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| From
the November/December 2008 issue of The Horn Book Magazine Recommended
Reissues
I think I can speak for many children’s booksellers when I say that we do it purely for the love of children’s books. We do it out of a belief that reading matters, and that a solid grounding in the best children’s literature is one of the greatest gifts any child can receive. We do it because books nurtured us and saved us, and there’s nothing better than the rush of introducing the books we loved to a whole new generation. We do it for that “aha!” moment when an excited eleven-year-old runs over to the shelf of new arrivals and screams, “Dad, it’s here!” about the new Percy Jackson, or Penderwicks, or Artemis Fowl. And we do it for the enormous satisfaction of watching an adult rediscover a cherished childhood picture book — that moment of absolute recognition when time disappears and they’re five years old again, lost in the details of illustrations they’ve never forgotten. We can’t always produce results from a garbled title or a random plot fragment, but when we’re successful, we know for a moment what it must feel like to be a magician. Focusing on reissues and new editions is a great way to connect back to the books that shaped my own reading habits. I had my own “aha!” moment recently when my Random House sales rep showed me the newly reissued Giant Golden Book of Elves and Fairies. First published by Golden Books in 1951, this oversized picture book is a collection of stories and poems compiled by Jane Werner and illustrated by Garth Williams. I think my hands might have been shaking as I paged through it. From the way I can remember every detail of every picture, I have the feeling that I must have checked it out of my childhood local library over and over again for years. Looking at those pictures now, I was once again walking along the shore discovering a merbaby in the seaweed; I was curled under the roots of a tree watching leprechaun cobblers fashion tiny shoes. Most of all I was back in another place and time, and all through the portal of this book. The last time I saw a copy of this title was at an antiquarian book fair, where it was selling for hundreds of dollars, which tells me that I’m not alone in my fondness for it. Looking at it dispassionately (almost impossible, I’m afraid), it’s a pleasant enough collection of fairy stories and poetry, enlivened by Williams’s detailed drawings of the little people and their worlds. Some of the illustrations in this new edition look as though they’ve been computer-enhanced, and not very successfully; most likely the original art was hard to find. It’s certainly not the best work Garth Williams ever did — several of my young staff members pointed out that the children on the cover are positively scary — but his elves and fairies are just as magical as they should be. Several other books with roots in the folk and fairy tradition are also returning this season. Illustrator Lisbeth Zwerger, with her delicate, instantly recognizable style, is an acknowledged master at interpreting classic tales. Many of her books have been unavailable for some time due to turmoil in her former publishing houses; now Penguin is bringing them back. Her version of the Grimm brothers’ Little Red Cap was reissued in 2006. This year brings Hansel & Gretel and Hans Christian Andersen’s The Swineherd. Although she has broadened her palette in recent years, these early works, with their acknowledged debt to Arthur Rackham, are well worth seeking out. From Eric Carle, another artist with an unmistakable style, comes The Rabbit and the Turtle, a retelling of eleven of Aesop’s fables. All of them were previously published in Orchard’s Eric Carle’s Treasury of Classic Stories for Children (1988), a much larger work that contained fairy and folk tales as well. This new collection, with its brightly colored full-page collage illustrations, is a fine way to introduce children to Aesop and the concept of fables. Holt is reissuing Arnold Lobel’s Giant John (Harper, 1964), which has the look and feel of a traditional tale, although it’s entirely Lobel’s creation. John is a benevolent, not-overly-bright giant whose one downfall is that when the forest fairies play their magic music, he’s unable to stop dancing. One day, after discovering that they only have two potato chips left in the cupboard, John’s mother sends him off into the world to earn some money. He has a happy week working for a king and queen (the deadpan illustrations show him holding his huge umbrella over the castle during rainstorms, playing horsey with the princess, and strung about with wash lines as he helps the queen do laundry) until his fairy friends show up, with predictably disastrous results. Lobel packs the two-color illustrations with wonderful details, and the good humor that prevails throughout the text ensures that there will be a satisfyingly happy ending. New York Review Books has come out with a handsome new edition of James Thurber’s original fairy tale The 13 Clocks. First published in 1950 by Simon & Schuster, this dark and delightful fable mixes together all the ingredients of traditional tales — the unabashedly wicked Duke, the impossibly beautiful princess, the noble prince disguised as a wandering minstrel — and comes up with a sublimely entertaining concoction. I particularly love the Duke, with hands as cold as his smile, who is forced to wear gloves, “which made it difficult for him to pick up pins or coins or the kernels of nuts, or to tear the wings from nightingales.” He delights in setting impossible tasks for the suitors to his niece’s hand, like cutting off a piece of the moon or changing the ocean to wine, but is foiled by Prince Zorn of Zorna, who not only brings back a thousand jewels in ninety-nine hours but is also able to restart the thirteen clocks in the palace that have been frozen for years at ten minutes to five. Thurber’s sly humor and shameless use of puns and wordplay make the story a joy to read out loud. And the suitably mysterious illustrations by Marc Simont add the perfect atmospheric touch to this unusual tale. In addition to the folk and fairy tales, there were several notable picture book reissues this season. NYRB continues to bring back the works of Ingri and Edgar Parin d’Aulaire, this time Foxie: The Singing Dog (Doubleday, 1949), inspired by Chekhov’s dog story “Kashtanka.” Foxie, who has a “head like a fox and a tail like a cinnamon roll,” also has a careless boy as a master. He teases her, forgets to feed her, and finally one day manages to lose her. Her despairing wails sound like singing and attract the attention of a friendly man who trains circus animals. He takes her in and begins training her for a new life as a performing dog — but on opening night, who should be in the audience but her repentant former master? A tearful reunion ensues, he promises never to tease her again, and all is well (although I secretly wished she would stay with the circus — she seemed to be having a lot more fun with the piano-playing cat and the conceited rooster than she did with her bone-withholding boy). Everybody’s favorite pachyderm returns as Abrams reissues Laurent de Brunhoff’s Babar Comes to America (Random, 1965). The President has invited the King of the Elephants to America, and so Babar pays an official visit to Washington and then travels across the country on the way to meet up with Queen Celeste and the children in California. There’s not much in the way of plot here — Babar goes fishing in Lake Michigan, visits an automobile factory in Detroit, gets an honorary degree from Harvard — but the fascination comes from this look at America in the mid-sixties, not to mention the incongruity of a large business-suited elephant nonchalantly interacting with people. After he joins his family, there’s a visit to Disneyland, the Grand Canyon (with a now-dubious visit to the “Indians” and “old Chief Sitting Bull”), and the Harvard-Yale football game. Babar’s first experience at a soda fountain, where he wants to try “Coca-Cola, Pepsi-Cola, V-8, 7 Up, ginger-ale — all of them,” and his trip to a supermarket, where there are prominent signs for Del Monte Pineapple, Kellogg’s Corn Flakes, and Heinz Tomato Ketchup, made me wonder if this was perhaps one of the first picture books to feature product placement. I’m also pleased to see the return of another of my childhood favorites, Lydia and Don Freeman’s Pet of the Met (Viking, 1953). I can still remember how sophisticated and exotic the setting of the Metropolitan Opera House seemed from my small-town Minnesota perspective. And I was fascinated to find out about the concept of a prompter, critical to the cast but invisible to the audience. Maestro Petrini, a mouse, is the page turner for the opera’s prompter. He loves his work, but there is one thing that makes it less than ideal. In the basement of the Opera House lives Mefisto, a large cat who “hated music more than anything else in the world, except mice.” Mefisto, on the prowl during a performance of The Magic Flute, spots Maestro Petrini, and a terrifying chase around the stage nearly ends in disaster. After a heart-stopping moment when the cat has captured the mouse, only the power of music can save the day. Energetic crayon illustrations bring the bustling backstage world of the opera to life; you can practically hear Mefisto’s claws on the wooden floorboards. Viking’s new edition is slightly larger than the original, and the art seems much brighter and clearer than in the library copy I was comparing it to. Customers are already picking it up with delight; it’s a welcome addition to our classics section. Several lesser-known picture books by familiar authors and illustrators are also hoping for a new lease on life. Little, Brown is betting on Barbara and Ed Emberley’s Night’s Nice (Doubleday, 1962), a bedtime paean to the wonders of nighttime: “Fireflies / Owls / And yellow-eyed cats / All think night’s nice / And of course / So do bats.” Brilliantly colored spreads show various night scenes, leading to the gentle conclusion that “night’s nice for sleeping.” John Graham’s I Love You, Mouse, with illustrations by Tomie dePaola, is aimed at the same toddler set. First published in black and white by Harcourt in 1976, this new edition from Putnam sports a larger trim size and full color illustrations redone by dePaola. A little boy on a farm visits various animals and tells them what he’d do if he were like them: “If I were a pig, I’d build you a sty. And we’d dig roots and loaf in the mud.” As the day ends, the boy’s father picks him up and puts him to bed, where he dreams of his animal friends. HarperCollins has resurrected a 1973 collaboration between Joan L. Nødset and Steven Kellogg, then called Come Here, Cat, now for some reason re-titled Come Back, Cat. The original had two-color illustrations; Kellogg has reworked the whole book with new full-color pictures. A little girl and a skittish cat learn to trust each other gradually, after several scratching, tail-pulling encounters complete with much chasing, crying, and yowling. In the final scene, a happy girl pets a contented cat: “Oh, cat! I hear your motor.” Finally, Knopf is bringing back John Burningham’s wickedly funny John Patrick Norman McHennessy — the Boy Who Was Always Late (Crown, 1987). Every day when John Patrick Norman McHennessy sets off “along the road to learn,” some calamity befalls him — an encounter with a lion, a rogue tidal wave — making him late for school. His increasingly irritated teacher, Sir, not believing a word of John’s excuses, imposes harsher and harsher punishments upon him. But John has the last laugh when Sir experiences a calamity of his own. Although the story is lighthearted, Burningham makes a serious point about the failures of the educational system. I don’t know what evil genius prompts publishers to continue producing board book versions of popular picture books that have no business being board books. I’m giving up the fight — it’s like hollering down a bottomless well. But I will continue to point out that if they insist upon doing it, they should at least not eviscerate the original text and illustrations. Kudos to Houghton Mifflin for their board book version of Helen Lester and Lynn Munsinger’s beloved Tacky the Penguin (1988), presented with unaltered art and text. And brickbats to HarperCollins for their anemic, watered-down board book of Esphyr Slobodkina’s sublime Caps for Sale (1940) that is missing pictures and whole swatches of text. Tsz, tsz, tsz — may a thousand monkeys rain down caps upon them. And with that, I think I’ve just answered my own question about why I do this. Where else would I be able to have a serious discussion about the importance of leaving the monkeys alone? As long as I continue to think that it is important, I’ll just have to carry on. Or at least until I find that Holy Grail of my own childhood memories: the picture book with the indelible image of a tired turtle coming home and leaving his galoshes — all four of them — on the mat beside his front door . . .
TITLES REVIEWED ABOVE Hans Christian Andersen The Swineherd;
illus. by Lisbeth Zwerger, trans. by Anthea Bell John Burningham John Patrick Norman McHennessy
— the Boy Who Was Always Late; illus. by the author Eric Carle, reteller The Rabbit and the
Turtle; illus. by the reteller Ingri d’Aulaire and Edgar Parin d’Aulaire
Foxie: The Singing Dog; illus. by the authors Laurent de Brunhoff Babar Comes to America;
illus. by the author Barbara Emberley and Ed Emberley Night’s
Nice; illus. by the authors Lydia Freeman and Don Freeman Pet of
the Met; illus. by the authors John Graham I Love You, Mouse; illus.
by Tomie dePaola Jacob Grimm and Wilhelm Grimm Hansel
& Gretel; illus. by Lisbeth Zwerger, trans. by Elizabeth
D. Crawford Helen Lester Tacky the Penguin;
illus. by Lynn Munsinger Arnold Lobel Giant John; illus.
by the author Joan L. Nødset Come Back, Cat;
illus. by Steven Kellogg Esphyr Slobodkina Caps for Sale;
illus. by the author James Thurber The 13 Clocks; illus.
by Marc Simont Jane Werner, selector The Giant Golden
Book of Elves and Fairies; illus. by Garth Williams
From the November/December 2008 issue of The Horn Book Magazine |
recent issue of Publishers Weekly profiled eleven independent
children’s bookstores, mine included, that have been in business
for more than twenty years. The focus of the article was on how
we had managed to keep our doors open for so long in these days
of chains, superstores, and Internet commerce. Everyone agreed that
the challenges are enormous and that each of us is working longer
and harder to basically stay in the same place. Reading about my
bookselling colleagues and their stores made me realize that perhaps
the question shouldn’t be how we manage to stay in
business, but why. Why, when there are far more lucrative
and less onerous careers out there, do we carry on?
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