Editorial
James Marshall (1942–1992)

wish there was someone I could write a note to about James Marshall,” a mother of two girls, ages eight and ten, said to me the other day. “When my daughters learned that he had died, they sobbed. They loved his books so much.” Many of us had that need to write a note – for many different reasons. Bob Hale, in his “Musings” column in this issue, presents some of his joyful memories of Jim. Reading it brought back many of mine.

I still remember, as if it were yesterday, picking up the galleys of a book in the Horn Book offices that I thought was one of the freshest and most original picture books I had ever seen. Twenty years later, when I look at George and Martha (Houghton), I still feel the same way. My appreciation over time has only increased, not diminished, and the list of books and characters that I grew to love has expanded: a contemporary variation on the three sillies, the Stupids; Miss Nelson and her sidekick, Viola Swamp; and Lamar J. Spurgle. James Marshall was a comic genius. His work always looked so simple, but he could do wonders with a simple line and two dots for eyes.

One glorious spring day, Jim and I were both in his home town of San Antonio, Texas, for a conference, and Jim, in a style that was so typical of him, hired a taxi to show me around. The driver would take us to a neighborhood Jim had loved to explore as a child; we’d get out of the cab and walk the streets — with Jim telling stories all the while about the city’s history and architecture — and then we’d get back into the cab and head for another interesting area. As we walked and talked, I got a glimpse of how Jim, an urbane and sophisticated adult who loved classical music and fine art, had developed his sensibilities. The memories of his childhood were always immediate for him.

One time, after one of Barbara Karlin’s many operations for cancer, Laurie Sale organized a party in the hospital for Barbara. As guest, Jim created a raucous party: he told stories and made us laugh until we cried. His gift to Barbara that day — and his gift to all of us in his books — was that of laughter. He always knew how to touch and relieve the deep sadness in his friends. It is fitting that someone with Jim’s genius for friendship would have produced two of the world’s finest companions — George and Martha.

If Jim were here, he would be telling stories to all of us who mourn him now. We can only do the next best thing: pick up one of his books and hear Grandfather Stupid say, “This isn’t heaven. . . . This is Cleveland.” Or look at George’s gold tooth and his pea-soup-filled sneakers. Or simply say the word “yummers!” Or listen to the sound of rats on the roof.

Jim has left us now — with our memories and with the books. We can only be grateful for both. Writing notes may not take the pain away, but at least it helps us express our appreciation for a rare talent and a unique human being. James Marshall, in the books he created and in who he was, was an original. There is no duplicate — only what he has left behind. But as Cynthia Rylant says in her Boston Globe–Horn Book Award acceptance speech in this issue, “Nobody ever leaves us for good.” A.S.

From the January/February 1993 issue of The Horn Book Magazine