Rumpelstiltskin

Today, I'm sharing three images from Paul Zelinsky's "Rumpelstiltskin." This book was written in the 1980s, and though it didn't win *top* recognition from the Caldecott people, it did win silver medals. (Zelinsky's "Rapunzel" did *indeed* win top honors.)

Zelinsky is mainly an artist, but he'll re-tell a story now and then. We all know Rumpelstiltskin. He is the man with a plan. He wants a kid. He can't get one. Inventiveness is required. Rumpelstiltskin uses his one random talent--turning straw into gold--to help a poor woman. He'll get her the gold if she sacrifices her first-born. This deal is made in haste--and, later, when a first-born actually arrives, the shit hits the fan.

I'm not sure there is a moral here; maybe it's just that life is terrifying, and you need to think on your feet, and even then, you may be in trouble. In any case, I appreciate the scariness, and I appreciate how Zelinsky makes his villain half-funny/half-alarming. The sleepy lids, the lazy posture, the cackling in front of an untamed fire. I also like the panic in the queen's eyes; she knows that her wealth and her luxurious gowns will not protect her.

Every page is beautiful. Zelinsky is an inspiration.

Comments

How to Host a Baby

-You have assumed responsibility for a mewling, puking ball of life, a yellow-lab pup. He will spit his half-digested kibble all over your shoes, all over your hard-cover edition of Jennifer Haigh's novel Faith . He will eat your tables, your chairs, your "I {Heart] Montessori" magnet, placed too low on the fridge. When you try to watch Bette Davis in Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte , on your TV, your dog will bark through the murder-prologue, for no apparent reason. He will whimper through Lena Dunham's Girls , such that you have to rewind several times to catch every nuance of Andrew Rannells's ad-libbing--and, still, you'll have a nagging suspicion you've missed something. Your dog will poop on the kitchen floor, in the hallway, between the tiny bars of his crate. He'll announce his wakefulness at 5 AM, 2 AM, or while you and another human are mid-coitus. All this, and you get outside, and it's: "Don't let him pee on my tulips!" When...

The Death of Bergoglio

It's frustrating for me to hear Bergoglio described as "the less awful pope"--because awful is still awful. I think I get fixated on ideas of purity, which can be juvenile, but putting that aside, here are some things that Bergoglio could have done and did not. (I'm quoting from a survivor of sexual abuse at the hands of the Church.) He could levy the harshest penalty, excommunication, against a dozen or more of the most egregious abuse enabling church officials. (He's done this to no enablers, or predators for that matter.) He could insist that every diocese and religious order turn over every record they have about suspected and known abusers to law enforcement. Francis could order every prelate on the planet to post on his diocesan website the names of every proven, admitted and credibly accused child molesting cleric. (Imagine how much safer children would be if police, prosecutors, parents and the public knew the identities of these potentially dangerous me...

Raymond Carver: "What's in Alaska?"

Outside, Mary held Jack's arm and walked with her head down. They moved slowly on the sidewalk. He listened to the scuffing sounds her shoes made. He heard the sharp and separate sound of a dog barking and above that a murmuring of very distant traffic. She raised her head. "When we get home, Jack, I want to be fucked, talked to, diverted. Divert me, Jack. I need to be diverted tonight." She tightened her hold on his arm. He could feel the dampness in that shoe. He unlocked the door and flipped the light. "Come to bed," she said. "I'm coming," he said. He went to the kitchen and drank two glasses of water. He turned off the living-room light and felt his way along the wall into the bedroom. "Jack!" she yelled. "Jack!" "Jesus Christ, it's me!" he said. "I'm trying to get the light on." He found the lamp, and she sat up in bed. Her eyes were bright. He pulled the stem on the alarm and b...

Liars and Saints

Search This Blog