Skip to main content

Growing Up

Children's literature didn't die with Maurice Sendak. There are many living artists who work on great picture books, and my "contemporary-writer pantheon" includes: Kevin Henkes, Jerry Pinkney, Christian Robinson, and David Ezra Stein.

That last name--Stein--had a hit with "Leaves," about a silly (but gentle) bear who enjoys the fall. Stein writes at home in Brooklyn, often with a small child clawing at his lap.

I am not very well-versed in Stein's works, but a title I keep returning to is "Honey." This is the sequel to "Leaves." In this one, the bear wakes up from hibernating and dreams about honey. But it's not time yet. The bear delivers an ode to honey and its properties: visual ("clear"), olfactory ("spicy"), tactile ("thick"). The bear would like to distract himself, but the mind has other plans: Everything in the world begins to *resemble* honey ("the stream clear as honey," "the berries bursting like honey," "the sun golden as honey....")

Like Henkes, Stein is not interested in melodrama. A sneering villain doesn't arrive. The bear delights himself in the rain, and in a waterfall, and eventually the passage of time does its magic. The bear enjoys a new bucket of honey.

I like the tummy that is mirrored by a "fat" cloud in the sky. I like the tiny tongue protruding from the bear's mouth. I like the sense of writerly economy ("It was his second year....") And I like the way the reader must make inferences. ("OUCH!" said the bear....Bees don't like to be disturbed....)

This story is light as a feather, and worth reading. Five stars.





Comments

Popular posts from this blog

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...