Skip to main content

On Books

 Jon Klassen's "The Skull" has a sensational opening:


As she ran....Otilla began to hear her name being called. She couldn't tell if it was someone's voice or the wind in her ears. Otillaaaa....Otillaaaa....

The narrator never explains what the heroine is fleeing. We only sense that the danger is severe. After running for a long while, Otilla stumbles on a palace, owned by a friendly skull. Otilla and the skull become companions, taking walks, dancing, snacking together. But the skull has a secret of its own. Every night, a headless skeleton emerges and begins a chase. "Come to me!" screams the skeleton.

Otilla cannot repress her own painful memories, but she can make life easier for the skull. She throws the headless skeleton from a cliff. Then, she gathers the scattered bones and grinds them into a paste. She dissolves the paste in boiling water, and she dumps the mixture into a bottomless well.

Klassen has a remarkable talent for taking children seriously. He knows he doesn't need to explain Otilla's past; a child can fill in some details. Klassen also understands that he doesn't need to underline a moral in thick, black ink. He doesn't have to give a sermon about found families. The beauty of the "found family" is right there on the page, in between the lines.

Klassen has revealed in today's NYT that he will be releasing his first "board book" soon. In characteristically sharp prose, Klassen praises the two gods of the board book, Taro Gomi and Sandra Boynton. He is especially insightful in his discussion of Gomi's use of elapsed time. I also like his observation about Boynton's little animals; they always seem slightly surprised/distressed to discover that they are standing within Boynton's spotlight.

Looking forward to more from Jon Klassen.





















Labels:

Comments

Post a Comment

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...
3 comments
Read more

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...
1 comment
Read more

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...
1 comment
Read more