end, people want to decide for themselves what to read, and what they should think about it. Finally, I have seen the ludicrous argument that this is no book banning, and that there is nothing censorious going on here, with the decision to cease publication of these six books. I'll repeat something I wrote in my review of And to Think That I Saw It on Mulberry Street to answer this disingenuous claim:
This book may not have been censored by any government entity, nor outright banned by any institution, but the final effect of this decision to self-censor will be the same as if it had. Publication will stop, the book will become scarce, libraries will begin removing copies from their shelves - this has already begun at some libraries - and the books will become less and less accessible, even to those who want to read them. It strikes me that the harm caused by this - authors' estates and publishers pulling their own books, libraries cooperating to purge objectionable material - will be far greater than anything these Seuss books could inflict. Truly, a sad moment for the children's literature world, and for the world of letters in general....more
A young girl narrates this story about the rainy day she spends with her mother, opening in the early morning, when only the two of them are up. EnjoyA young girl narrates this story about the rainy day she spends with her mother, opening in the early morning, when only the two of them are up. Enjoying tea together, brushing their teeth and hair together, and heading out into the wet world with Max, the family dog, they have a lovely walk. At bedtime, Mama tucks the girl in, and she slips off into dreams - dreams in which she is once again with Mama...
One of four Caldecott Honor Books chosen this year (2021) - the others are The Cat Man of Aleppo, Outside In and A Place Inside of Me: A Poem to Heal the Heart - Cozbi A. Cabrera's Me & Mama is a book I have been looking forward to reading, given how much I enjoyed the author/artist's My Hair is a Garden. Although I did enjoy it, appreciating the loving mother-daughter bond being described, and the gorgeous acrylic artwork, somehow I wasn't quite as moved as I'd expected to be. There are odd jumps in the narrative - on one page, the girl and her mother are walking in the rain in the early morning, on the next (with no explanation) the girl is being tucked into bed at night - that threw me out of the story, and punctured the gentle, poetic atmosphere. This one has undeniably good qualities - lovely story, gorgeous artwork - but I think it needed an editor to step in and fix a few small problems. Despite that criticism, I can see why it was given a Caldecott Honor, as the visuals really are breathtaking. If half stars were available, I would give this a 3.5 rating. Recommended to picture-book readers looking for stories about mothers and daughters and/or featuring African-American families....more
Author/illustrator team Jen Bryant and Melissa Sweet, who subsequently collaborated on A Splash of Red: The Life and Art of Horace Pippin and TAuthor/illustrator team Jen Bryant and Melissa Sweet, who subsequently collaborated on A Splash of Red: The Life and Art of Horace Pippin and The Right Word: Roget and His Thesaurus, teamed up for the first time in this lovely picture-book biography of American poet William Carlos Williams. Born and raised in New Jersey, Williams eventually became a doctor, settling in Rutherford. His lifelong love of words, and of poetry, led him to write throughout his life, and he addressed themes and ideas - ordinary objects, the experiences of working class people - previously under-explored in the poetic form. By 1934 he had published thirteen books of poetry, but his work was largely unknown and unacknowledged until the 1940s, when he was in his sixties. In 1963 he was awarded a posthumous Pulitzer, two months after his death...
I am a great admirer of William Carlos Williams, and have fond memories of the course I took in college devoted to his work. Not only does his poetry speak to me, with its simplicity, and its focus upon the beauty of the ordinary and everyday, but he himself has always struck me as a very admirable person. Although Bryant does mention in her text that Williams served the working class people of Rutherford, often providing his services for free during the Great Depression, she doesn't mention that Williams had the opportunity, as a young man, to become a wealthy society doctor, but opted not to follow that path. It isn't often that I find a figure as admirable a human being, as they are an artist, but Williams is an exception! In any case, I found both text and artwork in A River of Words: The Story of William Carlos Williams appealing, and I loved the way some of Williams' poems were worked into the latter. Melissa Sweet's multimedia collage artwork is well-suited in style, I think, to Williams' words, and I can understand why this title was chosen as a Caldecott Honor book, back in 2009. Highly recommended to all picture-book readers who enjoy biography, poetry, or tales of unusual and admirable people....more
Through her poetic text, author Zetta Elliott explores the varying emotions of a young African-American boy as the idyllic days of summer are interrupThrough her poetic text, author Zetta Elliott explores the varying emotions of a young African-American boy as the idyllic days of summer are interrupted by the tension, anguish and anger brought on by a police shooting in his community. Offering affirmation through acknowledgment, the narrative explores both the anger and protest that follow such an incident, but also the eventual healing, and the boy's sense of connection to his community and the wider world.
Published in July of this past year (2020), A Place Inside of Me: A Poem to Heal the Heart could not have been more timely, in terms of the events and experiences it addresses. It was chosen as one of four Caldecott Honor books, along with Cozbi A. Cabrera's Me & Mama, Irene Latham, Karim Shamsi-Basha and Yuko Shimizu's The Cat Man of Aleppo, and Deborah Underwood and Cindy Derby's Outside In. It is, amazingly enough, illustrator Noa Denmon's debut picture-book, but I can see why it was honored. I found her use of background flower motifs in some scenes quite beautiful, and thought that she did an excellent job capturing the narrator's changing emotions. I liked that the narrative ended with hope and love, and that the accompanying visual, on the second-to-last page, featured a dove (the bird of peace) so prominently. Recommended to picture-book readers seeking stories that address the personal and community fallout after police shootings, or other traumatic events....more
As the simple but poetic narrative speaks of the beauty and lure of the outside, which waits for us, tempting us to return to it, the lovely artwork iAs the simple but poetic narrative speaks of the beauty and lure of the outside, which waits for us, tempting us to return to it, the lovely artwork in Outside In captures all of the tricks outside plays, in order to capture our attention. The light and shadows coming in our windows, the scents and sights, everything trying to get us to return, and eventually, we do...
On my first read of Outside In, I found myself concentrating on the artwork of illustrator Cindy Derby, which is perhaps not surprising, considering that this title was one of four Caldecott Honor books chosen this year (2021), along with Zetta Elliott and Noa Denmon's A Place Inside of Me: A Poem to Heal the Heart, Cozbi A. Cabrera's Me & Mama, and Irene Latham, Karim Shamsi-Basha and Yuko Shimizu's The Cat Man of Aleppo. These illustrations, created using watercolor and powdered graphite, with some lines being made using flower stems and thread soaked in ink, are beautiful, with a lovely color palette, and an expressive, sometimes chaotic composition, one which suggests a world always in motion. I enjoyed these images, and I appreciated the ideas in Deborah Underwood's text, but it was only on my second read that I really appreciated the deeper meaning here. The narrative begins: "Once we were part of Outside, and Outside was part of us. There was nothing between us." It goes on to describe all the ways we have found to separate ourselves from Outside, from nature, and all the ways in which Outside calls to us, to renew our connection. This is not just a call to spend more time outdoors, it is a call to return to an earlier state of being, as humans, a state of being in which we too were part of nature, rather than standing outside of it, and visiting it upon occasion. How superbly ironic that Outside In was published in April of 2020, as the whole world was hunkering down inside. Although this serendipitous timing could not have been planned, it does make the book all the more powerful, the more one ponders it! Recommended to picture-book readers looking for subtler, more philosophical tales, ones which celebrate our connection to the natural world around us....more
Co-authors Irene Latham and Karim Shamsi-Basha tell the story of Mohammad Alaa Aljaleel, the eponymous Cat Man of Aleppo, in this deeply moving picturCo-authors Irene Latham and Karim Shamsi-Basha tell the story of Mohammad Alaa Aljaleel, the eponymous Cat Man of Aleppo, in this deeply moving picture-book. A man who had always loved his home city, Alaa refused to leave Aleppo when civil war broke out in Syria, working as an ambulance driver in order to help his fellow citizens. As he traveled the increasingly bombed-out streets, he encountered many stray cats, left behind by their human families, who had fled in the face of war. Filled with pity for these creatures who suffered because of humanity's actions, he began to feed the stray cats, an action that soon won him international media attention, and aid from abroad. With this help, he built an animal sanctuary, a playground for the local children, and did many other wonderful things...
Chosen this year (2021) as one of four Caldecott Honor Books - the others are: Zetta Elliott and Noa Denmon's A Place Inside of Me: A Poem to Heal the Heart, Cozbi A. Cabrera's Me & Mama, and Deborah Underwood and Cindy Derby's Outside In - The Cat Man of Aleppo features the striking artwork of illustrator Yuko Shimizu. Drawn in black ink and then colorized digitally, the illustrations here often have an immediacy that complements and builds upon the pathos of the story. The scene, toward the beginning of the book, in which Alaa stands in a dark room, with bombs going off and fires burning, in the view from his window, is a powerful example of this:
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Other scenes, such as the one in which Alaa and some helpers feed the street cats, have great charm, capturing the beauty and appeal of these felines, even in the midst of carnage:
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As I mentioned in my review of Carole Lindstrom and Michaela Goade's We Are Water Protectors, which won this year's Caldecott Medal, the hallmark of an excellent picture-book is the way in which text (or story) works together with artwork, and The Cat Man of Aleppo exemplifies this perfectly. As much as I enjoyed the artwork here - hard to believe that this is only Shimizu's second picture-book! - I also found the story itself very moving, and I was in tears on more than one occasion, while reading. At times of crisis, our minds often turn to the suffering of our fellow human beings, and this is both natural and commendable. But it should also be remembered that animals suffer beside us, and they suffer because of us, both as individuals and as societies. However little power the common man or woman has, and it is little enough, it bears remembering that our animal friends have less. When I read stories like this, I am always reminded of the words of Cooroo the fox, who in Pat O'Shea's marvelous fantasy novel, The Hounds of the Morrigan, tells Pidge that "it is a sad and puzzling fate to share the world with man, but what can we do?" What indeed?
This is one I highly recommend, to any picture-book readers looking for stories about war - about the suffering it causes, for both humans and animals, and about the courage and compassion it sometimes evokes, in those caught up in it. Would you or I, reader, stay behind in an Aleppo, helping both our fellow humans and our fellow creatures? Until it happens to us, who can say?...more
Inspired by the story of the Standing Rock protests against the Dakota Access Pipeline, an oil pipeline running from North Dakota to Illinois, AnishinInspired by the story of the Standing Rock protests against the Dakota Access Pipeline, an oil pipeline running from North Dakota to Illinois, Anishinaabe (Ojibwe) author Carole Lindstrom spins this tale of a young Native American girl who, together with her people, takes a stand as a water protector, against the destructive "black snake" threatening their lands. Guided by the wisdom of her nokomis, or grandmother, the girl reflects on the importance of water to all life, and the urgent necessity to protect it. The simple but poetic text, which emphasizes the presence of native peoples in the here and now - "We stand / With our songs / And our drums. / We are still here" - and the interconnected nature of all life and all peoples, is paired with gorgeously stylized illustrations from Tlingit artist Michaela Goade...
Published in March of 2020, We Are Water Protectors is a book I have been meaning to get to for some time now. Unlike most previous years, I had little access to the newest children's books this past year, so I had few opinions as to which titles were contenders for awards. Having now read this, I can certainly see why it was awarded the Caldecott Medal, given annually to the preceding year's "most distinguished American picture book for children." Michaela Goade's illustrations here are beautiful, featuring a gorgeous color palette, elegantly stylized human and animal figures, and an overall composition on each page that works well with Lindstrom's text. This last is key, as the Caldecott doesn't simply recognize beautiful illustration. Rather, it recognizes excellence in the picture-book form, and part of what makes a picture-book excellent is the seamless connection between story and image. Here that relationship is wonderfully complementary, as exemplified in many scenes. Perhaps one of my favorites is the two-page spread which shows the young girl surging forward, her hair a stream of water behind her. This powerful image is paired with the words: "Take Courage!"
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Needless to say, I enjoyed the artwork here, and will lose no time in seeking out other books illustrated by Goade. I also appreciated the story, and the afterword, which gives more information about the importance of water in Ojibwe culture, and the protestors against the DAPL. A glossary and an illustrator's note are also included, and it's significant that Goade mentions including certain visual details in honor of Carole Lindstrom's Ojibwe heritage. This is significant, as Goade herself is native, but of Tlingit heritage, subtly emphasizing to young readers that not all native peoples are synonymous. Highly recommended, to any picture-book readers seeking stories with an ecological theme and/or with a Native American cultural context. Also recommended to anyone who appreciates beautiful picture-book art....more
Author/illustrator team Jen Bryant and Melissa Sweet, who have also collaborated on such titles as A River of Words: The Story of William Carlos WiAuthor/illustrator team Jen Bryant and Melissa Sweet, who have also collaborated on such titles as A River of Words: The Story of William Carlos Williams and A Splash of Red: The Life and Art of Horace Pippin, turn in this picture-book biography to the subject of Peter Mark Roget, and the groundbreaking thesaurus that he created. A list-maker from a young age, Roget was also a doctor, teacher and scientist, and was already a well-known figure in the intellectual circles of nineteenth-century London, when he published his first thesaurus in 1852. This was a work that would become immensely influential, not just in the English-speaking world, but across the globe...
I enjoyed The Right Word: Roget and His Thesaurus quite a bit, appreciating both the informative text from Bryant and the somewhat frenetic mixed media illustrations from Sweet, who was awarded a Caldecott Honor for her work here. As a word lover, I have a weakness for conceptual art that makes use of text - think Joseph Kosuth and those influenced by him - so I enjoyed Sweet's use of a diverse range of words and quotations in her artwork. I found it quite appropriate, moreover, given the subject matter at hand. I also greatly appreciated the back matter here, which presents a timeline including both events from Roget's life and important scientific and historic developments, as well as notes from the author and illustrator, a list of sources and a list for further reading. Recommended to young word lovers, and to picture-book readers seeking engaging biographies....more
While his siblings gather food stores for the winter ahead, little Frederick the mouse sits and dreams, seemingly not busy at all. In reality however,While his siblings gather food stores for the winter ahead, little Frederick the mouse sits and dreams, seemingly not busy at all. In reality however, he is gathering the sounds and sights around him, and the memory of the warm sun - all things he will use to comfort and enchant his family, when the food runs out during the long winter...
Originally published in 1967 and awarded a Caldecott Honor in 1968, Frederick is one of those childhood classics that I never got around to as a child. Although long familiar with author/artist Leo Lionni's name - we have an entire shelf devoted to his books at work - I had never before today actually picked up one of his stories. I'm glad that I finally have, as I found this to be a charming picture-book, pairing a gentle, thoughtful tale about the importance of creativity and imagination with lovely collage-style illustrations. The story here is like an answer to that classic Aesopic fable of The Ant and the Grasshopper, and argues that there is more than one kind of work that is important. Read in that way, I greatly appreciated it.
That said, a part of me couldn't help but think that the narrative here only works if one reads Frederick and his murine compatriots as a society in miniature, rather than as a family. If there were a human farming family, for instance, and one of the children liked sports, while the other liked art, I doubt the parents would excuse the art-loving child from doing their part of the farm chores. Similarly, in many families, members with a diverse range of interests and occupations regularly help out with household tasks, regardless of whether they feel a natural aptitude for the work before them. Will child readers take this as I think it was meant, as an allegory about different kinds of work having value within the larger society? Or will they take the other message (however unintentional), that some should be excused from doing their share of communal work, whether in the family or class? I'm honestly not sure.
Perhaps I'm overthinking the issue, and have been influenced by my distaste for the more recent trend (exemplified by titles like Iggy Peck, Architect), in which children are encouraged to think that they are too special to join in whatever the group is doing, or to follow the rules. In the end, I really did enjoy Frederick, and plan to track down more of Lionni's work. That said, little doubts of the kind described above, would not be quashed as I read it....more
Hildilid hated the night, and she did everything she could think of to be rid of it. From tying it up, to feeding it to her dog, to finally spitting aHildilid hated the night, and she did everything she could think of to be rid of it. From tying it up, to feeding it to her dog, to finally spitting at it in disgust, there was nothing she didn't try. Despite these efforts, the night remained indifferent and immovable, going nowhere. Until, that is, the coming of the dawn. Unfortunately for Hildilid, by that time she was worn out, going to bed and missing the bright day...
Originally published in 1971, Hildilid's Night won illustrator Arnold Lobel a Caldecott Honor in 1972, and it is not difficult to see why. The detailed pen and ink drawings have a magnetic quality, drawing the reader into their shadowy world. I loved the fine textures of Lobel's drawings here, and appreciated the humor and expressiveness of some of his scenes, such as when Hildilid and her dog sing lullabies to the night. The use of yellow, at the end, when the sun is coming up, was a nice touch. There is an element of gentle humor here, and if one is looking for a message, it might be that expending all one's energy worrying about what can't be changed robs a person of the ability to appreciate the blessings they do enjoy. Recommended to anyone looking for somewhat quirky, beautifully-illustrated bedtime books....more
Long before I knew about Goethe's classic poem, The Sorcerer's Apprentice (Der Zauberlehrling in the original); long before I had ever seen the DisneyLong before I knew about Goethe's classic poem, The Sorcerer's Apprentice (Der Zauberlehrling in the original); long before I had ever seen the Disney film Fantasia, which is based upon the poem; long before I ever had an inkling that this tale type is widespread, and that the Brothers Grimm had collected a variant known in English as The Magic Porridge Pot; I knew about Strega Nona. I grew up listening to and reading this wonderful story concerning a "Grandma Witch" from Calabria who had a magic pot that would cook as much pasta as she wanted. When Strega Nona leaves to visit another witch (Strega Amelia), her assistant, Big Anthony, attempts to use her pot to feed the entire town, only to discover that he lacks the knowledge necessary to end the pot's pasta production. Soon the town is in danger of being overrun by pasta, and no one knows what to do...
Exciting and amusing in equal measure, Strega Nona is a modern classic of American children's literature, awarded a Caldecott Honor in 1976 for the artwork. I read and reread it countless times as a girl, eventually destroying my childhood copy. Tomie dePaola's telling has a distinctly Italian flavor, in keeping with his own heritage, although the description of the book as an "original tale" makes it plain that it is not taken from any particular Italian tradition. Despite not having a specific source, it is clearly a remake of a classic and widespread story - a remake which adds something unique to its own creator, in the form of appealing artwork and gently humorous text. I have had the great honor and pleasure of meeting Mr. dePaola through work, and now possess an autographed copy of his book, which I treasure. Although not aware of it as a girl, there are a number of sequels to this story, that I now intend to track down. Highly recommended to all picture-book readers who enjoy folk and fairy-tales, and/or stories of magic makers....more
Pop Corn and Ma Goodness are going about their way when a rainy day and a slippery path cause them to take a tumble - right into one another. The restPop Corn and Ma Goodness are going about their way when a rainy day and a slippery path cause them to take a tumble - right into one another. The rest, as they say, is history. The smitten couple marry, build a house, start a farm, defeat a bear, get a hound dog, and have children. The seasons pass and their family flourishes...
This brief précis does little to capture the charm of Pop Corn and Ma Goodness, which netted illustrator Robert Andrew Parker a Caldecott Honor in 1970. Edna Mitchell Preston's text is more of a song than a story, with plenty of sounds words - it begins: "Ma Goodness she's coming a-skippitty skoppetty / skippitty skoppetty / skippitty skoppetty" - and a kind of down home feeling that I found very charming. Many reviewers appear to have been put off by it, but I think it would make a good read-aloud, if sung in the right way. The watercolor illustrations from Parker are rather dark, but also lovely. I have encountered his work before, in such titles as The Green Isle and The Woman Who Fell from the Sky: The Iroquois Story of Creation, and although I wouldn't describe it as a personal favorite, it is always engrossing. Here it worked very well with the text, I thought. Recommended to picture-book readers who enjoys somewhat offbeat sing-song stories, as well as to fans of Robert Andrew Parker....more
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