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| From
the July/August 2007 issue of The Horn Book Magazine James Marshall
Jim was an irresistible person. Of all of his characters, I think Fox is closest to Jim himself: he’s cocky, grandiose in his aspirations, and full of bravado, but goodhearted. He almost always gets his comeuppance but emerges only briefly chastened to pop up again, ever optimistic. The day I met Jim, he had come in to show me his portfolio. It must have been about 1972, because he had already published George and Martha and it had made quite a splash. In my mind, I see him wearing a purple velvet jacket, bell bottoms, and a big bow tie; however, he always claimed that those items had never been part of his wardrobe and that I had seen Yellow Submarine too many times! I was completely bowled over by his work, in particular his sly humor that worked on so many levels. It was the first time I realized it would be possible to publish children’s books that I enjoyed as much as the intended audience would. Jim ended up staying for four hours. We really hit it off, and we parted with a resolve on both sides to work together. And in fact we did end up working on thirteen books together at two different publishers, Space Case, the first Fox easy readers, and The Cut-Ups among them. But quite early on, the friendship became more important than the professional relationship. And it lasted even as our lives changed. I had two children, Jim met Billy, we acquired houses, we got fatter, we needed to get to sleep earlier . . . Sometimes friendships die a natural death in those circumstances, but in our case the friendship just grew stronger, and Jim and Billy became an important part of our family life. Jim christened my husband, Jeff, who loves to sail, “Captain Haddock,” and he was present at any number of important occasions, including birthdays, school plays, and housewarmings. His visits were always an event. He and Billy would arrive, sometimes with flowers or tomatoes from the wonderful garden Billy had made at their house in Connecticut, and Jim would decide on the menu for a sumptuous feast he would cook. My kitchen was always found decidedly wanting. Once, when someone commented on my messy office, he exclaimed: “Her office? You should see her icebox!” I’d be sent off for the many missing spices and pieces of equipment. “You don’t have a fluted torte pan??” And in the evening we would feast and drink wine and laugh until our stomachs hurt. Jim was a Pied Piper. As soon as word got out that he was visiting, the children’s friends from the neighborhood would begin to appear, hovering around, hanging on his every word. He claimed to find inspiration that way, even telling me, “You’ll have to marry more husbands and have more children, because I’m running out of ideas.” Needless to say, that was a lie. I’ve often been asked what it was like to work with Jim. Well, the answer is that it was tremendous fun. My former colleague Anne Schwartz once said to me, “I can always tell when it’s Jim on the phone; I can hear you laughing from all the way down the hall.” Jim’s greatest gift was his sense of the ridiculous, his transformative genius that could take any situation and find the humor in it. I believe he developed a lacerating wit to protect himself in his early years growing up in conservative Texas, and perhaps this is what gave his humor the edge that makes it interesting. He worked at breakneck speed when he was putting a story together, taking it apart, reworking it, draft after draft. He paid enormous attention to the text, refining the humor, finding exactly the right word. And he redrew and redrew the pictures, never quite satisfying himself; it’s not easy to produce something that looks effortless. He drew constantly, filling up sketchbook after sketchbook. He just wanted to be better. Once I was looking at some art for a book he did for Michael di Capua. It was really wonderful, and I said, “Wow, how does Michael get this out of you?” He thought for a moment, and then he said, “Well, he treats me like a great artist.” I remember the day he appeared and handed me a tiny dummy — maybe three inches by two inches — for the book that would be Space Case. The beginning immediately grabbed me: “It came from outer space to have a look around. And to meet the natives, who were not especially friendly. Really! Everyone was so uncooperative. The thing from outer space was beginning to lose heart.” How could that be improved upon? Almost all of Jim’s books included some spectacularly dim- witted characters, and I felt he had a particular affection for them and gave them the best lines: the Stupids; the Cut-Ups; the wonderfully dumb chicken, Winnie, in Wings: A Tale of Two Chickens. Winnie meets a fox who introduces himself in “a silky voice,” reassures her that “plump is nice,” and declares at the end, “Unhand that chicken! She’s mine!” Winnie is rescued by her sister and given an informative book to read. “’Oh, my stars!’ cried Winnie. ‘Mr. Johnson was a fox!’” It is so deadpan that it’s hard to say what’s so funny, but many lines from Wings became bywords around the office, where Jim was a great favorite. Jim definitely had a way with words. He once described the art director at Dial, who had a very, very refined eye, in this way: “Atha Tehon has exquisite taste. Atha Tehon’s taste is so exquisite she thinks beige is too loud.” Jim was a gifted storyteller, and he never let the truth stand in the way. He’d polish and embellish an event into a marvelous anecdote, which may or may not have been totally faithful to the facts. One of his best stories had to do with shoes, and it went like this. At lunch with Toby Sherry, his editor at Dial, Jim noticed a woman at the table directly next to his who looked familiar. He realized she was the very same evil witch who had stolen a cab from him and his ailing father a few nights before. He also realized she had kicked off her shoes — very expensive alligator pumps. When the check came, Jim signaled to Toby that they needed to make a speedy exit. He rummaged under the table for his portfolio, and off they went. Once in the cab, Jim opened his portfolio to reveal one alligator pump! What delicious revenge. Jim was generous, impractical, a discerning lover of the arts in every form. He was wildly enthusiastic when something pleased him — he’d practically levitate in his excitement. He loved to have beautiful things around him: a perfect Oriental rug, a handsome silver tea set, Japanese chests in mellow wood. And he loved to live well. In a poor phase, he and Billy went to London, and he sent a postcard that said, “We are living like students and it’s killing me.” In a more flush period, he sent a postcard from Paris that showed two jolly porkers lifting wine glasses, and it said only, “Oink, Oink.” He was very fond of the traditional publishing lunch and always made his appointments in the office for late morning. After a suitable working interval, he’d say, “Time to put on the feed bag?” If he was allowed to choose, the restaurant was always the best, expense be hanged. He liked to be peacefully at home in his studio listening to Mozart while he worked, or sketching down by the river, or sitting in the garden behind the little house that had once been a general store. But he also loved excitement, fun, conversation, the company of friends. We entertained ourselves by making lists of glamorous things we wished we could do “just once.” Jim entered wholeheartedly into the problems and triumphs of his friends, and his friendship engendered strong loyalty. When he became ill, many friends monitored his progress. Maurice Sendak, almost the only one for whom Jim could rally toward the end, called every day. When I visited, I would babble away with the gossip he loved, trying to entertain him. Then, one day, he took my hand and pulled me down to whisper, “Don’t come.” We looked at each other intently, and I felt he was telling me not to hold on to him. He died two weeks later. Just as Jim’s humor has continued to delight and entertain his readers, those of us who had the gift of his friendship continue to be warmed by it. I often hear his voice in my ear, and right now it is saying, “Now don’t blubber!”
From the July/August 2007 issue of The Horn Book Magazine |
ne
of the great joys of working in publishing is the relationship that
develops between editor and author. While so many of my editorial
relationships have been tremendously satisfying, with Jim Marshall
I was doubly fortunate in that ours transcended the working one
and became a deep personal friendship. 
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